In a move that has left cultural attachés weeping into their G&Ts with pride, Sir Paul McCartney has graced the stage with none other than Paul Mescal, the Irish acting sensation whose cheekbones are already a UNESCO World Heritage site. Yes, folk, this is the moment British soft power has been waiting for: a Beatle and a bloke who cries beautifully in a field. Forget the Falklands, this is our new national conquest.
The duet, performed at some glitzy London venue no doubt funded by the taxpayer, saw McCartney wheel out the same bass he used when recording 'Yesterday' while Mescal gamely attempted to hold a note. Reports suggest the crowd was evenly divided between those moved to tears by the sheer cultural significance and those wondering if Mescal's singing voice had been autotuned via an NHS app. The BBC has since declared it 'a triumph of culture diplomacy' which is government code for 'we've run out of actual exports'.
Let us examine this 'soft power'. Is it the power to make friends and influence people? Or is it the power to distract from the fact that our trains don't run and our rivers are full of raw sewage? Because if you ask me, a nation that must rely on a septuagenarian rockstar and a man whose primary skill is looking sad in a linen shirt is not a nation. It is a midlife crisis in a Union Jack waistcoat.
McCartney, a man whose calendar is now replete with 'memorial services I will outlive', trotted out the same anecdotes he's been using since 1967. Mescal, for his part, stared deeply into the middle distance, a technique he perfected in 'Normal People' when he had to convey complex emotions like 'I have forgotten my line'. Together, they formed a diptych of British cultural life: the past and the present both looking slightly confused about the future.
But let's not be churlish. This is soft power, after all. It is the gentle art of making other countries like us despite the fact that we gave them Brexit. It is the sound of a thousand international students applying to LSE, unaware that they will live in a damp flat in Peckham. It is the cultural equivalent of a man at a party who has already thrown up but is trying to seem charming.
The real triumph here is not musical but strategic. While China builds islands in the South China Sea, Britain sends Paul and Paul to sing 'Hey Jude' with an Irish accent. It is a statement of intent: we may no longer rule the waves, but by God we will rule the playlist. The Foreign Office has already drafted a memo suggesting that next year's G7 summit should feature a performance by Sir Ian McKellen reading the phonebook while a hologram of Princess Margaret looks on.
And what of the duet itself? Was it any good? Does it matter? In the theatre of soft power, quality is irrelevant. All that matters is the image: two Pauls, one Liverpudlian, one Irish, both with the same first name and the same inability to look their age. It is a mirror held up to a nation that refuses to grow up, that clings to its pop stars and its handsome actors as proof that it still matters.
So raise a glass to British soft power, a triumph of style over substance, of nostalgia over reality. And if you choke on the gin, well, that's the taste of a nation that has lost its empire but still has its 'Get Back' documentary. Goodnight, and don't forget to pay your TV licence.
- Biff Thistlethwaite, filing from the edge of the bar.
