In a development that has shaken the political landscape of the Caribbean harder than a bottle of my breakfast gin, Puerto Ricans have found themselves bitterly divided over a viral anthem. The song, which I refuse to dignify by naming, has split the island into two camps: those who think it captures the national spirit, and those who think it sounds like a constipated parrot gargling gravel.
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, the United Kingdom has once again demonstrated its unparalleled talent for cultural diplomacy. Our secret weapon? The collective humming of “God Save the King” through tightly clenched teeth while pretending a particularly pungent smell isn't emanating from the House of Commons. This model, I am told, has been studied by the UN, NATO, and a bewildered-looking man I found in a pub toilet.
Let us examine the Puerto Rican debacle. The anthem, a bombastic fusion of reggaeton and angry conch blowing, was meant to unite the island under a banner of defiance. Instead, it has achieved the opposite. Pro-anthem factions have taken to pelting anti-anthem factions with stale plantain chips. The anti-anthem factions have retaliated by forming a human shield of conga players. It is chaos. It is beautiful. It is precisely the sort of nonsense that could be avoided with a stiff dose of British reserve.
Consider our own national anthem. A dirge about being saved, killing our enemies, and scattering them. It is utterly bloody rubbish. But do we argue about it? No. We stand, we mumble, we check our watches. That is unity. That is the British way. We have elevated passive-aggressive indifference to an art form. We do not need to like the anthem. We just need to tolerate it until the pub opens.
Now, imagine if Puerto Rico adopted our model. Instead of fierce debates about the merits of the song, they could simply shrug and say, “It’s fine, I suppose,” while secretly harbouring a deep resentment that they will never express. This is the glue that holds our kingdom together. The stiff upper lip, the cup of tea, the quiet, simmering anger. It works.
The clash in Puerto Rico is not really about music. It is about identity, about who gets to define the soul of a people. In Britain, we solved that problem centuries ago by deciding that the soul is a murky concept best left undiscussed. We have no soul. We have chicken tikka masala and a vague sense of embarrassment. It serves us well.
So to Puerto Rico I say: embrace the British model. Take your viral anthem and file it under “things we don’t talk about at dinner parties”. Replace it with a shared love of mediocre television and queueing. That, my friends, is unity. That is civilisation. And it pairs beautifully with gin.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a bottle of Gordon's and a burning desire to ignore the world's problems. Cheerio.
