In a ruling that has sent Donald Trump's toupee into a low-earth orbit, the Supreme Court has upheld birthright citizenship, dealing the Orange One a blow more humiliating than a knighthood for Nigel Farage. The decision, which reaffirms that anyone born on US soil is a citizen, has left Trump's immigration hawks spluttering into their Diet Cokes. And what's this? The UK's own citizenship model, a glorious mess of tea, queuing, and bureaucratic whimsy, is being praised as a beacon of sanity. Yes, you heard it here first, from a man who once filed a expenses report for a gin and tonic he spilled on a Cabinet minister.
Let's parse this fiasco. The Supreme Court, those nine wise souls in black curtains, have decreed that the 14th Amendment means what it says. Trump, who has the constitutional grasp of a toddler with a crayon, had hoped to end 'anchor babies' as part of his 'Make America White Again' agenda. But the justices, perhaps recalling their own immigrant ancestors or the fact that they're not complete nincompoops, said no. Now, pundits are comparing this to the UK system, where citizenship is a labyrinthine nightmare involving ancestry visas, Tier 2 sponsorships, and a Home Office that seems powered by a generator of pure spite. But apparently, it's better than whatever Trump was cooking up. The irony is so thick you could slice it with a Brexit bus.
I telephoned a constitutional expert, a man who smelled of sherry and ancient libraries. 'The UK model,' he said, 'is like a Jenga tower built by a drunk octopus. But at least it's our drunk octopus.' He then went on to explain how the US ruling essentially means that if you're born on a plane flying over Ohio, you get a small flag and a lifetime of tax returns. Meanwhile, in the UK, you might need a DNA test, a letter from the Queen, and a signed confession that you enjoy Marmite. The comparison is absurd, but here we are, in 2024, where the world's only superpower is taking legal advice from a country that once accidentally invaded itself (Google 'Battle of the Beanfield').
Trump, predictably, has exploded into a series of tweets that read like a ransom note written in Cheeto dust. 'This is a disaster for our country,' he bellowed from a golf cart. 'The Supreme Court has made us like Britain, and we all know how that turned out.' He then listed the UK's failings: warm beer, the Bake Off, and a royal family that still thinks colonisation was a bit of a laugh. But here's the rub: British birthright citizenship is actually pretty restrictive unless you're a diplomat's offspring or a refugee with a good solicitor. It's a 'jus sanguinis' (right of blood) over 'jus soli' (right of soil) in many cases. The US ruling, by contrast, is a glorious mess that allows anyone with a hospital wristband to claim the American dream. Or nightmare, depending on your HMO.
I spent the afternoon in a Wetherspoon's, interviewing a man who claimed to be a 'citizenship expert' but was actually just a bloke with a passport and a pint of Doom Bar. 'What we need,' he slurred, 'is a system where you get citizenship after eating 100 Greggs sausage rolls.' I filed his testimony but later discovered he was wanted for identity theft. Still, his point stands: the US could learn from the UK's pragmatic approach to chaos. After all, Britain has managed to keep its empire nostalgia alive while simultaneously apologising for everything. It's a tightrope walk of national guilt and jingoism that the US should study closely.
The real question is what this means for Trump's base. They've been sold a vision of a white picket fence guarded by a drone. Now they're facing the reality that their children might have to share a classroom with someone whose parents didn't vote for the guy. The horror. Meanwhile, the UK looks on, smugly sipping Pimm's and muttering 'Hold my monocle.' The Supreme Court has essentially told Trump: 'You're not special. You're just a country with a flawed system, like the rest of us.' It's a humbling moment for a nation built on exceptionalism. But then again, America has always been a bit rubbish at learning from others. Why would they start now, when they can just blame the French?
As I file this report from my local, I'm struck by the beautiful absurdity of it all. A US president railing against a British system that most Brits hate, praised by American pundits who've never been north of Watford. The world is a fever dream, and we're all just extras in a play written by a hungover god. I shall now toast the Supreme Court with a gin and tonic. It's the least they deserve for reminding us that even in chaos, there are rules. Even if those rules are written in disappearing ink and enforced by hungover magistrates.
