So the great American pageant of self-congratulation, the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, is to be hijacked by the orange-haired Caesar of Mar-a-Lago. Mr Trump, never one to let a stage go unoccupied, has announced he will hold a rival celebration on the National Mall, a counter-spectacle to the official festivities. And what does the British government do? It plans a ‘transatlantic unity summit’ in London, as if to say: ‘Please, dear cousins, ignore the clown in the white house. We are still the sensible ones.’
One must admire the audacity. The man who led an insurrection against his own government now declares himself the true voice of American patriotism. It is a move straight from the handbook of late Roman emperors, staging games to distract the mob from the empty treasury and the barbarians at the gate. But the comparison is too kind. Trump is more akin to a Victorian charlatan, selling patent medicines from a cart, promising to cure the nation’s ills with a dose of nostalgia and grievance.
The timing, of course, is exquisite. The official celebrations, curated by Biden’s administration, will be earnest, inclusive and dull. They will speak of progress, of a more perfect union, of the long arc bending towards justice. And then Trump will step onto his stage, flanked by flags and fire-eaters, and declare that the real America is the one he represents: the America of the frontier, of the strongman, of the righteous anger against the elites. He will wrap himself in the Constitution while shredding its spirit. It is a masterclass in political theatre, and the British summit looks, by comparison, like a vicar’s tea party.
But what of the British summit? The government, keen to remind the world that it still has a role beyond the English Channel, proposes a gathering to ‘reaffirm the special relationship’. It is a noble aim, but it reeks of desperation. The United Kingdom, having spent the last decade bickering over Brexit and its own identity, now wants to play the wise elder statesman. It offers a hand to a United States that is clearly in the grip of a nervous breakdown. The summit will produce a communiqué full of fine sentiments about democracy and rule of law, and it will be ignored. The real power in the Anglosphere, for now, is the power to command attention, and Trump does that better than any British prime minister, living or dead.
One cannot help but think of the late Victorian era, when Britain and America competed for cultural and economic supremacy, but ultimately shared a common language and a belief in liberal order. That order is now in its death throes, and both nations are fiddling while Rome burns. Trump’s seizure of the birthday stage is not an aberration; it is the logical conclusion of a culture that prizes celebrity over substance, outrage over reason. The British response, the summit, is equally symptomatic: a retreat into ritual, a hope that if we just keep talking, the madness will pass.
It will not pass. The American republic has entered its decadent phase, like the late Roman Republic, where demagogues and generals vie for power while the institutions rot. The 250th birthday is a mausoleum, not a celebration. And Britain, poor Britain, is reduced to staging a rival summit to prove it still matters. It is a tragic comedy, and we are all players in it.
