Let us not pretend this is anything other than what it is: a desperate lurch towards the sort of parochialism that defined Britain before the Empire, during the Blitz, and now in the twilight of our global relevance. The government’s decision to slash VAT on family attractions—museums, theme parks, zoos—has, predictably, boosted domestic tourism. Families are flocking to Alton Towers rather than Disneyland Paris, to the Natural History Museum rather than the Louvre. And we are meant to cheer.
But consider the historical parallel. The Victorian era saw Britain as the workshop of the world, its industrial might and cultural capital drawing tourists from every corner of the globe. Today, we celebrate a VAT cut that makes it cheaper for a family from Birmingham to visit a soggy safari park than to take the Eurostar to Giverny. This is not patriotism; it is intellectual and cultural decadence. We are choosing the familiar over the excellent, the convenient over the transformative.
Of course, the economics are undeniable. The cut has spurred spending, saved jobs, and filled car parks. But at what cost? We are raising a generation that thinks the pinnacle of European culture is a giant shopping centre in Kent or a poorly curated collection of taxidermy in a provincial museum. Meanwhile, our European rivals—the French with their chateaux, the Italians with their Renaissance treasures—continue to offer the sublime. But that requires effort: a passport, a language barrier, perhaps a bit of queuing at the airport.
This is the tragedy of our age. We have become a nation that celebrates the safe, the domestic, the easily digestible. The VAT cut is a symptom, not a cause. It is a government putting its finger on the scales of choice, nudging us towards the insular and away from the cosmopolitan. It works, but only because we have already lost the ambition to see beyond our shores. The fall of Rome was not a sudden collapse; it was a slow retreat into fortified villas and local markets. We are building our own little forts of amusement parks and heritage centres, and we call it a victory.
Do not mistake me. I am no enemy of the British seaside or the joy of a family day out. But let us not pretend this is a triumph. It is a retreat, a surrender to the comfort of the known. And it works only because we have forgotten what we are retreating from: the world.
