So the American colossus stumbles towards its 250th anniversary with a spectacle that would make Caligula blush. Donald Trump, the man who turned the White House into a reality TV set, now plans to brand the nation’s semiquincentennial as his own personal coronation. Fireworks over Mount Rushmore?
A military parade down Pennsylvania Avenue? The man who lost the popular vote twice will now claim the 4th of July as ‘Trump Day’. It is a grotesque caricature of patriotism, a narcissist’s dream.
Meanwhile, across the pond, Britain’s government, in a fit of post-Brexit desperation, proposes a rival celebration: ‘Commonwealth Unity Day’. Because nothing says ‘unity’ like a nostalgic jamboree for a club of former colonies. The irony is exquisite.
While Trump gilds his own ego, Whitehall peddles a fantasy of imperial goodwill. Both are empty pageantry: one loud and orange, the other polite and irrelevant. The real question is not which celebration is more authentic, but why we still believe in such childish rituals.
In the age of national decline, we cling to birthdays like toddlers to a security blanket. Let them have their parades. History will remember neither.
