Winston Churchill would have been a sensation in a Madison Avenue ad-agency. He was a master sloganeer and thought up the brand name “special relationship” to coax the USA into WWII. President Franklin Roosevelt needed no convincing, but the country was still isolationist in its native bowels. Donald Trump isn’t the first demagog to repeat the America First mantra. Winnie, for admirers, the British aristocrat and FDR, his East Coast American equivalent, won out. In the immediate postwar, Churchill scored again with the slick coinage, “iron curtain”. It came in a speech in Fulton, Missouri, then as now a place where it was thought there was nothing of concern in the world beyond the tall corn.
“From Stettin in the Baltic, to Trieste in the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across the continent,,…”
So it was that on March 5, 1946, Churchill, launched the Cold War, setting the global program for the next half-century. British electors were unimpressed and four months later voted him out as prime minister. But Americans loved Sir Winston, especially the Sir and the cigar. They knew they could win the Cold War. Exaggerating the peril would allow them to extract the money from tax-payers to amass overpowering force. They also knew that the relationship was only special in that they were top dog and Britain a strung-out mini poodle.
And so it proved. Leave to history books the hard power moves of president Dwight Eisenhower humiliating pm Antony Eden in the Suez affair of 1956, which set the tone. The domineering continued until pm Tony Blair felt he had to cheer lead the US invasion of Iraq in 2003. There was also soft power to weigh up, the influence of the arts and culture, of the English language in especial.
As Britain’s importance shrivelled, its imperial past nevertheless gave the English language dominance in the world. It was unrivalled as a necessary lingua franca. This made some in Britain believe they were still a great power. English becoming the common language of the European Union strengthened this sentiment to the point that the UK felt too mighty to be one among many and exited the EU.
At the same time, the English language itself was becoming more American, the inevitable result of new-empire USA’s supreme power, both hard and soft. What Oscar Wilde wrote in 1887 was beguiling but no longer valid.
"We have really everything in common with America nowadays except, of course, language.”
Not that some Britishers didn’t still cling to the idea that there were two English languages. As recent as 2010 pernickety readers of the London broadsheets objected to the use of “ugly and unnecessary Americanisms,” giving as examples: main drag, slew of, happenstance, vacation, balding, rumbunctious, brownstones, suck, upcoming, upscale, gotten and kindergarten. There was indignation that a prime minister’s wife was called the first lady. Authorities was a “dreadfully ugly American import from the land without style”. One purist even rejected teenager without offering a British equivalent, which hinted at the real problem. Although some of the American new words were simply free-wheeling inventions, others reflected one society moving forward faster than another.
Listen to a writer who considers the more English words at his disposal the better. The point of the compass they hail from is interesting but secondary. Respect, however, requires that he honour the passing of those purer-than-thou Brits (sticklers, pedants, peevers, snobs, snoots, nit-pickers, traditionalists, language police, usage nannies, grammar Nazis—thank you, Steven Pinker). That writer offers two skits, one in “without style” transatlantic lingo, the other a repetition in English sturdy as the five-hundred-year-old Knighthood Oak.
1. It was a legal holiday and this guy in knickers was out walking his police dog. He’d dressed in a hurry and his jockey shorts had got twisted up under his pants, those grayish slacks that he had bundled over them. Crisake, he thought, women are much more comfortable in pantie hose and garter belts. It made him recall that your crazy Limey confuses things by calling braces, a simple pair of suspenders hooked on to his belt, as if they were one of those gismos to straighten teeth that torment half-pints. Memories of his own suffering in first grade still gave him goose pimples. He was already collecting kicks in the balls. Leaving a public school for a private one was expensive but made no difference. He would tear up every morning. Imagine, they forced elevator shoes onto his tiny feet! It was like putting a little girl in low-cut pumps. As a college freshman, he still thought of it now whenever he stepped into an elevator to go up or down.
Alas, he had a truck-load of grievances that he knew it would be better not to be pissed-off about. Being hassled by small change is a mistake. Why not take a vacuum cleaner to it and clear his top story of the ragbag for good? Oops! Shit happens and this time all over his shoe. Goddamn, he’d better stop playing the jerk and watch where he stepped. Now he has doggie BM in his socks. Time to run for cover and get hold of a wash cloth. Wait a sec, Jesus H. Christ, it’s got through his rainbow vest and even stained his underwear. Best he stop in the garage—with the first A pronounced short. There’s what he needs in the grip in the trunk of his car. It’s been two weeks since his vacation when he left it there. What a bummer! Now even his police dog is doing a snooty Kraut Shepard on him, holding his canine excuse for a nose and whimpering forever about grossness.
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2. It was a bank holiday and this bloke in plus fours was out walking his Alsatian. He’d dressed in a hurry and his pants had been twisted up under his trousers, those greyish slacks that he had bundled over them. Bugger all, he thought, women are much more comfortable in tights and suspender belts. It made him recall that your barmy Yank confuses things by calling suspenders, a simple pair of braces hooked onto his belt, as if they were one of those gubbins to straighten teeth that torment wee lads. Memories of his own suffering in first form still gave him goose bumps. He was already collecting kicks in the bollocks. Leaving a state school for a public one was expensive but made no difference. He would blubber every morning. Imagine, they forced lifts onto his tiny feet! It was like putting a little girl in court shoes. As a first year undergraduate, he still thought of it now whenever he stepped into a lift to go up or down.
Alack, he had a lorry-load of grievances that he knew it would be better not to be arsed about. Being narked by odds and sods is a mistake. Why not take a hoover to it and clear his loaf of the offal for good? Oops! Bloody hell, a boot full of shite. Arseholes, he’d better stop playing silly buggers and watch where he stepped. Now he has doggie doo in his socks. Time to do a Dunkirk and get hold of a face flannel. Wait a moment, blimey, it’s got through his rainbow waistcoat and even stained his smalls. Best he stop in the garage—with the first A pronounced long. There’s what he needs in the attaché case in the boot of his car. It’s been a fortnight since his holiday when he left it there. What a cock up! Now even his Alsatian is turning a superior boche snout away from him for fresh air and whining a long houndish yuck.
Superabundance is to be enjoyed. Don’t be a berk and nix it. That’s so suck. For now, friends, toodle-oo, and take care.
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