England is Dead

rom Peking (I can testify) to Peru.

It’s all gone now, “dead as mutton,” as English people used to say. Now there is nothing there but a flock of whimpering Eloi, giggling over their gadgets, whining for their handouts, crying for their Mummies, playing at soldiering for reasons they can no longer understand, from lingering habit. Lower the corpse down slowly, shovel in the earth. England is dead.

If he wrote that here in England, he’d be “laughed out of court”, as English people used to say. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t live here anymore. Well, that and the death of his Mum, obviously.

We all have our idea of how to behave, of course, and what constitutes that notable “example of adult behavior—the English Gentleman”. I’m not sure, but does it, I wonder, cover that type of Englishman who emigrates to America and then spends his time loudly and pompously announcing how much he hates England but loves the “blessed U.S. of A.”? I mean, that takes the kind of courage those “saps and worms” captured and interrogated by the Iranians can only dream about.