Anglophilia is hard to resist. Like a Hugh Grant-Richard Curtis movie, the British just can’t help charming us.
After politely following our lead into Iraq, they are now getting out in their understated way by quietly withdrawing their troops and disposing of Tony Blair.
Less stodgily, they are stoking nostalgia this weekend by re-creating Woodstock--music, mud and all. In Glastonbury, 175,000 of their young are sloshing around in what, for most of us, evokes memories of a happier time:
"Many party-goers had been up all night at the silent disco, where revellers plug into personal stereos to listen to dance tunes. The aim is to dance the night away in silence...
"Another big attraction overnight was at the King's Meadow where Banksy, an anonymous graffiti sensation who has rocked the art world, had erected a mock version of the Stonehenge prehistoric site out of graffiti-strewn mobile toilets."
More than two centuries after the unpleasantness between us, the British are still colonizing our spirit. When that boob George Bush is gone, come back, Your Majesty, and bring along the young princes. We’ll have a ball. A dignified one, of course.
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