w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

The shenanigans over at Uncle Sam’s this week served only to remind me of the unworldlineness of much of its populace – something we experienced first-hand when we holidayed recently in their back garden – Hawai’i.

We spent a goodly part of the fortnight trying to convince enquirers that we really weren’t Australian – not that I have anything against Ozzies, but Brits spawned many of the émigrés to both continents and must surely be entitled to be recognised as different?

“So, you’ve flown across two ponds, then?”

“Well, you’ve allegedly flown to the Moon and back, so we’ve hardly over-exerted ourselves” we replied.

At the luau (public feast) there was much back-slapping over events in Iraq and, whether or not we believed in the validity or legality of the ‘war’, we felt obliged to remind the other tourists of the part played by the coalition forces. “Oh yeah” they conceded, “there’s a bunch of your SAS guys wandrin’ around too”.

Thanks for that grateful and heartfelt acknowledgement.

Returning from a scuba dive, I was routinely washing out my ears to prevent infection, using a bottle of water pressed to the side of my head, and glancing sideways noticed a woman wearing a bikini with its volume turned full up, nervously watching my antics.

“It’s quite Ok” I explained, “we’re British – we drink differently to you guys”.

Stunned and uncomprehending turning away.

Her partner then wandered over and, once we’d established that our lineage wasn’t Antipodean, asked us about hiring caravans in Ingerland. As you do.

“I s’pose you can”, I ventured (well, I was never going to meet him again, was I?) “or if you dislike hotels that much, you could stay in Bed & Breakfasts”.

It took a full ten minutes to explain just what that diversion entailed.

They had a chance to correct the horrors of the last four years, and blew it.

God Help America (and us)