To top Prick’s return to Blighty his ‘local’ (pub) is invaded by JD Vance on his holidays (or vacation as he would say it) trying to sample simple English life. What could happen in this confrontation?
Transcript
I was back from Trump’s Reich, settling down into the comforting gloom of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, my local and labyrinthine monument to London’s literary and alcoholic past, and precisely where I intended to spend my immediate future. Perched on my usual stool, a glass of Firkin Islay Cask gin in hand, I was engaged in a less than philosophical exchange with Weatherall, the landlord, a man whose gruff exterior concealed a gruffer interior. The sawdust on the floor, changed by his fair, spade like hands twice daily, crunched underfoot, a soothing counterpoint to the excited chatter of tourists and awful busking DJ who had pitched up right outside the bloody door.
Just then, the doors burst open, and the comforting aroma of stale ale was violently displaced by the sterile scent of authority and cloying aftershave. American Secret Service. Black suits, earpieces, eyes like surveillance cameras. They moved with a chilling, arrogance and efficiency, sweeping through the ancient wooden bays and past the high-backed church pews, ushering out the bewildered clientele with curt, unyielding commands. The locals evaporated.
And then, he entered. JD Vance. The Vice President of the United States, no less. He strode in, flanked by his family, a tableau of carefully curated Americana. Vance looked even more pugfaced than he did in photos I’d ignored in the press. Darting, shifty eyes surrounded by goth eyeliner looked out from underneath a paralysed brow, and his lips puckered as if he had some sort of facial venereal disease, no doubt the result of his intimacy with one of his favourite “Tech Bros.”
Weatherall, who moments before had been agreeing with me about Herr Drumpf’s misdemeanors with a mysteriously dispatched paedophile, underwent a startling metamorphosis. His gruffness melted into a viscous, almost sickening obsequiousness. “Mr. Vice President, sir! An honour, sir! Welcome to the Cheese! A true British institution, sir! We’ve got the finest chops, sir, and a rather splendid Steak & Kidney Suet Pudding, just like Dickens himself enjoyed, sir!” He bowed, he scraped, he practically polished the sawdust with his forehead. It was a truly nauseating display of duplicitous fawning. He looked my way and blanched as I buried my head in the Byline Times crossword, mouthing “you thick fanny…”
Vance, a man whose public persona was a carefully constructed, though constantly crumbling edifice of “working-class Ohio-an” grit, yet who had navigated the hallowed halls of Yale Law, surveyed the menu. His family settled into one of the ancient wooden bays. “I’ll take the british venison,” he announced, a choice that lacked the “hearty meal” authenticity Weatherall had just peddled.
”Ah, the Scottish venison, straight from the King’s northern estate,sir!” Weatherall beamed, practically salivating. “An excellent choice, sir! From our London Butchers of Distinction, Campbell Brothers, sir! Over a hundred years’ experience!”
I knew Weatherall would be sending one of the bartenders to Waitrose for some Duchy Original meat…
I cleared my throat, just loud enough to be heard. “Indeed, Mr. Vice President,” I interjected, my voice dripping with a subtle, almost imperceptible condescension. “One must appreciate the finer cuts, even when championing the working man, eh? Though I must confess, I always found the humble Kentish Hop Sausage Ring to be a more… authentic representation of the common touch. Or perhaps the Crispy White Bait? So very… unpretentious.” I paused, then added, with a feigned innocence, “One does wonder, sir, if Dr. Johnson, whose very chair you’re almost sitting in, would approve of such… elite fare, given his well-documented disdain for anything less than robust, unvarnished truth. He was, after all, a man who famously lived just a few steps away, and whose dictionary sought to define reality, not obscure it with… well, with gloss or, let’s say, outrageous canard.”
Vance’s fat jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He shot me a quick, sharp glance, his narrow, blackened eyes narrowing further. I merely offered a beatific, innocent smile, then took a slow, deliberate sip of my gin and went back to my Byline Times. The conversation at his table seemed to falter, a subtle tension entering the air. I watched as he picked at his Duchy deer, a faint frown creasing his brow. The meat, no doubt, tasted perfectly fine, but I rather suspected the subtle flavour of my barbs was making it just a little less palatable. He looked confused. Flustered. Ruby red faced.
The silence of the many might allow fascism to grow, but the subtle, persistent prick of the recognition of one bluffer of another, I hoped, at least ruin his pretentious holiday meal.
Glad to see the people of DC air their feelings.
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