The world has gone mad. I’ve just returned from a three-day bender in the House of Commons tearoom where I discovered the great cultural crisis of our age. Japan is in open revolt after Donald Trump, in a fit of diplomatic desperation, allegedly used anime to butter up the Prime Minister. Yes, you heard that right. The man with the hair the colour of a badger’s scrotum tried to charm the Japanese with cartoons of spiky-haired teenagers. The result? A tsunami of fury from Tokyo all the way to Hokkaido.
Meanwhile, our very own Cultural Attaché, Sir Reginald Bottomsworth, has been spotted in a Soho basement with a projector and a crate of warm gin, promoting British animation as the civilised alternative. ‘Forget your Narutos and your Gokus,’ he slurred to a bewildered-looking fishmonger. ‘We have Wallace and Gromit. We have the moral clarity of a stop-motion dog who only wants a proper cheddar.’
The irony is palpable. Trump’s gambit was to brandish a framed cel from ‘Akira’ during a state dinner, only for the Japanese delegation to walk out. ‘This is not diplomacy, this is otaku aggression,’ one diplomat screamed, shaking a rice ball. Meanwhile, Bottomsworth, reeking of fortified wine, is now pushing a slate of British cartoons including ‘The Clangers’ and ‘Danger Mouse’ as what he calls ‘soft power with stiff upper lips.’
But the real crisis isn’t diplomatic. It’s the blinding absurdity that our leaders think cartoon characters can replace actual negotiation. I watched Bottomsworth in action, attempting to explain ‘The Magic Roundabout’ to a Japanese cultural minister. ‘It’s all about existential dread and a dog on a pogo stick,’ he said. The minister looked like he was calculating the fastest route to harakiri.
And yet, behind this farce lies a truth more sinister than any googly-eyed mascot. The UK’s animation industry, once the pride of post-war broadcasting, has been reduced to a pawn in a game of cultural peacocking. Scotland Yard has reportedly put out a call for ‘animators with security clearances’ to counter any further anime incursions. The world has become a cartoon, and we are all toons waiting for a safe.
I staggered out of the tearoom and into the pelting London rain, a half-eaten ham sandwich in my pocket and a burning question in my mind: Why do we allow these porcelain-faced mannequins to steer the ship of state while the real artists, the true satirists, are left clutching empty glasses in the gutter?
The answer, I’m afraid, is that we are all part of the same animated farce. And the only escape is a strong gin. God save the cartoon.
