In a development that has left the Foreign Office reaching for the stiffest of gins, the cultural attaché to the United Kingdom has been dispatched to Puerto Rico with a brief that reads, and I quote, 'Monitor the situation and avoid eye contact with any local carrying a maraca.'
The situation in question? The viral spread of a song that would make even the most tone-death Tory backbencher blush. A ditty, penned by some anonymous soul with more chutzpah than musical training, that paints the US territory's relationship with the mainland as a 'slow motion colonial trainwreck soaked in rum and resentment.'
Now, you may ask: why does a British cultural attaché care about an island that the United States treats like a spare tyre in the trunk of its national vehicle? Because, gentle reader, the song has been described as a 'savage hurricane-force critique' that could give even the most stoic Whitehall mandarin a case of the vapours. And when Britain sees a diplomatic grenade being primed, it sends its finest to ensure they're at a safe distance.
Let us examine the evidence. The track, which I can only assume was recorded on a banana leaf with a guitar strung with fishing line, has amassed millions of plays across platforms. It has been retweeted by everyone from disgruntled New York taxi drivers to a senator's intern who 'thought it was a new Beyoncé remix.' Its lyrics, a pastiche of slights both real and imagined, include the immortal couplet: 'You treat us like a colony, you might as well put a crown on my head / At least the Brits gave us fish and chips, your abuse is stale bread.'
And so, the attaché, let us call him Nigel Fortescue-Cholmondley-Warner for the sheer pleasure of typing that, has landed in San Juan with orders to 'assess cultural sensitivities.' He will attend a series of events, from salsa nights to political rallies, all while maintaining a stiff upper lip and a stiffer gin and tonic. 'It is vital that we understand the nuance of this protest,' he said, narrowly avoiding a flying bottle of Malta India.
But the truth, as always, is far more surreal. The British government, still smarting from that incident with the Brexit bus, is terrified of another viral sensation that makes them look like the villains of a Monty Python sketch. They fear a song that could unite the Commonwealth against them, a kind of 'We Are the World' but with more conga lines and less humanitarian aid.
Meanwhile, Puerto Ricans are reacting with a mixture of amusement and fury. 'It's about time someone said it,' exclaimed a local shopkeeper who refused to be named but did offer me a shot of pitorro. 'We're not a state. We're not a country. We're a reality show with no one watching.'
The attaché, failing to find any fish and chips in Old San Juan, has taken to Twitter to express his bemusement. 'Interesting times in the Caribbean. The locals are most exercised about a song. I have asked for the sheet music.' His request was met with a barrage of emojis, the meaning of which remains unclear to the Foreign Office.
So, what is the outcome of this diplomatic kerfuffle? Likely nothing. The song will fade, the attaché will return to his desk with a sunburn and a mild rum dependency, and the world will move on to the next outrage. But for now, in the sweltering heat of a San Juan bar, the chanteur of the moment is a man who looks like your uncle after three bottles of Medalla and sounds like a rant set to music. And that, dear readers, is the only politics that matters.
Gin recommences. Over and out.
