When a former president, still the undisputed chieftain of his party, is audibly booed on his home turf, the historian’s ears prick up. This is not merely a New York audience expressing displeasure. It is a symptom of a deeper rot, a civilisation consuming its own gods.
The commentators in London who now question American leadership are not being impertinent; they are being honest. Empires in decline always lose the mystique of authority first. The man who once commanded rallies that resembled Roman triumphs now receives the raspberry in Manhattan.
The Pax Americana is unravelling, and the boos are its funeral dirge. The British observers who tut-tut at the spectacle are merely noting that the sun is setting on an imperial power that can no longer command respect at home, let alone abroad. The crisis in Ukraine, the chaos in Gaza: these are not problems for a leader who cannot hold his own city.
The Victorian era taught us that prestige is a currency. Spend it unwisely, and you end up with a republic that sounds like a mob. The question is not whether Trump is fit to lead, but whether America is fit to follow.
The booing is a verdict, and it is damning.
