In the hollowed-out carcass of Westminster, where the air is thick with the scent of damp wool and historical irrelevance, Mike Johnson—a man whose personality is as exciting as a glass of room-temperature tap water—arrived this week to perform a particularly grotesque ritual. Ostensibly, he was there to celebrate the 250th anniversary of American independence from British rule. The irony of this is, of course, entirely lost on the participants. We have spent two and a half centuries watching the child grow into a bloated, neon-drenched bully, only for that bully to return to the ancestral home to demand the deed to the backyard. The 'differences' Johnson alluded to with such nauseating confidence are not minor policy disagreements; they are the symptoms of a global order that has finally, mercifully, lost its mind.

At the heart of this transatlantic circus is Greenland. Yes, Greenland. The frozen landmass that Donald Trump views not as a sovereign territory, but as a shiny trinket he saw in a catalog and decided he must own to fill the void where a soul usually resides. The Speaker of the House, acting as the polite, sanctimonious debt collector for the Trumpian estate, stood before British MPs to assure them that they could 'work through' the fact that the United States is currently threatening its oldest allies with economic ruin unless they facilitate a real estate heist. It is a masterclass in the kind of performative diplomacy that treats international law like a suggestion found on the back of a cereal box. The UK, reduced to the status of a nervous butler, watches as its 'special' partner threatens to slap tariffs on everything from Scotch whisky to high-end umbrellas unless the US gets its way with Danish territory.

Johnson’s confidence is the most offensive part of this theater. It is the confidence of a man who knows that the British political class is too terrified of its own shadow to offer anything more than a polite cough in response to extortion. The Speaker’s visit to mark independence is the ultimate cosmic joke. While the US celebrates 250 years of 'freedom,' it simultaneously demands that the rest of the world bow to its latest real estate whims or face the financial guillotine. This is the 'special relationship' in its final, most honest form: a hostage situation where the hostage is expected to thank the captor for the anniversary card. The British MPs, meanwhile, sit in their green leather benches, clutching their pearls and wondering if they can survive another decade of being the United States’ preferred doormat.

Let’s be clear about what is happening here. This isn't diplomacy; it’s a shakedown. The Right in the US has moved past the pretense of global cooperation, viewing the world as a Monopoly board where they can flip the table if they don't get Mayfair. The Left in the UK will likely respond with its usual brand of toothless moralizing, issuing statements about 'values' while secretly checking the exchange rate. Neither side has the courage to admit that the entire structure of transatlantic cooperation is a rotting pier about to collapse into the sea. Johnson speaks of 'working through' differences, but what he really means is that the UK will eventually roll over, and the US will continue its slide into a bizarre, property-obsessed autocracy that treats the Arctic Circle like a suburban development project.

There is a profound emptiness in the way these figures communicate. Johnson's speech was a collection of platitudes designed to mask the stench of a dying alliance. To celebrate independence while threatening your allies with tariffs over a land grab is a level of cognitive dissonance that would be impressive if it weren't so exhausting. We are witnessing the slow-motion car crash of Western hegemony, where the drivers are arguing about who gets to keep the radio while the vehicle hurtles toward the cliff. The 250th anniversary isn't a celebration of a historic victory; it’s a funeral for the idea that any of this—sovereignty, diplomacy, international decorum—actually matters.

In the end, Johnson will return to Washington, the MPs will return to their pointless bickering, and Greenland will remain a target for a man who thinks geography is a negotiation tactic. The world continues its descent into absurdity, led by men in suits who believe that 'confidence' is a valid substitute for competence. It is a grim, tedious spectacle, and we are all forced to watch as the architects of our misery exchange pleasantries in a room that smells of ancient, unearned privilege. The only thing more pathetic than the American demand for Greenland is the British desperation to remain relevant in a world that has clearly moved on from their quaint notions of empire. Welcome to the new era of diplomacy: buy the island, or we tax the tea. It’s almost enough to make one miss the original George III—at least his madness had a certain majesty to it, whereas this modern version is just tacky.