When Britain lost the War of American Independence in 1783, we nonchalantly withdrew, safe in the knowledge that the fledgling nation had taken on board our delights of fighting a Civil War, and subjugating and exterminating the indigenous people.
Meanwhile, Britain returned to its attempt to turn every schoolroom world map a lurid shade of pink as the British Empire expanded by wont of deciding we knew far better than the cultures of vast swathes of Africa and Asia.
From such unlikely beginnings, our special relationship with the USA has grown and grown. We were never so glad to see our former foes fight alongside us in The Great War, and there can be no doubt that the influx of tens of thousands of American troops turned the tide of a muddy, bloody stalemate.
And, while late to the party again in World War II, American forces once more helped to bring an end to six years of devastating conflict. Meanwhile, GIs (Overpaid, Oversexed, Over Here) brought nylons, gum, jazz and chocolate to a beleaguered and grey England, while getting brides – and surprise children – in return.
Glossing over our penchant for gambolling playfully at America’s feet in gratitude and thus embroiling ourselves in two unwinnable guerrilla conflicts in the Middle East, our tradition of cultural exchange continues to this day.
They gave us Elvis Presley, we gave them the Stones and Beatles. They gave us Hollywood glamour and Marilyn Monroe, we gave them Carry On and Ricky Gervais.
Not forgetting that Halloween barely existed as an event in Britain when I was a kid. The first trick-or-treater I ever heard knock on the door was around 1983.
Faced with one of the local children proclaiming ‘trick or treat’ on the doorstep, my puzzled mum replied: “Trick!” There was a brief, equally baffled pause before the child went to find someone more clued-up.
And though I’ve been a long time out of High School, I don’t recall any talk of Prom Nights in Britain until around the late 90s. The UK didn’t go in for that sort of thing, probably because the film ‘Carrie’ scared the shit out of everyone in 1976.
Suffice to say, my last day at school consisted of a myriad of shirt signings, revenge on those who had royally pissed you off during the year and hasty fumblings with girls who had suddenly become more romantic and attractive as the parting of the ways beckoned.
I digress.
Something else we’ve learned from America is how to sue.
The USA is the most litigious country on the planet. Frankly, you can get sued in America at the drop of the hat, particularly if that hat then trips someone up. And now, we’ve cottoned on to making a fast buck in the same way.
Students, the unemployed or unemployed students who, between watching Jeremy Kyle’s show about British pond life and David Dickinson’s mahogany features on The Real Deal, are no doubt familiar with those ‘no win, no fee’ adverts from legal types.
They tend to show various idiots who have fallen off ladders, tripped over lethal plastic box-ties, or swallowed a pint of weed killer in a misguided attempt to eradicate their own gene-pool, and are now holding fat cheques after successfully blaming someone else for their own incompetence – albeit not quite as fat after the victorious lawyers have taken their mammoth commission.
Trouble is, it’s really no joke. Councils now spend tens of thousands of pounds on compensation every year, ranging from people falling over pavements, being grazed by falling tree branches, hitting heads on low signs and, in the case of a landmark ruling against Hounslow Council, a £100,000 payout to a couple with learning disabilities, who were subjected to abuse by their neighbours.
Regardless of the rights or wrongs of the latter judgement, it doesn’t take a mathematician to realise that if people weren’t suing the council for tumbling over uneven pathways, there might be more money available to get them fixed.
Meanwhile, a number of councils have realised it’s cheaper and easier to fell mature trees rather than put up with the fiddly business of keeping them maintained and so cure the problem of possible conker-shaped bruising.
Speaking of cures, doctors and hospitals now routinely take out malpractice insurance in the event of a legal challenge. Not that loved ones shouldn’t have the right to compensation when something has gone wrong, but there’s something definitely amiss when a man sues the NHS for allowing him to get to 70st.
As Barbara Ellen sagely pointed out in The Observer: “I’m confused. Did his GP say to him, ‘yeah, you look great at 50st, just keep eating”? As he ballooned to the point where it became a military operation to get him to hospital, were nurses feeding him fry-ups? Well, no. Paul Mason is now 37st, thanks to gastric surgery performed by the NHS.”
So, thanks to all this ‘fall down, get rich’ culture, we now live in a Health & Safety wonderland, where school trips are cancelled because of fears of litigation, packets of peanuts come with the disclaimer ‘warning, contains nuts’ and cards for two-year-old toddlers state ‘not suitable for children under 36 months’.
I would go on, but I’ve inadvertently crushed my fingers with the iMac after rooting around for a stray crisp. Now all I have to do is find the name of a good lawyer and Apple’s arse is mine.
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