Post Empire Nostalgia

It's an odd kind of grief, really – this business of losing an empire. Like being a retired colonel who still insists on wearing the regimental tie to the pub, even though no one salutes him anymore and the medals are starting to rust. Britain, bless her, never quite faced up to it. Instead, we handed out independence like party favours, boarded up the colonial office, and pretended nothing had happened – that we'd simply decided to concentrate on domestic affairs and making soggy sitcoms.

The trouble is, when a country builds its identity around being top dog – when its national persona is all about command, righteousness, and the God-given right to civilise Johnny Foreigner – the comedown is brutal. Jung would call this a collapse of the persona, the mask we present to the world. And when that mask falls away, the shadow looms large. And it’s not a dignified shadow either – more drunk uncle at a wedding than brooding Byronic figure.

Our shadow is a mix of shame, denial, and gnawing irrelevance. We remember the railways, not the famines; the tea, not the blood. So instead of integrating the truth, we project. Immigrants become the problem. The EU becomes the enemy. Woke becomes the word we mutter when confronted with anything that challenges our fairy tales – or our ability to wear beige slacks without irony.

We've swapped empire for Amazon Prime. The dream now is not to rule the waves, but to own a ring doorbell, go on a cruise, and complain about foreign call centres while talking to one. We used to extract tribute from half the world. Now we extract cashback points from Tesco and think that’s sovereignty.

And we’re not alone in this. Russia has been wallowing in its own imperial hangover for three decades – clinging to the fantasy of Greater Russia while the economy creaks and the state drowns in vodka and paranoia. Putin is basically Stalin in a bomber jacket, shouting at the telly. Turkey flirts with Ottoman cosplay like a middle-aged man who’s rediscovered his fez and wants everyone to know. France hides its colonial hangover behind the tricolour, issuing stern rebukes while muttering about Algeria and banning headscarves like it's still 1905. And the United States – oh, the land of the free – is locked in a full-blown identity crisis, its moral high ground eroded by school shootings, evangelical rants, and healthcare that costs more than a small yacht.

None of them, it seems, want to grow up. Like Jung’s puer aeternus – the eternal adolescent – they long for the days when they mattered. When others listened. When the world spoke their language, drank their drinks, and bowed to their gods. It's the psychic equivalent of turning up to a school reunion in your old football kit, insisting you were this close to turning pro.

Hungary and Austria? Tiny empires once. Now just men at the end of the bar, grumbling into their pints, suspicious of the neighbours, and clinging to maps that haven’t been updated since 1913. Austria tries to pretend it was Switzerland all along. Hungary’s so obsessed with the Treaty of Trianon you’d think it was a divorce decree and not a century-old map reshuffle.

Meanwhile, back in Blighty, our global strategy now seems to involve swapping a flourishing market on our doorstep for a handshake with someone twelve time zones away who sells us mangoes. It’s the diplomatic equivalent of selling your house and buying a tent – in Patagonia.

What unites all of them – and us – is the refusal to individuate. To look in the mirror and say: "Yes, we once ruled. Yes, we exploited. Yes, the world moved on." Instead, we get the politics of projection. Farage blaming Brussels. Putin blaming the West. Trump blaming everyone except the man in the mirror. It’s like watching a therapy group for failed empires where no one wants to do the work and someone keeps stealing the biscuits.

We could, of course, face our shadow. Own our past. Grow into something wiser, humbler, more grounded. But that takes effort – and introspection is in short supply when TalkTV is on, the Daily Mail’s frothing, and there’s a flag to wave and a butcher’s apron to iron.

And through it all, we still cling to the Royals – our national scented candle. Vaguely comforting, distracts from the smell. We may have lost an empire, but at least we've still got gold carriages, hereditary privilege, and a man whose job it is to iron Charles' shoelaces.

So here we are. Stuck between myth and maturity. Drunk on nostalgia. Shouting at clouds. Still wearing the tie, hoping someone – anyone – will salute. Preferably before last orders.