Good grief but do I despise the way Americans yap about the Revolution. I despise it, not in some wounded pride British kind of way, but in the cloying candy cane sickliness that is applied to all things 1776.
I’m not bitter really . . . I just lived for four years in America and lost count of the times I was told that your guys kicked my guys’ asses (sic).
I mean, setting aside the fact that I have no idea whose guys are whose — both our ancestor guys were no doubt busy scratching their miserable livings in peasant squalor and thus not too worried about which George lived in the big house — I think the Revolution was a disaster. A world in which America was part of Greater Great Britain, or at the very least, a member of the Commonwealth, would be an America more Canada than the United States and with all that manifest destiny crap that comes with being AMERICA!
And then there’s the reliance on France. Louis XVI’s France! You have got to be kidding me. But I am ranting. Suffice it to say that portraits of Seabury, Arnold, and all the prominent United Empire Loyalists hang in my home.
To the point: I have very little clue who Alexander Hamilton was except that he’s on the the money and was shot in a duel. But let it be known: in a country where no-one knows the first thing about Hamilton and Burr and where the Hamilton bandwagon is not yet rolling, I am well and truly on it. Basically, it’s the greatest thing ever.