There are fewer more distressing sights than that
Of an Englishman in a baseball cap.
—The Libertines, “Time for Heroes”

When I was in college I spent a semester studying abroad at the University of Aberdeen in Scotland. The guys I hung out with were from all across the British Isles, and I was impressed and sometimes intimidated by their classical education. Dudes could quote whole passages of Shakespeare and Milton like it was nothing. Over pints we would often get into discussions about American culture, or the lack thereof. Fuckers turned me from an Anglophile into a true blue patriot. My main comebacks were always: jazz, rock and roll, and hip hop. I was right, of course, but since I’d never been taught the formal principles of logic, the Brits usually won the argument. But I was right. And their Levis agreed with me.

During my breaks, I travelled extensively albeit aimlessly around the U.K. and Ireland. I had a lot of amazing experiences but was often disappointed by the gross Americanization of the cities. McDonald’s was everywhere (even if they made you pay extra for “tomato sauce”). So our culture, for good or ill, had inarguably spread across the sea.

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