Critiquing Trump was not the problem. Failing to use British doublespeak was.

Anyone can be blunt. Ambassador Darroch should have mastered the English art of elusive meaning.

By Matt Potter
Matt Potter, a British journalist and broadcaster, is the author of "Outlaws Inc.: Flying With the World's Most Dangerous Smugglers" and "The Last Goodbye: A History of the World in Resignation Letters."
July 11

It was a cultural Defcon 1, enough to make the British break out in a sweat, or at least deploy the emergency stiff upper lip, the one reserved for the trickiest of pickles. Brexit, for once, was not the issue, but rather leaked diplomatic cables that had exposed the wholly blunt assessment of President Trump by the British ambassador to the United States, Sir Kim Darroch.

To be clear, it wasn’t so much the assessment, or indeed the response of a wrathful president (“We’re not big fans of that man”), that made the British shiver as we knocked back a steadying cup of tea. It wasn’t even the whispers that the leak was a maneuver by Brexiteers to have Nigel Farage — Brexit’s very own flatterer in chief to this uniquely fragile and praise-hungry POTUS — installed in Darroch’s place, as dark a prospect as that is.

This sudden chill ran deeper. It tapped into something existential. About our worst fears as a nation. About who we are. If being British means anything, it is surely our ability to speak perfectly clearly and with absolute candor while still managing to be bafflingly, frustratingly elusive as to what we really mean.

This trait forms the foundation on which Brand Britain is built. It’s behind the appeal of our movie stars — from Hugh Grant’s tongue-tied leading men to every one of Hollywood’s sardonic, supercilious supervillains. It’s there in the distancing personae and gnomic uncanniness of our pop; in David Bowie and Radiohead. It’s there in the way we offer our highest praise (“not bad at all”) and our most scathing critiques (“interesting”), our manners, our social and gender roles, our consumption habits. One of the great pleasures for Brits in watching American TV — sports, drama, movies, news, you name it — is gape-mouthed boggling at just how often people confront one another. Like, openly. It turns everything — earnest family healing moments, tough-guy talk, interviews — into brilliantly addictive comedy-horror. (Netflix, you’re missing a category over here.)

And yet. One of our most senior diplomats chose to drop the double-talk, to trust his listener, to abandon one of our most sacred national characteristics. ...

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