I THOUGHT YOU WERE ALL NAPOLEON DYNAMITE

I need to apologise to America.

Genuinely.

Because until very recently,

I thought you were all like Napoleon Dynamite.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

Every single one of you.

Just… wandering about Idaho,

kicking dirt,

arguing with siblings,

drawing ligers

like it’s a respected profession.

That was my reference point.

That film.

That bloke.

That energy.

Turns out…

that was just one lad.

I thought you were all Napoleon Dynamite,

Vote for Pedro energy nationwide.

Just tots, t-shirts, and quiet rage,

Uncles selling time machines out of vans.

My whole world view was built on corduroy

and regret.

I thought every American school

had a Deb—

just silently twirling her hair,

selling glamour shots out of lockers.

I thought every lad had a Kip—

mouth-breathing confidence,

chatting online to someone

who definitely isn’t real.

I thought every uncle was Rico—

permanently haunted by one moment in ’82,

still convinced he could throw a steak

over a mountain

if the coach had just believed in him.

And honestly?

That explained everything.

Healthcare system?

Napoleon.

Politics?

Definitely Uncle Rico.

I thought you were all Napoleon Dynamite,

Just vibing in rural confusion.

Dancing badly but confidently,

Winning elections by accident.

Turns out some of you are…

normal.

Which frankly

has shaken me.

The bike jump.

The tetherball.

The chicken getting absolutely ended.

That dance—

that dance did more for international relations

than several summits.

And every line?

Burned into my brain:

“Gosh.”

“Lucky.”

“Do the chickens have large talons?”

I assumed this was your national dialogue.

I assumed this is how you spoke

at banks.

Then I met Americans.

Actual ones.

From cities.

With opinions.

And I thought—

hang on…

where’s your Pedro?

Why aren’t you quietly excellent at sketching animals?

Why aren’t you staring at the floor

while changing my life?

That’s when it hit me—

that film wasn’t a documentary.

It was a miracle.

I thought you were all Napoleon Dynamite,

And maybe I needed that.

A version of America that was awkward,

kind, ridiculous, and sincere.

Now I know better—

but I still keep that one in my pocket.

Just in case the world needs reminding

that confidence sometimes looks like dancing alone.

So cheers, Napoleon.

You didn’t just win Pedro the vote—

you accidentally raised

an entire British man’s expectations of America.