“RURITANIAN” is one of those words I’ve been using for years without ever quite properly knowing what it means. Fake, unfoundedly pompous, something to do with the specious bestowal of military rank … close enough to the proper derivation from the fictional country of Anthony Hope’s The Prisoner of Zenda: quaint, minor, backward, embodying the pastiche of nationalist narratives.
Presently, Ruritania appears to be located in SW1. There the endless Union Jacks, there the lumbering herds of tourists charging towards the Mall for selfies with the, all garlands of bright artificial flowers and faux-Georgian concierges.
