The so-called “special relationship” between Britain and the United States has never seemed more tenuous. At times, it looks like the US-UK alliance is a geopolitical version of a slowly disintegrating celebrity relationship where neither side wants to admit it’s actually over, so someone has to do a crazy thing like cheating in the most high-profile manner possible to wrap things up. Like Klay Thompson (allegedly) stepping out on Megan Thee Stallion, America has been making goo-goo eyes at Israel for the last year, and King Charles is starting to get jealous.

So the king popped into the White House for a tour of all the changes Donald and Melania have foisted upon the grounds. Have you seen the gaping hole where the East Wing used to be? And what a hole it is. To your left, you’ll see the beehive.

Yes, the White House now has a beehive shaped like a mini-White House. What’s better than a center for ants? How about a presidential palace for bees? Donald Trump’s penchant for building truly knows no bounds. In the US president’s remarks at the start of the official visit, he said of our familial relations with the UK: “Long before Americans had a nation or a constitution, we first had a culture, a character and a creed.” Yeah, maybe 300 years ago. What exactly do we have in common now besides the bones of a language (please don’t ask an American what a “loo” is)?

I have my own “special relationship” with the UK. I try to visit at least once a year, for work or pleasure. It’s a lovely country with a historic culture, stunning architecture, and a prodigious artistic heritage. It also has something called “Daddies Favorite Brown Sauce”, of which I have an unopened bottle in my pantry. Referred to lovingly as “Full of Flavour”, the concoction is certainly brown. Other than that, I can’t speak much to what it actually is. Even after reading the ingredients on the back, I’m flummoxed. There’s vinegar, molasses, sugar dates, and “spices”. If it’s not the spice melange from Dune, then tell me what’s in there. Mystery spice doesn’t make me want to squirt this on my potatoes very much. I can’t imagine America ever devising a food item defined primarily by its color. Would you dare pour something called “purple sauce” on your steak? Probably not.

Conversely, would the United Kingdom come up with something as diabolical as a Doritos Locos Taco? Would they fashion a sandwich out of two hunks of fried chicken for bread? Send an English person to an Applebee’s and they might think they’ve been hurled into a perverse Roman food orgy-slash-carnival side-show.

British culture can seem boorish – the tabloids, soccer fandom, Hollyoaks – but it pales in comparison to the American variety. Our politicians look more and more like reality show ghouls, and our reality show ghouls are becoming politicians. We’re hosting UFC fights at the White House. If Keir Starmer decided to have an MMA fight in front of No 10, he’d get shot out of a submarine’s torpedo tube.

That’s really where our two countries go their separate ways. In the UK, as far as I can tell, decorum still reigns supreme, even if that’s a bit of a put-on. Tact and politeness might not be universally applied by everyone in Britain, but the idea still carries some weight. It’s a part of the national character. The punk sneering of the Sex Pistols could only germinate in a society that frowns upon anything brash or untoward. It’s not surprising to me that the UK has been more aggressive about chastising its politicians over ties to Jeffrey Epstein than we have. Outrage still seems like a potent concept in the UK, at least from this side of the Atlantic. The American psyche, on the other hand, thrives on creating characters to venerate who get off on smashing things.

Britain’s rigid class structure, which can make its citizens feel trapped by the accident of birth, is made possible by the stolid, stoic attitude of its citizens. And part of why America can feel like a buffet of riches for the taking is down to our piratic nature. The UK’s head of state gets a little crown because of who his or her parents are. Our head of state is where he is because he coveted that role so much that he would move mountains to get it.

Maybe I sound like a “grass is always greener” buffoon for preferring the British version of life – the soggy drudgery of a life defined for you. How would I feel if I was freed from the unceasing ambition and lust for fame that is the American birthright? What if my parents hadn’t fed me Taco Bell for every meal? To be shuttled from one meaningless mile marker of life to another, eating Tesco pre-packaged sandwiches and drinking beer at noon, sounds better somehow. I fear this might be a personal flaw unique to me and only me. Every British person I know is A) thrilled to have moved to Los Angeles and B) routinely embarrassed by the state of their sclerotic political system. Don’t ask me why I don’t believe them. I just think maybe they’re missing something about their home country and how glorious it is to live in a place where sunshine is a novelty and you can watch all 13 seasons of For the Love of Dogs on ITV.

But as wide as the chasm of our two cultures can be, America can’t help but take a few cues from our lordly ancestor. While the United States shied away from putting the face of the head of state on official documents and currency, that practice has been de rigueur in the UK for quite awhile. The king’s crest is displayed on the cover of a British passport, placing the royal family and all it represents at the forefront of the country’s identity. And if King Charles wanted to pop down to Boots for a Ribena, he could pay for the drink with banknotes featuring his face slathered all over them. I’d be embarrassed at such a display of ego, and I’m not even British.

Now, America is slowly but surely following suit. Trump has already pushed for his face on coins. Next up is passports, as the state department announced commemorative, limited edition releases to celebrate the 250th anniversary of the country. Trump’s face ominously obscures the Declaration of Independence, as though one person matters more than the values of the document that serves as the basis of our entire society. As much as I love Britain, this might be a practice I’d prefer to not replicate.

• Dave Schilling is a Los Angeles-based writer and humorist