There is a specific kind of horror that America does well. It is loud. It is gore-splattered. It is the chainsaw and the hockey mask and the screaming in the wide-open desert. But there is another kind of horror. A quiet one. A horror that apologizes before it slits your throat. A horror that brews you a cup of Earl Grey after it has dismembered your husband.
You enter. The English Psycho is standing by the Aga. He turns to you. He is wearing a Fair Isle jumper. There is blood on his slippers, but he is pretending not to notice. the english psycho
The English Psycho has a National Trust card and a reservation at a village fête. He doesn’t want you to know he is there. He wants you to offer him a biscuit. To understand the English Psycho, you must first understand the English psyche. It is a landscape of immense pressure. For centuries, the national identity has been built on three pillars: Stiff Upper Lip, Queuing Etiquette, and Understatement. There is a specific kind of horror that America does well