I don’t know if ‘gaun yersel, yer excellency’ translates into Japanese but the salutation is on the lips of many a Glaswegian after Hiroshi Suzuki’s visit to the city. Japan’s ambassador to the Court of St James’s has been love-bombing the United Kingdom since his appointment in 2024, making his way around the country with his little Paddington Bear stuffed toy, visiting British landmarks, sampling regional delicacies and even treating us to some sing-songs.
Suzuki has captured hearts and headlines in one of the most effective public diplomacy campaigns we’ve seen in a long time
On paper, that is what ambassadors are supposed to do, but as Suzuki’s visit to Glasgow illustrates, this is an emissary who goes far beyond diplomatic formalities. He gives the distinct impression of actually liking British culture and enjoying his opportunity to celebrate it.
His sojourn in Dear Green Place has seen him admire Dali’s ‘Christ of St John of the Cross’ in Kelvingrove Art Gallery, visit the traffic-cone crowned Duke of Wellington statue in Royal Exchange Square, and feast on chicken tikka masala at Shish Mahal, reputed to be the birthplace of what is now staple British scran — while finding time, and room, to pose with an Irn-Bru and a marmalade sandwich. And, to crown it all off, he posted a video on X from a Glasgow pub in which he indulged in ‘a wee swally’ by getting stuck into a pint of Tennent’s lager.
Ever-present in these photo ops is Paddington. Suzuki has made done so many appearances with this bear that I worry I might develop a Mandela effect false memory in which the ursine adventurer is a Japanese cultural staple brought here by Tokyo’s man in London.
Suzuki, or his embassy staff, are uncommonly knowledgeable. On one of his stops in Glasgow, he was photographed holding up his own Paddington next to the Hyndland Bear, itself an iteration of the Michael Bond creation which has been displayed in the window of a tenement on Hyndland Road since 1981, with the bear’s outfits changing according to the season.
In Glasgow’s west end, the Hyndland Bear is a cherished institution, with passersby stopping to wave or take photos of the toy. However, outside of that corner of the city the Hyndland Bear is little-known: to be aware of its significance to west enders requires some serious research and a willingness to do photo-ops that a conventional media strategy would consider far too niche, but which local residents appreciate.
It’s not the ambassador’s first foray into Scottish culture, either. On Burns’ Night, Suzuki and his wife Eiko filmed themselves at home singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Maybe it’s the Scots sentimentalist in me but I shed a tear watching it.
Suzuki has captured hearts and headlines in one of the most effective public diplomacy campaigns we’ve seen in a long time. If Donald Trump has demonstrated how the British people can be made to sour on a close ally, Suzuki is a one-man masterclass in how to woo a nation’s elites and its populace with humour, charm and an apparently sincere affection for their country.
Notice, though, the deftness of his strategy. Dispatched by his government to an increasingly disunited UK, four nations with few unifying symbols, he adopts one of our most beloved literary characters, a cuddly cornerstone of childhoods from Portsmouth to Peterhead. With one canny choice he elides all sectional tensions and political sensitivities. It’s all part of a strategy, of course, but Suzuki leans into it with such enthusiasm that even the stoutest ramparts of cynicism cannot withstand his appeal. He is a national treasure on loan from another nation.
It’s no secret that these are gloomy days for Britain. We are a leaderless, directionless, economically sluggish country slowly fracturing under the weight of a failed multicultural ideology. Hiroshi Suzuki’s antics give us a moment to pause, reflect on what’s good all around us, whether that is our town, region or Britain as a whole. And this is where Suzuki’s real genius comes in.
Everyone sees in him what they want — and need — to see. For the British patriot, he is reminding us of the treasures of our history and culture. For Glaswegians, he’s brand new: pure gien it laldy and dead keen on our wee belter of a city. He’ll never again have to put his hand in his pocket to buy a pint. (That’s the highest civil honour Glaswegians can confer.)
Arigatou gozaimasu, Emperor Naruhito, for sending us this plenipotentiary to lift our spirits, stir our pride, and remind us of what we love about ourselves.
