In defence of monarchy

The revolution will not be televised – but the Queen’s Christmas Message will.

Tomorrow, as every December, I will fail to take part in a ritual that is dear, sacred even, to the hearts of many Britons. I will not join them when they make their annual act of implicit homage to a higher authority to whom, for most of the rest of the year, they pay little material allegiance.

The language involved in this ceremony is arcane, the accents and pronunciation frequently antique, and to those not brought up with due reverence, it seems bizarre, not to say totally irrational, that anyone should bow their heads in obeisance to this mystical, regal presence. Still millions will clear time from their day to be faithful to this time-honoured practice.

I, on the other hand, will not be watching the Queen's Christmas Message. Neither will I be buying any of the tastefully designed porcelain and china already being produced to mark next year's wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. To me, the most sensible attitude towards the monarchy was summed up succinctly by the late Leslie Nielsen in the first Naked Gun film. Nielsen's character, Lt Frank Drebin, is asked to explain at a press conference how the Los Angeles Police Department will deal with a forthcoming royal visit. "Protecting the Queen's safety is a task that is gladly accepted by Police Squad," he says. "For no matter how silly the idea of having a queen might be to us, as Americans we must be gracious and considerate hosts."

It is, indeed, a silly notion that an accident of birth should endow anyone with the hereditary right to be a head of state, and even sillier that the holder of that office should therefore be paid any particular respect, or even attention, because of his or her unearned position. Nevertheless, one of the batches of WikiLeaks had me entertaining what is, for a republican, a heretical thought: should we be glad to be reigned over by the House of Windsor?

The subject of the US embassy cable to which I refer was the Crown Prince of Thailand, the prospect of whose ascension to the throne caused several very senior figures to express concern. The members of the Thai Privy Council supposedly quoted did not, however, suggest that the Thai monarchy come to an end when King Bhumibol dies; rather, that it would be better "if other arrangements could be made". This was thought to mean that the Crown Prince's sister would make a better successor.

In a country that has alternated between fledgling democracy and military dictatorship, republicanism is a minority taste. The constitutional monarchy that replaced the absolute rule of the king in 1932 is widely regarded as having been pretty much the only stabilising factor ever since.

The fate of neighbouring Burma might well have been different in the decades since 1962, when the generals took over, had the British not exiled the last king, Thibaw, in 1885, and formally annexed the country to the Raj the following year. As Justin Wintle wrote in his biography of Aung San Suu Kyi:

The British may have done Burma a disservice by arbitrarily getting rid of its throne, however rotten it appeared both to the outside world and to many of its own subjects. With the throne went an entire societal matrix that at least held the Burmese people together. As in Thailand, in time this might have furnished a broader cohesion.

Instead, the only national institution left in Burma is the armed forces, the Tatmadaw, which are both the country's oppressor but also the vessel of its pride, having been founded by Burma's greatest hero (and Suu Kyi's father), the independence leader General Aung San.

This is not to say that there have not been many cases of kings or princes acting in bad, repulsive or even illegal ways. But as Bernard Lewis, the distinguished (and controversial) historian of the Middle East and Islam, told me when I interviewed him a few months ago: "Of the democracies that have been democracies for a long time and continue to be so, most are monarchies."

Such continuity is obviously a virtue. Yet couldn't we in Britain manage perfectly well to retain our democracy without the Windsors? Couldn't we have an elected head of state? While the late Roy Jenkins was still alive, we had the perfect candidate – witty, urbane, statesmanlike, with cross-party appeal, and a man who could be relied on to impart due gravitas to the ceremonial aspects of the job.

Who, though, would we end up with if we elected a president as figurehead today? It is hard to imagine a situation in which the winner was not either terribly divisive (Tony Blair – with New Labour hold-outs plus his natural constituency, the conservative vote, he'd walk it) or ludicrous (President Brucie? Don't count it out in this age when being a celebrity is all that counts).

Some readers will doubtless find even such a limited defence of monarchy unpalatable. I would argue, however, that it is in the true Fabian spirit, if not quite that of the NS's founders, Beatrice and Sidney Webb. For the Roman general after whom the movement was named, Fabius Cunctator – the Delayer – won his sobriquet for his habit of not striking until victory was assured. Ridding ourselves of the monarchy, only to find we ended up with something worse than the Windsors, who may be dull but have at least mostly been fairly worthy on the throne, would be just the kind of Pyrrhic victory the Cunctator would have avoided.

This kind of gradualism is, in fact, a very deeply ingrained British trait. And that is why tomorrow, and on Christmas days to come, the revolution will not be televised – but the Queen's Message will. I trust you will join me in not watching.

Sholto Byrnes is a Contributing Editor to the New Statesman
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Let's face it: supporting Spurs is basically a form of charity

Now, for my biggest donation yet . . .

I gazed in awe at the new stadium, the future home of Spurs, wondering where my treasures will go. It is going to be one of the architectural wonders of the modern world (football stadia division), yet at the same time it seems ancient, archaic, a Roman ruin, very much like an amphitheatre I once saw in Croatia. It’s at the stage in a new construction when you can see all the bones and none of the flesh, with huge tiers soaring up into the sky. You can’t tell if it’s going or coming, a past perfect ruin or a perfect future model.

It has been so annoying at White Hart Lane this past year or so, having to walk round walkways and under awnings and dodge fences and hoardings, losing all sense of direction. Millions of pounds were being poured into what appeared to be a hole in the ground. The new stadium will replace part of one end of the present one, which was built in 1898. It has been hard not to be unaware of what’s going on, continually asking ourselves, as we take our seats: did the earth move for you?

Now, at long last, you can see what will be there, when it emerges from the scaffolding in another year. Awesome, of course. And, har, har, it will hold more people than Arsenal’s new home by 1,000 (61,000, as opposed to the puny Emirates, with only 60,000). At each home game, I am thinking about the future, wondering how my treasures will fare: will they be happy there?

No, I don’t mean Harry Kane, Danny Rose and Kyle Walker – local as well as national treasures. Not many Prem teams these days can boast quite as many English persons in their ranks. I mean my treasures, stuff wot I have been collecting these past 50 years.

About ten years ago, I went to a shareholders’ meeting at White Hart Lane when the embryonic plans for the new stadium were being announced. I stood up when questions were called for and asked the chairman, Daniel Levy, about having a museum in the new stadium. I told him that Man United had made £1m the previous year from their museum. Surely Spurs should make room for one in the brave new mega-stadium – to show off our long and proud history, delight the fans and all those interested in football history and make a few bob.

He mumbled something – fluent enough, as he did go to Cambridge – but gave nothing away, like the PM caught at Prime Minister’s Questions with an unexpected question.

But now it is going to happen. The people who are designing the museum are coming from Manchester to look at my treasures. They asked for a list but I said, “No chance.” I must have 2,000 items of Spurs memorabilia. I could be dead by the time I finish listing them. They’ll have to see them, in the flesh, and then they’ll be free to take away whatever they might consider worth having in the new museum.

I’m awfully kind that way, partly because I have always looked on supporting Spurs as a form of charity. You don’t expect any reward. Nor could you expect a great deal of pleasure, these past few decades, and certainly not the other day at Liverpool when they were shite. But you do want to help them, poor things.

I have been downsizing since my wife died, and since we sold our Loweswater house, and I’m now clearing out some of my treasures. I’ve donated a very rare Wordsworth book to Dove Cottage, five letters from Beatrix Potter to the Armitt Library in Ambleside, and handwritten Beatles lyrics to the British Library. If Beckham and I don’t get a knighthood in the next honours list, I will be spitting.

My Spurs stuff includes programmes going back to 1910, plus recent stuff like the Opus book, that monster publication, about the size of a black cab. Limited editions cost £8,000 a copy in 2007. I got mine free, as I did the introduction and loaned them photographs. I will be glad to get rid of it. It’s blocking the light in my room.

Perhaps, depending on what they want, and they might take nothing, I will ask for a small pourboire in return. Two free tickets in the new stadium. For life. Or longer . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times