How can I cut Mrs Windsor out of my life?

John-Paul Flintoff wants to give up royalty. But the Queen is everywhere, even if you are lost at se

If you're vegetarian, it's so simple. You just cut meat out of your diet. The issue is entirely in your own hands. Everybody else may eat meat if they wish, but as long as you avoid it yourself, you're a vegetarian. It's not so easy, however, to be a do-it-yourself republican.

For passionate opponents of constitutional monarchy, there are few options. Civil unrest and bloody revolution aren't acceptably democratic because, astonishing though it may seem, large numbers of people actually support the status quo. DIY republicanism appears to be the only choice. With a few practical tips, you could try it yourself.

The question facing tyro republicans is this: how do I cut the Queen from my diet? Or rather, how do I put an end to the thousand small daily gestures and habits that compromise my views?

Some things spring immediately to mind. First of these is the national anthem. True republicans will refuse to rise for Mrs Windsor, and certainly won't sing lyrics that hint at base subjugation. But even this protest demands a strong character, as it is certain to cause friction among the people standing and half-heartedly mumbling around you. Your protest will make them feel silly, and they won't like you for it.

Then there is the question of membership. Joining practically any British club or institution may be more than a true republican can manage. The vow of allegiance makes membership of parliament practically impossible. Crossing your fingers as you pronounce the vow is one thing - but how long will that get you through? What happens if you become prime minister?

The Church of England, too, is out of bounds, since everybody knows the identity of the supreme governor. And the armed forces all seem to feature royals among the colonels-in-chief and big-hatted admirals. Young republicans, similarly, will sniff at the prospect of joining the Scouts or Guides, as this also involves an oath of allegiance.

So much for the big decisions. We come now to more difficult problems - the daily transactions which cause agony to opponents of the hereditary principle. First among these is the routine in which complete strangers exchange tokens bearing the head of the monarch. I'm talking about cash.

Fortunately, technology provides a solution. With the advent of plastic debit and credit cards it has become possible for many people to do without cash altogether. If you should happen to be caught out occasionally, you can always revive the ancient system of barter. And looking ahead, EMU offers the prospect of an altogether new currency in which the paper money will be devoid of royalist idolatry.

A similar problem is posed by postage stamps. Some years ago, as postmaster general, Tony Benn attempted to introduce occasional stamps without the Queen's head on them, but without success. To this day, even special editions must all portray the monarch in silhouette. But clever republicans have stamps licked, as it were. They send messages by e-mail or fax - or, failing that, by hand or pigeon.

It is not just currency and postage that bear these built-in endorsements of the monarchy, however. Next time you go shopping, just take a look at the royal warrants on a box of Jacob's crackers or a bottle of Rose's lime cordial. To republicans, products such as these must remain out of bounds. The boycott starts here. For the same reason, you may decide no longer to shop at Harrods, or specialist retailers such as Rigby & Peller, which supplies corsetry by appointment to Her Maj. You think I'm going too far, perhaps. But would Scargill supporters buy biscuits bearing the warrant of Margaret Thatcher? Would left-wing Chileans patronise the shop that provided pants to Pinochet? I think not.

The biggest problem, though, is linguistic. For hard-line republicans, it can be difficult even to speak of certain British institutions - let alone visit or join them - because their names include the word "royal". I'm thinking of professional associations such as the Royal Institution of Chartered Surveyors. Charities ranging from the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds to the Royal Association In Aid of Deaf People; hospitals from the Royal Marsden to the Royal Free. Royal academies for arts, dancing, dramatic arts and music. There's even a royal borough, Kensington and Chelsea.

But what's in a name? You might think republicans could be less pernickety. They could overcome this minuscule problem by dropping the word royal. But that's not always possible and can lead to terrible confusion. I'm no race-goer, but I do know that Royal Ascot is not the same as Ascot. And the Bank of Scotland, crucially, is not the Royal Bank of Scotland.

Anyway, republicans aren't the only ones who set great store by names. Only last month a bunch of writers and actors created a stink when somebody suggested adding the name Jerwood to the Royal Court Theatre, by way of thanks to the donors of a large cash sum. Oh no, said these dissidents, you can't stick the name of some grubby commercial outfit on our beloved theatre.

Perhaps now you can understand how upset republicans felt when the National Theatre became the Royal National Theatre. Some haven't been back since. For republicans, there's no escape. You can't even go abroad, not unless you're willing to get a passport, an emphatic reminder if ever there was one that you are merely a subject of Her Britannic Majesty. It's either that or an illegal sea-crossing. But just think: if your boat capsized, would you be willing to be rescued by the Royal National Lifeboat Institution? Like I said, it's easier to give up meat.

This article first appeared in the 18 December 1998 issue of the New Statesman, A time for unadulterated tradition

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The French millennials marching behind Marine Le Pen

A Front National rally attracts former socialists with manicured beards, and a lesbian couple. 

“In 85 days, Marine will be President of the French Republic!” The 150-strong crowd cheered at the sound of the words. On stage, the speaker, the vice-president of the far-right Front National (FN), Florian Philippot, continued: “We will be told that it’s the apocalypse, by the same banks, media, politicians, who were telling the British that Brexit would be an immediate catastrophe.

"Well, they voted, and it’s not! The British are much better off than we are!” The applause grew louder and louder. 

I was in the medieval city of Metz, in a municipal hall near the banks of the Moselle River, a tributary of the Rhine from which the region takes its name. The German border lies 49km east; Luxembourg City is less than an hour’s drive away. This is the "Country of the Three Borders", equidistant from Strasbourg and Frankfurt, and French, German and French again after various wars. Yet for all that local history is deeply rooted in the wider European history, votes for the Front National rank among the highest nationally, and continue to rise at every poll. 

In rural Moselle, “Marine”, as the Front National leader Marine Le Pen is known, has an envoy. In 2014, the well-spoken, elite-educated Philippot, 35, ran for mayor in Forbach, a former miner’s town near the border. He lost to the Socialist candidate but has visited regularly since. Enough for the locals to call him “Florian".

I grew up in a small town, Saint-Avold, halfway between Metz and Forbach. When my grandfather was working in the then-prosperous coal mines, the Moselle region attracted many foreign workers. Many of my fellow schoolmates bore Italian and Polish surnames. But the last mine closed in 2004, and now, some of the immigrants’ grandchildren are voting for the National Front.

Returning, I can't help but wonder: How did my generation, born with the Maastricht treaty, end up turning to the Eurosceptic, hard right FN?

“We’ve seen what the other political parties do – it’s always the same. We must try something else," said Candice Bertrand, 23, She might not be part of the group asking Philippot for selfies, but she had voted FN at every election, and her family agreed. “My mum was a Communist, then voted for [Nicolas] Sarkozy, and now she votes FN. She’s come a long way.”  The way, it seemed, was political distrust.

Minutes earlier, Philippot had pleaded with the audience to talk to their relatives and neighbours. Bertrand had brought her girlfriend, Lola, whom she was trying to convince to vote FN.  Lola wouldn’t give her surname – her strongly left-wing family would “certainly not” like to know she was there. She herself had never voted.

This infuriated Bertrand. “Women have fought for the right to vote!” she declared. Daily chats with Bertrand and her family had warmed up Lola to voting Le Pen in the first round, although not yet in the second. “I’m scared of a major change,” she confided, looking lost. “It’s a bit too extreme.” Both were too young to remember 2002, when a presidential victory for the then-Front National leader Jean-Marie Le Pen, was only a few percentage points away.

Since then, under the leadership of his daughter, Marine, the FN has broken every record. But in this region, the FN’s success isn’t new. In 2002, when liberal France was shocked to see Le Pen reach the second round of the presidential election, the FN was already sailing in Moselle. Le Pen grabbed 23.7 per cent of the Moselle vote in the first round and 21.9 per cent in the second, compared to 16.9 per cent and 17.8 per cent nationally. 

The far-right vote in Moselle remained higher than the national average before skyrocketing in 2012. By then, the younger, softer-looking Marine had taken over the party. In that year, the FN won an astonishing 24.7 per cent of the Moselle vote, and 17.8 per cent nationwide.

For some people of my generation, the FN has already provided opportunities. With his manicured beard and chic suit, Emilien Noé still looks like the Young Socialist he was between 16 and 18 years old. But looks can be deceiving. “I have been disgusted by the internal politics at the Socialist Party, the lack of respect for the low-ranked campaigners," he told me. So instead, he stood as the FN’s youngest national candidate to become mayor in his village, Gosselming, in 2014. “I entered directly into action," he said. (He lost). Now, at just 21, Noé is the FN’s youth coordinator for Eastern France.

Metz, Creative Commons licence credit Morgaine

Next to him stood Kevin Pfeiffer, 27. He told me he used to believe in the Socialist ideal, too - in 2007, as a 17-year-old, he backed Ségolène Royal against Sarkozy. But he is now a FN local councillor and acts as the party's general co-ordinator in the region. Both Noé and Pfeiffer radiated a quiet self-confidence, the sort that such swift rises induces. They shared a deep respect for the young-achiever-in-chief: Philippot. “We’re young and we know we can have perspectives in this party without being a graduate of l’ENA,” said another activist, Olivier Musci, 24. (The elite school Ecole Nationale d’Administration, or ENA, is considered something of a mandatory finishing school for politicians. It counts Francois Hollande and Jacques Chirac among its alumni. Ironically, Philippot is one, too.)

“Florian” likes to say that the FN scores the highest among the young. “Today’s youth have not grown up in a left-right divide”, he told me when I asked why. “The big topics, for them, were Maastricht, 9/11, the Chinese competition, and now Brexit. They have grown up in a political world structured around two poles: globalism versus patriotism.” Notably, half his speech was dedicated to ridiculing the FN's most probably rival, the maverick centrist Emmanuel Macron. “It is a time of the nations. Macron is the opposite of that," Philippot declared. 

At the rally, the blue, red and white flame, the FN’s historic logo, was nowhere to be seen. Even the words “Front National” had deserted the posters, which were instead plastered with “in the name of the people” slogans beneath Marine’s name and large smile. But everyone wears a blue rose at the buttonhole. “It’s the synthesis between the left’s rose and the right’s blue colour”, Pfeiffer said. “The symbol of the impossible becoming possible.” So, neither left nor right? I ask, echoing Macron’s campaign appeal. “Or both left and right”, Pfeiffer answered with a grin.

This nationwide rebranding follows years of efforts to polish the party’s jackass image, forged by decades of xenophobic, racist and anti-Semitic declarations by Le Pen Sr. His daughter evicted him from the party in 2015.

Still, Le Pen’s main pledges revolve around the same issue her father obsessed over - immigration. The resources spent on "dealing with migrants" will, Le Pen promises, be redirected to address the concerns of "the French people". Unemployment, which has been hovering at 10 per cent for years, is very much one of them. Moselle's damaged job market is a booster for the FN - between 10 and 12 per cent of young people are unemployed.

Yet the two phenomena cannot always rationally be linked. The female FN supporters I met candidly admitted they drove from France to Luxembourg every day for work and, like many locals, often went shopping in Germany. Yet they hoped to see the candidate of “Frexit” enter the Elysee palace in May. “We've never had problems to work in Luxembourg. Why would that change?” asked Bertrand. (Le Pen's “144 campaign pledges” promise frontier workers “special measures” to cross the border once out of the Schengen area, which sounds very much like the concept of the Schengen area itself.)

Grégoire Laloux, 21, studied history at the University of Metz. He didn't believe in the European Union. “Countries have their own interests. There are people, but no European people,” he said. “Marine is different because she defends patriotism, sovereignty, French greatness and French history.” He compared Le Pen to Richelieu, the cardinal who made Louis XIV's absolute monarchy possible:  “She, too, wants to build a modern state.”

French populists are quick to link the country's current problems to immigration, and these FN supporters were no exception. “With 7m poor and unemployed, we can't accept all the world's misery,” Olivier Musci, 24, a grandchild of Polish and Italian immigrants, told me. “Those we welcome must serve the country and be proud to be here.”

Lola echoed this call for more assimilation. “At our shopping centre, everyone speaks Arabic now," she said. "People have spat on us, thrown pebbles at us because we're lesbians. But I'm in my country and I have the right to do what I want.” When I asked if the people who attacked them were migrants, she was not so sure. “Let's say, they weren't white.”

Trump promised to “Make America Great Again”. To where would Le Pen's France return? Would it be sovereign again? White again? French again? Ruled by absolutism again? She has blurred enough lines to seduce voters her father never could – the young, the gay, the left-wingers. At the end of his speech, under the rebranded banners, Philippot invited the audience to sing La Marseillaise with him. And in one voice they did: “To arms citizens! Form your battalions! March, march, let impure blood, water our furrows...” The song is the same as the one I knew growing up. But it seemed to me, this time, a more sinister tune.