The monarchy: should it stay or should it go?
An exchange of views
Last month, during the Jubilee celebrating 70 years of Queen Elizabeth II’s reign as Britain’s monarch, I wrote a piece for OnlySky decrying all things royal and calling for Britain to grow up and become a republic. My friend Jamie Weir, a staunch conservative and monarchist, was provoked to write a response, which he shared with me and which we had published in Areo Magazine.
We both agreed that it would be interesting to put them side by side, so below, with the permission of OnlySky and Areo, our pieces are reprinted in full.1 I think they show two very different visions of politics, which go to the heart of the disagreements between Jamie and me. (I’ve often thought that the fundamental political divide can be found in the difference between Edmund Burke and Thomas Paine, or, to use more contemporary figures, Peter Hitchens and Christopher Hitchens. Clearly, I’m a Paineite/C-Hitchensian, while Jamie is a Burkean/P-Hitchensian.)
Jamie’s original draft, which carried the subtitle ‘A riposte to republicanism’, was a more personalised response to me. In that draft he says:
Naturally, to the coldly objective observer—perhaps an alien hovering above the Mall in the hot June sun—the whole spectacle is simply silly. Yet I find myself, perhaps as an active participant in the jubilations, somewhat obliged to defend it. I read Daniel Sharp’s entertaining piece on the Jubilee and felt an opposing view had to be put. Daniel is an old friend of mine, and frequent intellectual sparring partner, who is, I’m afraid, still labouring under many a left-wing misapprehension. Republicanism is one of them.
Now, I don’t want to clamber up onto any high horses here, but I like to think that the fact that the friendship between Jamie and me is not poisoned by our very deep disagreements (and our exchanges of amicable jabs!) is a counterpoint to the vicious political hatreds that seem to be so prevalent today. Why should such differences ruin friendships? In fact, I’d say they enrich them.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading these pieces together. I have a lot of thoughts in response to Jamie’s riposte, of course, but the two essays stand together, I think, as complete in themselves, without any need for further commentary from me. I’m sure the argument will continue next time I have dinner with Jamie, anyway. But since it’s my Substack, I will abuse my power and say just one thing: Jamie is still wrong, obviously; bring on the British Republic!2
No jubilation for the Jubilee: Why the monarchy must end
By Daniel James Sharp
The Platinum Jubilee, which celebrates 70 years of Queen Elizabeth II’s reign, is everywhere in the UK.
The front pages of newspapers and magazines blare their worship of an old woman and her family. The television news is given over to segments on the Queen’s fashion style over the decades while the presenters worry that the special Jubilee bank holiday weekend (June 2-June 4) and all the attendant celebrations might be marred by rain—the horror! Even my email inbox is unsafe; a major British newspaper is trying to persuade me to subscribe by offering a cheap subscription deal, which includes a Jubilee tote bag for my troubles.
As a republican—not a Republican in the U.S. sense, but in the broader constitutional sense—I oppose hereditary monarchy; in particular, the one that rules over my own country of Britain. I believe that the monarchy must end.
I wish for the abolition of the Windsors and hope for Britain to grow out of the magical thinking and tawdry worship that characterize our strange relationship with that most dysfunctional of families.
I want Britain to have an elected head of state who is not the head of a church.
Last year's evolution of Barbados into a republic and the rancorous reception accorded the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge on their recent Caribbean tour have confirmed to me that Britain’s former colonies are much more grown-up than their erstwhile imperial master. Why can’t Britain follow the lead of Barbados and finally become a modern country?
It is ironic that the descendants of those the British enslaved and considered a lesser form of life have shown themselves more rational than their former rulers. What could be more superstitious than the British monarchy? We British ‘decide’ our head of state by family tree and inaugurate this person in their role with a lavish ceremony of magical words, chants, and oils. This person, we are supposed to believe, was chosen by God to lead the nation as well as the Church of England. Mystically, the monarchy connects us back to our ancestors and represents the ideal family—pious and faithful and dutiful.
Yes, the monarchy is indeed the epitome of magic and superstition, and cannot stand the light of rational analysis. Predicated on the basis that the bloodline of a particular family means they should have political, religious, and symbolic power, the monarchy is plainly undemocratic. It also reinforces hierarchical, class-based thinking. It is inextricably tied to the establishment of the Church of England as the state religion, which allows bishops to sit in the (already unelected) House of Lords. It is avowedly sectarian—the monarch must be a Protestant and is the “Defender of the Faith” (even if Prince Charles gets his way and he becomes an ecumenical “Defender of Faith”, how can it be right that the state upholds and encourages religion in a country which is now largely non-religious?).
The view that the monarchy represents an unbroken thread to the distant past ignores all the wars and coups and other contingencies that have decided who sits on the throne at any given time. As for being the ideal family, one need only look to the sordid history of dysfunction and scandal, from the Queen being put in an awkward position when her sister wanted to marry a divorced man, the rumored infidelity of the younger Prince Philip, and, of course, the great Diana drama, all the way to the Sussex saga of more recent years, to show this up as the delusion that it is.
Ironically, they may fail to adhere to the bourgeois ideal of the family, but in their dysfunction, the Windsors are at least representative. What family hasn’t had to contend with philanderers, bigots, drug-takers, problem teenagers, sex pests, and the like? This is why Walter Bagehot wrote in the 19th century that “[w]e must not let in daylight upon magic.” Daylight always shows us the old fraud behind the mighty Oz.
The worst of it is that Britain seems to love the monarchy. Well, a significant portion of it does, though how much jubilation for the Jubilee there really is for anything other than the temporary extension of pub opening hours (the only good thing about the whole absurd spectacle, in my view) is likely to be concealed beneath the emetic conformity of the media.
This is why I said that Britain needs to grow up. Our constitution is a mess, and to a large extent this reflects the mysticism at the heart of the monarchy. The royal prerogative might not be used by the monarch herself, but it is this that gives government ministers sweeping and unaccountable powers.
“No real power”? Well, an investigation by The Guardian revealed that the Queen has frequently used an obscure procedure, the Queen's consent, to influence government decision-making to her own benefit—as, for example, when she successfully lobbied the government to alter a draft law to keep the true extent of her private wealth hidden. We know that the heir to the throne, Prince Charles, also has a habit of trying to influence government decisions on subjects as varied as the Iraq war and badger culling. (Incidentally, I wonder if the future king’s infatuation with homeopathy, habit of nattering with plants, and Islamophilia might convince people to abandon the monarchy when the Queen is gone?) And besides what we know, when so much is hidden from public view, how can we know for certain how often and how deeply the monarchy interferes with democratic governance?
But in any case, how can an institution be credited for providing stability and grounding British national identity, to name but two achievements its defenders always throw out, and still be said to have “no real power”? It is a very odd definition of “power” that leaves out such symbolic weight. And how can it be impartial and above politics when all the values it is said to uphold are classic conservative ones (family, faith, nation)?
It is also often said that we must respect Elizabeth II for her years of unstinting service and duty. I don’t depart too much from this view. But to say she has never been a figure of disgrace is false. Perhaps it stems from wishful thinking. In addition to the controversies mentioned above, she was caught up in the Paradise Papers scandal and, in my view, has protected her alleged sex abuser son, Prince Andrew, from the serious investigation that he deserves. Allow me to elaborate on that latter accusation. We know from the past that the Queen exercises tight control over the family. Given this, she could at any time have made Andrew face justice, whatever the consequences, and chose not to.
Ultimately, I believe that Britain needs to become a secular, democratic republic. The first and perhaps greatest task in achieving this is convincing Britain to liberate itself from what that great Anglo-American Thomas Paine, who represents to me a nobler patriotic tradition, called "the slavish and superstitious absurdity of monarchy."
The monarchy entrenches privilege, unaccountability, and state religion. Most of all, it infantilizes the British people. We will see crowds waving tacky flags and declaiming their love for the decidedly mediocre Windsors over the Jubilee weekend, debasing themselves with cultish worship and magical thinking.
So, until the British people grow up, we will never have a political settlement worthy of the best of ourselves. Let us follow Barbados and bring on the British Republic, I say—but first, let us have some British maturity.
Reasons to Be Jubilant
By Jamie Weir
On 2 June, I travelled down to London to attend one of those unusual events that somehow manage to be at once an embodiment of the stereotypical idea of what Britain is, and an absurdity: Trooping the Colour. The ceremony, consisting of a military parade and inspection by the monarch, is several hundred years old, stretching back to the restoration of Charles II in 1660, after the collapse of Britain’s only experiment with republicanism. It was a bright sunny day over Horse Guards, an elegant whitewashed eighteenth-century building and former military headquarters, that straddles Whitehall—the seat of British government—on one side, and Buckingham Palace on the other. On the parade ground, to the tune of toe-tapping military music, the stirring beat of drums and the roar of bagpipes, battalions of the Guard regiments—ceremonial protectors of the person of the monarch—expertly marched, rode and manoeuvred. This was the culmination of months of practice and rehearsal. All around, spectators were in their finery, since a strict dress code was enforced—many men appeared in top hat and tails.
Sadly, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II could not be there. There are some things neither wealth nor position can alter. The years are taking their toll. She was replaced on the parade ground by her children and grandchildren, who, resplendent in uniform, inspected the troops on her behalf, while she waited on the balcony of the palace, and watched as the battalions made their steady way back to barracks, trundling up the Mall, to cheering crowds. Trooping the Colour is carried out yearly in June to mark the Queen’s official birthday and coronation—a typically British quirk, it is a summer celebration granted to monarchs unfortunate enough to be born in the colder months. (Her Majesty’s actual birthday is in April.) At the close of the parade, the Royal Family appeared together on the palace balcony, to deafening cheers, as the Royal Air Force streaked red, white and blue in the sky above.
To the coldly objective observer, the whole spectacle might seem silly. Yet I find myself inclined to defend it.
Monarchy is the default state of human societies. We all live in monarchies, of different sorts. The United States and France—an evolutionary and a revolutionary republic—elect their monarchs, just as the Polish nobles of old assembled to elect their king. In both countries, the monarch (whom they refer to as their president) awkwardly straddles the roles of head of state—symbolic embodiment of the nation, caretaker of the highest office in the land—and wielder of ultimate political power. In Britain, we have gradually severed this uneasy link. From the medieval absolute sovereign, who ruled through their court, power has slowly slipped away from the personal grasp of the English, then British, monarch. Today, while on paper the Crown (subtly different from the Queen) is the ultimate power in the land, decisions are made by the elected parliament, in the Queen’s name and by her chief minister, the prime minister—curiously enough, a position that has no legal basis. The prime minister governs the nation by managing the parliament, but technically, and symbolically, has no power whatsoever.
To an American, with an explicit constitution that forms a manual for government, this doubtless seems bizarre. And it is. But a display of military pomp such as Trooping the Colour drives home the utility of such a separation. The Crown, in a constitutional monarchy, has atrophied, it has become impotent, but, simultaneously, has also developed into an all-powerful icon of the nation: something of immense emotional, symbolic and perhaps even spiritual value. It is an emblem that stretches back through time, anchoring us to our ancestors. The British Crown dates from the unification of England into a single kingdom, over ten centuries ago—in a world we can scarcely imagine. On those occasions when a nation must come together, when the country undergoes some deep upheaval, it is the monarch who receives the adulation of the people and the loyalty of the armed forces, who offers strength, fortitude and succour—the monarch must embody the nation—while calculating politicians linger in the background, hoping to take on a glimmer of reflected grandeur. Monarchy is a magical thing, which the rationalist dismisses at her peril. We are rational animals, but we are moved more deeply by our hearts than by our logic.
A monarchy is at its best when it keeps those who seek power away from it. The hereditary principle is decidedly not a rational basis for choosing a head of state. It is a customary method, rooted, like the monarchy itself, in the hazy mists of time. Our system was never designed; it has slowly evolved over time. And it seems to work rather well. Constitutional monarchies are among the most peaceful, prosperous and successful countries in the world.
The monarchy is not democratic—and perhaps that explains something of its appealing mysticism. However, it is, in practice, an aid to the proper functioning of a democracy. Given the political powerlessness of the head of state, the fetishism for electing the holder of that office is odd. Democratic elections have no guarantee of producing dignified and stately outcomes. Indeed, there is something incorruptible about the hereditary office—the randomness of the method of choice gives the holder some measure of independence. They are not beholden to voters or millionaires, and don’t have to court popularity. We could, however, select our sovereign differently: perhaps by drawing lots from among the yearly set of retiring civil servants, or from a shortlist of small-town mayors reaching the twilight of their tenure. But even if we crowned a white-haired provost from an obscure village in Westminster Abbey, to the sounds of choirs and trumpets, it would not alter the fundamental nature of the monarchy one bit. The point is to have someone of dignity, reluctantly compelled by duty to assume the ancient mantle.
Many republicans spend much of their time berating the Royal Family for the personal conduct of its members: an attitude indebted to the quaint Victorian notion that they ought to be a model family. But this is a misapprehension—the royals are not a model for but a model of the nation. The merits and flaws of our times are imprinted upon them. Her Majesty is not a tsar or pope, she is not a god. She is a human being, with human frailties and weaknesses, who finds herself thrust into a position of great responsibility, and who has responded by fulfilling her duty.
In Britain we have a tradition. Each week the prime minister, the most powerful person in the land, visits Buckingham Palace. There he attends his regular audience with the Queen. He meets with her in complete privacy—no aids or advisors are present, and no record is kept. There, he bows. And he explains himself. Custom dictates that the prime minister give an account to the monarch of what his ministry have been doing in the previous week, what problems they face, and what plans they have for the future. The symbolism of this is important: the single most powerful individual in the land is humbled and made accountable before the personification of the country and its ten-century-old heritage.
Of course, this is old fashioned. No one concocting a system of government from scratch today would invent a monarchy. But we should not mistake novelty for progress. For all the antiquated awkwardness of its system, Britain’s people have lived in relative liberty for centuries, while the torture chambers of many a republic have echoed with screams. That same system of monarchy has spawned some of the freest countries in the world, including the United States. As the battalions marched across the Horse Guards parade ground, seventy years after the Queen’s coronation, while the Prince of Wales, solemn and dignified, saluting the Colours as they moved by, it seemed to me far better to have him seated there, astride his horse, than some unscrupulous, uniformed politician, adorned in medals and ribbons, soaking up the splendour and pageantry—that heady brew of political power and the aura of majesty is a dangerous mix.
A few years ago, when Harry and Meghan were still in the fold, I wrote an anti-monarchy piece for The Broad, which another friend, Michael Zwiauer, responded to. In that case, I felt a counter-response was required. In another arguable abuse of power, I present those articles, too. See them here, here, and here, respectively.
If you were Americans and one of you liked and supported a treasonous toad and the other hated him intensely, would this poison your friendship?