The Crown and the Crutch

So we've turfed out most of the hereditary peers from the House of Lords – rightly, you might think, given that turning up to make laws just because great-great-grandpapa once fell off a horse at Balaclava is hardly a solid qualification for modern governance. Tony Blair, in one of his rare moments of constitutional lucidity, clipped their wings in 1999, leaving just 92 of them clinging on like aristocratic barnacles. A start, perhaps.

But while we chortled about that and congratulated ourselves on dragging Parliament into the 20th century (just in time for the 21st), we quietly left the biggest hereditary post of all untouched – the monarch. There he (or she) sits, atop the whole contraption, wearing jewels looted from a collapsing empire, opening Parliament with a speech they didn’t write, about laws they won’t debate, passed by politicians they didn’t elect. And we call it tradition.

It’s as if we ripped the thatch off a Tudor cottage, installed double glazing, and left the guy in the stocks outside because he’s "part of the heritage experience." One rule for the Lords – evolve or be evicted – and another for the top job, which still depends on the staggeringly undemocratic principle of being the right sort of baby in the right sort of cot.

Now, to be fair, defenders of the monarchy argue that tradition provides continuity – a sense of security, even if only psychological. And in an age where prime ministers drop faster than pound coins down a drain, some see the monarch as the national paperweight – heavy, unmoving, and vaguely reassuring. They argue that in a system where real power lies with elected officials, the monarchy’s symbolism is harmless – even beneficial – as a non-partisan figurehead above the political fray.

Others point to the global appeal of the Royal Family – soft power, tourism, brand Britain and all that. They claim the monarchy more than pays for itself, although the maths behind that is often as cloudy as a November morning in Windsor. It’s hard to cost the intangible – though that rarely stops them trying.

But for all that, the contradiction still stands. We prune the lower branches of the aristocratic tree while bowing to the one fruit that fell straight from the top. We’ve got a sovereign who reigns by divine genetic accident, giving the nod each year to a legislative body that pretends to be meritocratic but still houses men called Viscount Snetterby of Woolsack.

And when you point this out, someone invariably huffs, "But the monarchy doesn’t do anything." Right. So we keep it because it’s useless? That’s like defending haemorrhoids on the grounds that they’re not fatal.

In truth, we’ve become experts in the British art of cognitive dissonance. We deride nepotism, scoff at birthright, mock the House of Lords for its ermine-clad absurdity – and then stand for hours in drizzle to wave a flag at a man whose only real achievement was being born slightly ahead of his sister.

Still, nice work if you can inherit it.