The Grand Old Duke of York

They say the House of York has always been cursed – and looking back through history, you’d be hard pressed to argue otherwise. It’s as if the title itself were fashioned from bad luck and tarnished silver, passed down from one unfortunate duke to the next like a relay baton of doom.

It began, of course, with ambition and blood. The first Yorkists thought they were destined for greatness, and for a brief, shining moment, they were. Edward IV seized the throne, Richard III followed, and then – splat – the princes in the Tower vanished, Richard ended up face down in a car park, and the Tudor age began. If curses exist, that’s usually the bit where they get written.

Ever since, every Duke of York has seemed to walk under a cloud. The title keeps returning to the Crown, as if the monarchy itself can’t bear to leave it lying around unsupervised. A duke inherits it, something dreadful happens, and back it goes to the royal cupboard marked “do not open – haunted.”

One marched his men up a hill and down again – the “Grand Old Duke of York” of nursery fame – and achieved nothing more than becoming a punchline for toddlers. Another went to sea and managed to lose an entire fleet. Others died childless, disgraced, or simply irrelevant. It’s as if fate itself insists that no Duke of York may die content or leave the world with a shred of dignity intact.

And now, in our own time, the latest bearer of the name has bowed to inevitability. He’s given up the title – or at least agreed not to use it – which is the royal equivalent of the ghost tapping you on the shoulder and whispering, “Your turn’s over.” For years, the Curse had been biding its time, watching him bluster through scandal, denial, and disastrous interviews. Then, with grim precision, it collected its due – not with swords or poison, but with mortification.

Not that the current holder could pass it on anyway. The hereditary line was already a cul-de-sac – no male heirs, no succession, just an echo rattling around the family vaults. The Duke of York giving up his title is like resigning from a job no one was ever going to offer you again. The Curse didn’t need to strike him down this time; it simply waited for biology to finish the job.

It’s fitting, really. In an age when nobility has been replaced by PR damage control, the Curse of York no longer needs plague or battlefields. It simply destroys reputations. Once it felled kings; now it dismantles interview footage frame by frame.

So here the line ends, at least for now – another Duke of York stripped of his pride, another generation warned that the title offers only embarrassment and eventual retreat. Perhaps the Curse will rest for a while, though history suggests otherwise.

Because somewhere in the vaults of Buckingham Palace, that dusty scroll marked “Duke of York” still waits patiently for its next victim – humming quietly, as if amused by its own persistence.