Most of the rest of the world doesn’t understand why we have a king. I’m not sure our population does either. It’s not as if I sit about all day in fancy robes with a crown on my head. Quite the opposite; many is the day I’ve wandered along the high street of some provincial town without as much as a glance from the other shoppers. Even at official functions, the dress code is a suit, a clean tie (colourful but not brash), well-shined shoes, and a clean white shirt.
We describe ourselves as a ‘democratic monarchy’ where all are equal. Except I’m not allowed to vote, which doesn’t worry me too much since I’m required to maintain a façade of political neutrality, whatever the idiocies perpetrated by the elected leaders. I’m on first-name terms with most of them, though there’s none I’d invite home for dinner. Of course, we do dine together quite frequently. Visiting notables expect to be greeted by the monarch, while the most favoured amongst them are awarded a state banquet. These are a mixed blessing. The company is usually nervous and dull, but the wine is a much better quality than I can afford on my measly state subvention.
Despite what a British Prime Minister once said, I have a job for life. The monarchy is central to the constitution, and my family is the only one which can fulfil the role. I’m a bit like the Pope in Rome, I suppose; once in post, only God can remove me. A revolution, perhaps, but this isn’t France and it isn’t the eighteenth century. It took our sleepy old peasants four hundred years to throw off the foreign yoke. They’ve only had forty of me, so I suppose I’m pretty safe.
A few years ago I would also have told you how dull and predictable is our system of government. There are two main parties in parliament. One stands one centimetre to the left, the other one centimetre to the right. I’ve never understood why some politicos choose one party over the other. Influence and opportunity, I suppose. Then there are the wild ones: the Socialists a metre to the left and the Ultras a metre to the right, plus a few ‘odds and sods’ as my chauffeur describes them.
That’s then. This latest election has blown the whole system apart. Suddenly, there are Greens, Whigs, Free Democrats and Nationalists cluttering up the parliamentary aisles. So far, it has taken eight weeks to magic together a coherent government based around the rump of the Rightists. Yesterday was spent in the parliament building as the twenty-five ministers were sworn in one by one, promising to be true to me and my successors and to uphold the country’s Constitution. All right for them, while I had to go through the same rigmarole twenty-five times. Nor am I convinced the coalition will last out the month, forcing me to reprise the ceremony with another set of politicians.
*
The new coalition has lasted longer than I had expected. Based around the centre-right, it has accreted to itself an assortment of Free Democrats and Nationalists. The latter have learned the lessons of history. Not for them being shunted into the background while their senior partner does precisely what it wishes. Rather, they have determined the government cannot stand without them, threatening their senior partners at every turn with outrageous demands. Desperate for power, the centre-right politicians accede time after time, moving themselves closer and closer to their minority partners.
Populism in any country has one overriding central trope which dominates both its propaganda and its appeal: the foreigner, the different. Ours is no exception. In our time we have tried to exclude any form of immigrant on the grounds of race, background, religion or colour of skin. On the other hand, we’ve also thrown the doors open to the oppressed and downtrodden when they have appealed to either our pockets or our conscience. When we have our local troubles, nearly always of our own making, it has been simple to blame it all on ‘Johnny foreigner.’
Now the economy is at a low ebb, public trust of government is in decline, and optimism is rarely to be found; the ‘dog whistle’ is to be heard once more. Apparently, the problems are caused by overpopulation, particularly by foreigners who leech off the indigenous people, have too many children and are chronically workshy. The government is determined to remedy the matter, pushing a new residence bill through parliament.
I struggle with the Bill. Partly because it is so complex, with a myriad of exclusions and exceptions, and partly because it is so obnoxious. Anyone not actually born on our soil is denied citizenship and access to any of the free services the state supplies in terms of education, health care and welfare payments, whatever their tax status. Any person in this category who commits a criminal offence with a maximum penalty of a year in prison or more is liable to deportation. My secretary is deputed to examine current legislation.
‘Under certain circumstances,’ she announces two hours later, ‘littering and fly tipping can be punished with a sentence of up to two years. Some motoring offences,’ (she looks at me meaningfully, since I still have nine months to run on my driving ban), ‘have a life sentence attached.’ As a trained courtier, she manages to keep a straight face. ‘But that’s for causing death by dangerous driving, not minor offences like speeding.’
Even then, under our peculiar laws, it looks like almost any infraction can land you inside for a year and deportation to an unspecified country for life. Such legislation does seem excessive. Perhaps there are exceptions further on in the Bill?
The next paragraph refers to the offspring of those parents who were born outside the country. Children born in the country to parents both born abroad are similarly treated as immigrants, irrespective of length of residency. With only one foreign-born parent, the child is still regarded as foreign, but may apply for exceptional leave to remain, while still not being entitled to free state services and support. An amendment, passed by parliament after the Bill’s initial reading, allows the Home Secretary to exempt ‘outstanding persons of ability’ from the citizenship provisions. I suspect much of their ability lies in their ability to donate substantial funds to chosen political parties. Or even to chosen politicians themselves.
There are demonstrations in the streets, riots in the regions where the descendants of our colonial past have made their homes. In response, houses and shops are fire bombed, and all police leave is cancelled. Social media platforms are as incendiary as the burnt-out convenience stores.
After fierce arguments in the committee stage, Parliament passes the Bill by a single vote. I listen to the closing debate on the radio on my return from opening a new detention centre in one of the country’s poorest areas.
‘This may be the last time I shall drive you anywhere,’ says the chauffeur as the debate draws to a close.
‘Why is that,’ I ask, surprised that the usually taciturn man in front of me, his neck covered with burn scars from his time in the fire service, should comment out of the blue. ‘You’re surely too young to retire, and even when I get my licence back, I shall still need you for formal occasions.’
‘It’s my wife, sir. Both her parents were immigrants during the war, so under the new legislation, she will have to leave the country.’
For the next ten miles, I say nothing. ‘Surely I can help,’ I volunteer at last. ‘The Home Secretary will have to listen to a request from the King, both for your wife and your children. She’s a doctor, I understand, a cancer specialist. Wasn’t she the one who diagnosed my uncle’s prostate cancer?’
‘Indeed, sir. I’m sorry the diagnosis came too late for him. Thank you for your care, but you must see that we cannot live our lives dependent on the relationship between yourself and whatever government is in power. And we’d never be able to afford to send the children to college, let alone pay our own medical bills. If I were the one with a dicky prostate, the treatment would take every penny we have. Besides, who wants to live in a country that maltreats its citizens based on where their parents were born? Next thing, there will be a state religion, with all the other churches, mosques, synagogues and chapels closed down.’
The car shifts violently across the motorway lane before righting itself and continuing on its stately progress. ‘Sorry about that, sir. A moment’s inattention. I shouldn’t engage in conversation and drive at the same time.’
As the sun sets, we arrive at the rear entrance to my official residence, a modern extension to the royal palace. I alight, bend over by the driver’s window, which the chauffeur politely winds down, allowing me to be heard clearly. ‘Any letter of resignation will be met with a formal rejection,’ I declare at my regal best, before turning on my heel and striding off towards the safety of the living space.
*
Every week, the Prime Minister and I have a semi-formal meeting where he briefs me on whatever progress his government has made in both foreign and domestic affairs. He is reassuring that our allies are still willing and ready to support us in all matters, that our ambassadors are secure in their adherence to national policy, and that our reputation in the world is higher than it has been in the last 50 years. The latter would not be difficult to achieve, but it is not my place to take a position on the matter.
Home affairs are another area entirely. There is the usual split between those who demand more spending on either welfare or their own pet projects and those who expect government expenditure to fall to almost nothing and all taxes to do likewise. This is the part of the interview I enjoy most, watching the incumbent minister twisting and turning as he tries to explain how he intends to reconcile two irreconcilable forces. The new transport bill will spend more money; the forthcoming trade negotiations will be a saving. He is unwilling or unable to explain whether the expansion of trade will equal, or even surmount, the costs of new transport infrastructure.
‘And what about the Citizenship Bill?’ I ask at last.
As politicians will, he prevaricates, avoiding any direct answer. ‘It will be delivered to your majesty in its final form within weeks,’ he says at last. ‘There are a few minor tweaks and alterations which are required.’
‘Not least of which is my own position,’ I interject amicably.
‘How so?’ Not an expression the Prime Minister learnt at Eton. I must really have taken him by surprise.
‘My dear Prime Minister, surely you have a good grasp of modern European history?’ A blank stare greets me. ‘There are not many crowned heads left in the modern world, and virtually all of us are in some way descended from the great English Queen Victoria, whose husband, Albert, was German. Now, a king cannot marry just anyone; his bride must be at least from the highest aristocracy, if not from an actual royal house. Therefore, my own wife is a princess in her own right in her home country. Until he was deposed, my grandfather was himself a king. Under your new Bill, as someone married to a foreigner and a descendant of foreigners on my mother’s side, I cannot be a citizen, nor can my children. Surely it would be an anomaly if the King were not a citizen of his own country? If I were to be disbarred from the crown, wouldn’t that contravene the Constitution?’
Much blustering from the Prime Minister and assurances that an exception can be written into the Bill, even at this late stage. ‘Failing which,’ he continues, ‘the Home Secretary will listen to my direction to excuse the royal household from its provisions.’
‘Which makes me beholden to the government of the day, not the neutral arbiter the Constitution requires me to be. I see no proper solution.’
The Prime Minister flannels along for nearly half an hour before taking his leave (backwards, as is required) with a savage frown on his face. Concerned, I spent the next hour searching through Google for historic letters of abdication.
For the next fortnight, the media are alive with rumours, as the coalition twists and turns trying to bring recalcitrant members under control. Demonstrations have become more organised, attacks upon them more vicious.
The final copy of the Bill arrives, borne by the Prime Minister himself and tied together with a red ribbon. Tradition is that I merely turn to the back page, sign the document and append the royal seal. Today, I start at the beginning and scan its contents, some five pages long, while the disconcerted politician stands in front of my desk like a miscreant schoolboy in the headmaster’s study.
I finish reading, place the document squarely in front of me, face up. ‘Mr. Prime Minister,’ I say, ‘we have talked before of the illustrious Queen Victoria.’
‘Yes, your majesty.’ I can see by the man’s face that he is holding in his anger, whilst determined to humour me while I put off the inevitable signature for as long as possible.
‘The good lady was presented a Bill for her approval, which made sexual contact between persons of the same sex illegal. However, she did not believe that women did such things and refused to sign the bill until it was rewritten to make it clear its provisions applied only to homosexual men.’ I stare into his uncomprehending face.
‘There is, therefore,’ I continue, a glorious precedent for a monarch refusing to sign a parliamentary Bill, a precedent upon which I intend to base my current action. As it stands, the current Bill is both immoral and unconstitutional as it renders the monarch at the beck and call of the legislature. You may take the document and withdraw.’
I’ve rarely seen such fury. If I had been a mere member of the general public, I’m sure he would have attacked me. Forgetting to make his exit backwards, he strides angrily from the room.
‘Get your retaliation in first,’ one of my favourite footballers has said to have counselled junior players. Immediately, I rang down to my secretary, instructing her to distribute my press release to every outlet at home and abroad. The Coalition’s response is not as swift or as effective, their journalists not managing to brand me ‘an enemy of the people’ until late the next day.
That was three weeks ago. The marches and demonstrations have died down as people have begun to feel safer in their businesses and occupations. Parliament has started debating a Bill to disestablish the monarchy. I may not have a job for life after all.
