British republicans are doomed to be irrelevant
Slightly cackhanded policing gave this joyless group a moment in the limelight it doesn’t deserve
The arrest of six anti-monarchy protesters at the Coronation seems like rather cackhanded policing from the Met. Having initially promised to allow a demonstration by the pressure group Republic, the force arrested Graham Smith, its chief executive, without any crime having been committed. Scotland Yard has since expressed “regret” for those arrests, although the Met’s Commissioner Sir Mark Rowley has defended the wider policing operation; Smith has called them “a direct attack on our democracy”.
Expect to hear more of this hyperbole. Incompetence rather than malice looks to be the driving force here, but it’s still a shame that British republicanism has been gifted a much-coveted spot in the limelight. All this attention affords them an outsized influence they don’t really deserve.
Far from being a mainstream movement, republicanism belongs to the great tradition of English eccentricity; people with an unpopular, niche pursuit, who are fanatically convinced that said pursuit is of much greater interest or importance than it is. Though scepticism of monarchy is fairly common, its placard-wielding cousin should be seen as a quaint pastime, closer to Morris dancing or Esperanto. For the serious hobbyist, the pursuit can be all-consuming – and there’s nothing wrong with that.
However, there is a difference. While watching a model railwayist’s eyes light up can warm even the most cynical heart, the same cannot be said of the cause of British republicanism. An overwhelming sense of joylessness emanates from its followers, who pride themselves on being “rational” and “evidence-based”. In practice; they are more likely to be found snarking on Twitter. When even The Guardian is admitting that you had to be “either an algorithm or half-dead” not to have felt something at the moment of anointing at the Coronation, it’s clear this is a strange and melancholy pursuit.
They specialise in meanness of spirit and purse – as when Humza Yousaf urged the Coronation’s costs “be kept to a minimum”. Following in the footsteps of ferry-gate and census-gate, the idea of the SNP being suddenly concerned about waste is exquisite enough, but last week’s display was an incalculable exercise in soft power. What the bean-counters miss most of all is that humans crave escapism and spectacle, especially when times are tough, just as US cinema-goers flocked to Busby Berkeley’s kaleidoscopic dancing extravaganzas during the Depression. You have to go into the DNA of English republicanism to understand why none of this catches on. Under the Protectorate, the Puritans suppressed traditional games, from cock-fighting to maypole dancing. After breaking up the blood sports, the animals involved were slaughtered – prompting Thomas Macaulay’s quip that the Puritans hated bear-baiting, “not because it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators”. Life was simply less colourful under the Commonwealth, and British republicanism has maintained that Puritan streak ever since. You strongly suspect the pageantry is what they object to, as much as the inbuilt inequalities. This makes them less attractive to ordinary people, most of whom don’t mind a bit of pomp from time to time.
The Puritans, for all their faults, had a rationale which, though flawed, could be expressed beautifully. They had Bunyan, Milton, Cromwell, the then-thrilling idea of a direct relationship to God, unimpeded by ecclesiastical authority. Modern-day republicanism has yet to find a compelling narrative of its own which might unify a nation, or replace the theatre of monarchy. Rather than taking inspiration from Britain’s rich republican past, they more often praise foreign unknowns such as Vigdís Finnbogadóttir, Iceland’s elected head of state between 1980-1996, about whom Republic tweets every few weeks. All this does little to capture the public imagination, let alone quell the impression that a republican UK would probably end in a President Blair.
Ironically, their insistence on pure rational theory is what really makes them laughable. In Gulliver’s Travels, our hero visits Laputa, a floating island inhabited by a race of pedantic scientists and philosophers. They are obsessed with mathematics; though due to their hatred of practical geometry, their houses are misshapen, built without right angles. They wear ill-fitting clothes because their tailors use quadrants and compasses to take measurements. Like the Laputians, in searching for an existence based on reason alone, republicans have made themselves ridiculous.
As so often happens, there is a tragic, self-loathing aspect to their comedy, too. It is always – uniquely – Britain which must abandon its traditions. Our republicans never seem to have a problem with, say, French grandeur (and heavy-handed policing), Sweden’s love of flag-waving or the Vatican’s high-stepping Swiss Guards. But it isn’t only their relationship with the nation that is tragicomic, it is their relationship with themselves. They like to imagine themselves punks, taking it to the man, but directing their distaste and anger largely at street-parties and extended pub opening hours makes them appear more like maiden aunts.
While the country opts for Falstaffian revelry, they stand on the sidelines, tut-tutting. After the magic of a national Twelfth Night, our best response is not to chuck them into prison like Malvolio, but to laugh.