Our monarchy is an empty embarrassment Why are MPs pledging allegiance to a royal taxidermy?

I am not anti-monarchy in principle. But I am anti-pretence. A monarch with real power, and commanding real loyalty, is not an automatic embarrassment. But the continued ceremonial propping up of the King as a sort of royal taxidermy of what sovereignty once was is hardly a respectable exercise.

The problem is that the farce is two-tiered. The celebrated paradox of our sovereign parliament affirming its allegiance to the sovereign might be understandable — even enjoyable — if it was approached with a due irony. But our elected officials are supposed to act as if their solemn oath bears genuine resemblance to their political ambitions, complete with a reaffirmation under duress of His Majesty’s, well, majesty.

Who believes this? I doubt the King himself could have such a confused ego. One can only wonder how he felt this week during the state opening of parliament, carrying the 12-foot train attached to his gown through his special entrance into parliament and towards his special golden throne. Perhaps he secretly recognises the clunky absurdity of it all, but then “sacred tradition” has such a chokehold on our government that nobody has likely summoned the confidence to inform him that the emperor is wearing silly clothes.

The loyalty is, I am told, less to the King, and more to the venerable English tradition which expressing loyalty to the King represents. This is no defence. It is in fewer words what I am trying to say. Even those who defend this ludicrous extravagance do so not with allegiance to the truth of the oath, but to its utility. They do not actually believe any of it is real, but think that by forcing our politicians to partake in a humiliating ritual of undisguised make-believe we somehow protect something “ineffable” whose upkeep requires it.

Some dissidents, I should recognise, had the respectable gall to protest: SDLP leader Colum Eastwood, called upon to be sworn in, sandwiched the affirmation between “I’ll read out this empty formula in order to represent my constituents, but it’s under protest,” and, “My true allegiance is to the people of Derry and the people of Ireland”. “Thank you very much,” said His Majesty’s clerk.

Clive Lewis, Labour MP for Norwich South, committed to full-scale treason in saying: “I take this oath under protest, and in the hope that one day my fellow citizens will democratically decide to live in a republic. Until that time, I do solemnly, sincerely, and truly declare and affirm that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King Charles, according to law.”

In sincerely declaring loyalty to the King he wishes to see dethroned, Lewis demonstrates before our very eyes the “emptiness” of the formula described by Eastwood. It is, frankly, a joke. If it were taken seriously at all, even by those who administer the requirement, this oath would have been immediately ruled invalid, and Lewis made to renounce his republican ideals or refused his seat in parliament. This would, of course, be an unthinkable political scandal, but such is the unthinking superficiality of the entire pantomime.

Imagine a groom vowing to take a bride as his lawfully-wedded wife, till death do them part, before saying, “Of course, one day I plan to get divorced.” What could we even make of such a contradictory affirmation? It would make a mockery of the entire ceremony, or at least invalidate the oath. On the small matter of electing our parliamentary representatives, however, anything goes, it seems, as long as one goes through the motions.

Not all traditions are worth maintaining. Until 1998, a member wishing to raise a point of order in the lower chamber was required to wear a hat in order to do so: two opera hats were kept on standby for this reason, until a select committee advised abolishing the regulation, saying: “This particular practice has almost certainly brought the House into greater ridicule than almost any other, particularly since the advent of television.”

Well, the advent of television has also thrust the divine mystery of anointed royalty onto our screens. We can now all see from our living rooms what has for centuries been going on inside the perpendicular Gothic palace, and many of us find it impossible to take seriously.

I may be called an iconoclast. Perhaps an arrogant one, too. But I am not the iconoclast. As C.S. Lewis wrote, it is reality which is the greatest of iconoclasts, constantly rubbing up against and thereby shattering our ideals. The monarch is supposed to serve as an apolitical figurehead, transcending vicious politics and providing a unifying ideal for all Britons to identify with. Yet viewership of these pompous ordeals, not to mention our being privy to the family politics of “Megxit” and the pastimes of a certain Duke of York, among other scandals, now makes it difficult to situate this institution above even the vicious, let alone the controversial.

The King’s Speech, wrote the BBC on Wednesday, “is written by the Government, and the monarch delivers it in a neutral tone, to avoid any appearance of political support”. This, I suppose, in contrast to his usual enthusiasm and fiery rhetorical flair. The incessant neutrality of our sovereign strikes today less as refreshing and more as limp, and may be both a cause of and response to the fact that now only 62% of the UK population support his continuation as our head of state.

My principal observation on the monarchy has always been this: when I complain about what I see as the illegitimate influence of hereditary authority over what is supposed to be a democratic government — especially when it takes such an expensive and flamboyant form — I am politely informed that the monarchy doesn’t really have any power to speak of anyway, so I shouldn’t be concerned. When I suggest that therefore we should just do away with the whole charade, I am told that the monarchy is somehow integral to the upkeep of British government.

Quite how it is integral, then, eludes me. But perhaps that is the nature of our compromising (patchwork) and ethereal (unwritten) constitution. Maybe it is an archetypal Chesterton’s fence, and those publicly imagining the abolition of the monarchy (which is still illegal, by the way) are making a grave error. If so, then I think a conservative case can be made for “toning down” the extravagance, at least to its politically important elements; retaining them only serves to overdetermine the inevitability of a future United Republic.

Was Corbyn wrong to condemn these bizarre parliamentary procedures? Once asked by BBC Newsnight about those criticising his “scruffy” sartorial standards in the House of Commons, he replied, “It’s not a fashion parade, it’s not a gentlemen’s club, it’s not a bankers institute; it’s a place where the people are represented.” If we wish to believe that this is true, perhaps it’s time to retire at least the golden throne, even if we can’t quite bring ourselves to retire the man who sits on it.

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Alex O’Connor is the host of the “Within Reason” YouTube show and podcast.

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