by Daniel Jupp
I’m not one of those people who think the British Royal Family secretly control the world. They can’t even stop the media revealing their tampon fantasies. They can’t stop gold digging lunatics like Diana and Meghan doing enormous damage to their reputation.
They are so powerless that Prince Andrew becomes just about the only person to attend an Epstein party that everyone knows about.
I think they do, despite the stupidities of individual members, a great deal of good as an institution. They prevent an additional layer of politicians, and that alone is a national service of great value. Much of their activity is worthy in the way that mind numbingly tedious small acts of kindness are worthy.
I wouldn’t want to open a supermarket in Doncaster or host the Charity Raffle for the British Foundation for Skin Diseases. But they do. And it’s good that somebody does.
I’m a Royalist because I don’t think you can be a serious conservative without wanting to preserve the living embodiment of more than one and a half thousand years of British history.
The present Queen, for example, is directly descended from King Ine of Wessex. That’s a recorded lineage that literally goes back into near the misty origins of Englishness itself. Ine claimed descent from Anglo-Saxon gods. Other than the U.K. and Japan, how many nations have symbolic leaders who can claim a personal link to mythology? If you don’t think that’s cool, there’s something wrong with you.
That’s not to say I consider the present Queen’s reign a glorious one. It’s the opposite. It is 70 years of almost continual national decline, including the death of nearly every British value she herself possesses. Those 70 years have seen only two British Prime Ministers who were both loyal and good. Only two who were competent at anything other than corruption and self-enrichment. The rest were all fools, crooks, charlatans and mountebanks, if not active and determined traitors. And we are where we are because of that.
The present Queen chose to preserve the institution via neutrality. She would say or do nothing in contradiction of her ministers. The Royal power, already shrivelled to almost nothing, became a sword that never leaves the scabbard. Quietly, diligently, with great personal sacrifice and warmth, she did the little things, the charitable things, the things which nobody could question. But this in fact robbed the British people of their last line of defence. Every institution and every Parliament turned to crime, the crime of treason, while the Monarchy watched, and watched, and watched.
She might not have been able to change a thing. She might not have been able to preserve the old verities and values, or steer by prodding her governments towards something other than the charted route of constant decline. But the stasis of her reign meant that no attempt was ever made. She was perhaps a shrewd monarch, sensing the end would come if she ever did stir. But how we needed a more active champion, above the stinking garbage offered by our main political parties, in those seven decades. For seventy years she played the role of a prisoner in golden robes whilst her Kingdom was robbed blind.