Why I Favour A Republic

I am a republican.

I don’t think that’s really a secret. At least, not to anyone that has followed my writing these past few years.

My first novel, The Malcontent of Mars, depicts a future Solar System, where monarchy is regarded as something primitive, practised only by religious kooks out in the sticks, as backwards to the people of tomorrow as the executioner’s axe is to us.

Rollerskater’s dénouement features the establishment of a British republic, albeit with the cynical concession that it requires an apocalyptic event and the simultaneous implosion of a fascist government to establish it.

I have been a republican for about a decade, now. I wasn’t always.

I can recall the pride I felt as a young child, knowing I shared my birthday with Elizabeth II, and drawing a picture of her at school.

(Children can be forgiven for being monarchists, of course. Raise them on a diet of fairy-tales and of course they’ll believe in the unassailable right of an unelected sovereign to rule. It’s more worrying when adults do it.)

It was in adolescence that my views on the monarchy began to sour. I got heavily into punk rock at the ideal age for it, by which I mean I was 16, full of hormones, perpetually lovesick and pissed off. Through flirtations with anarchist ideas, I began to reformulate my relationship to this country and its institutions.

I became an outspoken socialist, of the Wolfie-Smith-by-way-of-Rick-from-the-Young-Ones variety. (I actually went through a mildly embarrassing phase between the ages of 18 and 21 of wearing a Primark bomber jacket that rattled with the amount of slogan badges pinned to it, and a military-surplus beret, like Che Guevara.)

At the age of eighteen, I voted in my first European Parliament election, for the Green Party of England and Wales. Whoever it was that I voted for, they didn’t win. I became a member of the Green Party later that year, and voted for them in the 2015 general election, mainly in protest at the Labour Party’s blundering “sensible controls on immigration” rhetoric.

While out canvassing for my local Green Party candidate, a rather weary middle-aged woman, I attempted to speak to her at length about my party programme for fixing our social ills: Abolish the Lords and replace it with an elected Senate! Decriminalise drug use! Build social housing! Basic income for all! A four-day work week! And above all, abolish the monarchy!

Needless to say, I was simply asked to move across the Sainsbury’s car park we were standing in and go bother some electors instead (though in more polite terms).

I didn’t last long in politics.

Since then, my views have matured, though I have not lost my zeal for progressive change.

I am certainly what some might call a “looney leftie”, and I was, until December 2019, the textbook Corbynista – praying at the altar of Nye Bevan and Tony Benn, convinced that Jeremy Corbyn would be the one to save this country from itself, until, of course, he didn’t.

In fact, I was not given much cause to think very deeply about my republican stance until most recently.

In case you haven’t heard, Elizabeth Windsor died in her Platinum Jubilee year, on 8 September 2022, at the age of 96. Her son, Charles Windsor, has since acceded to the throne, styling himself Charles III. He was officially crowned king on 6 May 2023.

It’s been very strange, in the wake of this event, seeing this great, intricate operation play out. Like a very weird and avant-garde ballet.

It began with the ominous black ties on the BBC on the day of the Queen’s passing, then the sudden silencing of all rock music on the radio in favour of God Save the King, followed by round-the-clock remembrance programmes, and the most sombre pop ballads Capital FM had the broadcasting rights to.

It’s as if a cultural bomb went off and took out one of the structural supports of our entire political identity.

Obviously, it is very sad when someone dies, for any reason, and my intention is not to make light of that at all. But, well, what has come in its wake has sort of laid bare the absurdity of this entire, outdated system.

Grand, ostentatious coronations with gold carriages and pomp and circumstance feel to me like the sort of thing that should have died out with black-and-white telly and AM radio.

I don’t know, couldn’t our new monarch have just nipped in to the local registry office, popped the sparkly hat on, and had done with it in five minutes? Why, he’d even have time to get some new passport photos taken.

I joke. But it all seems a bit out of tune with modern society, and particularly with our current (and partly self-inflicted) economic woes.

The coronation has been estimated to have cost between £100m and £250m, at a time when many people are struggling to make ends meet.

Even a royalist at the coronation was heard to say: “We can’t afford to eat, we can’t afford to heat our homes, but we’re going to have a good time.”

Yet, at a time when dissent against the monarchy and its grotesque displays of wealth seems necessary, there is something far more insidious going on in the halls of power, fully intended to silence those who would speak against what might be seen as a gross misuse of public funds.

In 2022, Parliament passed the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Act, a controversial law aimed at granting police greater powers to restrict “unacceptable” protest, among other things.

Just four days prior to his coronation, the king gave royal assent to another law, the Public Order Act 2023, which specifically targets protest. The Act further increases police powers to crack down on protests.

On 6 May 2023, the day of the coronation, police arrested Graham Smith, chief executive of the campaign group Republic, along with several others in his entourage, and seized the contents of a small rental van containing placards reading “Not My King”, as well as what the police termed “locking-on devices” (which were later found to be, er, luggage straps).

Graham Smith has been an outspoken critic of the monarchy for many, many years. In fact, I used to be a member of Republic, back during my Wolfie Smith era.

I do not agree with Smith on everything, but I can only respect his principles and dedication to his political goals, which he has only ever sought to achieve peacefully.

His book, Abolish the Monarchy, released digitally but days prior to his arrest, is really rather good, if imperfect.

Smith would later allege that he had been in talks with the Metropolitan Police for several months leading up to the event, keeping them abreast of the group’s planned protest. He claims that the police told him: “There’s no problem with any of this. No, that’s perfectly lawful.”

Unfortunately, the Met’s officers on duty on the day of the coronation apparently did not see it that way, and Smith spent the rest of the day locked in a cell.

That day, the Metropolitan Police would arrest a total of 64 people. These arrests may well have been lawful. Whether they were justified will likely come out in the inevitable litigation cases brought by arrestees against the police. Smith’s lawyer has stated that he is looking into taking legal action.

The outrage on social media was immediate, even before allegations of the Met’s duplicity had been made public. Not least because the Met has been embroiled in a great number of scandals, corruption investigations, and allegations of misogyny, homophobia and racism among its officers.

In 2023, a metropolitan police force arresting protesters, before they have even had a chance to begin protesting, truly beggars belief in terms of its heavy-handedness, and that is putting it lightly.

These are in no uncertain terms actions we would consider to be characteristic of a police state, and not, as Prime Minister Rishi Sunak asked of the Israeli PM Benjamin Netanyahu, “upholding democratic values.”

This absurd incident has overshadowed much coverage of the coronation, in no small part due to its utter ludicrousness.

It’s like some sort of Kafkaesque farce: You spend months filling in paperwork, talking to police, making sure everything is in order and above board, and then on the day, you get arrested anyway, for the very reasons you spent months in communication with the police about – seemingly because of a law passed mere days before the protest, meaning you never had a chance to avoid arrest anyway.

It’s no wonder that photographers caught pictures of Graham Smith seated on the pavement with his head buried in his hands, as if to say, “How could this be happening?”

How, indeed.

On the same day as the arrests, some royalists decided to confront republican protesters – of which there was a disproportionately small number compared to the vastly greater number of celebrants – by singing God Save The King while holding middle fingers up, and jeering “Yes, your king!” in response to the chants of “Not my king!”

We know this because it was caught on camera.

There is a sort of mealy-mouthed unpleasantness that arises when you try to debate with a certain sort of person about the monarchy.

Sure, the conversation starts out congenial and polite, with arguments put forth like the money the monarchy brings in through tourism (debatable), and how much more expensive a republic would be (political principles trump setup costs at any rate).

But then comes the derailment, the accusations of treachery and sabotage.

“Well, if you don’t like it, you’re free to get on the next plane and leave!” is a common refrain. This is a fallacious argument known as ergo decedo. It is an informal fallacy, which implies that a critic is a traitor who belongs to an outgroup, rather than someone with a valid internal criticism, thereby making it a petulant deflection tactic that does not attempt to engage with the argument.

Eventually the argument descends into vague threats to have republicans imprisoned without trial at His Majesty’s pleasure, which often betrays the most ardent monarchist’s barbarously mediaeval mindset when it comes to their fellow citizens.

(Incidentally, it is still technically illegal to advocate for abolition of the monarchy in the United Kingdom under the Treason Felony Act 1848, and can be punished with life imprisonment. The law is no longer enforced, but it is on the books.)

This isn’t to say all avid royalists are nasty people. Plenty of them are rather nice folk who feel proud to live in one of the world’s most famous and enduring monarchies. But there are an increasing number of people who are so incensed by even the most liberal opposition to royalty that they immediately begin to throw out accusations of anti-Britishness, sedition, treason, and, quite bizarrely, authoritarianism.

As regards that first point, I suppose I am “anti-British” insofar as I look at this nation’s history with critical eye, I do not celebrate Empire, I do not think of Winston Churchill’s rousing wartime speeches without also thinking about the fact that his colonial policies starved at least hundreds of thousands and possibly millions of Bengalis to death between 1943 and 1944, et cetera.

But anti-British in the sense that I hate the island of Great Britain, and the many wonderful people who live within these shores? No, not particularly. In fact, I quite like it here. Good hikes, good food, most places accessible by train, history hiding everywhere. What’s not to like?

In fact, the main thing holding me back from having any modicum of national pride is my embarrassment in our political structure.

This is a beautiful country – have you seen Wiltshire and the Kent Downs? But it is a country marred by many, many hundreds of years of oppression and violent perpetuation of the status quo. This isn’t solely an issue with royalty, either. Just 1% of the population in England owns half of the land.

I am careful, also, not to equate “Britain” to “England”. It is all too easy to forget that “Britain”, meant in the sense of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, consists of four nations. Often, when people speak of Britishness, quintessentially, and as something to be “anti”, they actually mean “Englishness”.

For this reason, I am on the whole not entirely convinced by the idea of preserving parliamentary democracy under an elected head of state, as Graham Smith’s Republic advocates.

I agree with their critique of our current system. I just don’t think their proposals go far enough.

When I think of a British republic, I instead look to the republican vision detailed by Alex Niven in his fascinating, excoriating and explosive polemic, New Model Island: How to Build a Radical Culture Beyond the Idea of England.

In it, Niven advocates not for the soft-reboot suggested by Republic, but of a total rebirth of Britain’s entire national political character, focusing specifically on England and Englishness as a kind of pseudohistorical identity that, when distinguished from “Britishness”, doesn’t really stand up under scrutiny vis-à-vis when we speak of Scottishness, Irishness and Welshness, which certainly can be and are something separate from “Britishness”.

Rather than try to emulate other republics, Niven argues, we must instead look to the unique character of Britain, to regard it not as a fortress, but an archipelago, off the coast of continental Europe, not separate from the continent but part of it, defined by its tumultuous history.

He further advocates for something altogether more radical: rather than retaining Westminster democracy, a first-past-the-post voting system, and a President and Prime Minister, Niven calls for the decentralisation of power throughout England, an end to London’s financial and political supremacy, and total devolution of political power to regional assemblies, each presiding over a populace of a few million, and all to be connected by the creation of a network of high-speed rail links.

A pipe dream? Perhaps. But this searing manifesto does something truly incredible: It looks beyond the systems of power and privilege that define this country, to something altogether more radical and equitable.

Whatever form a future British republic may take, I remain steadfast in my firm commitment to republicanism.

Above all else, I resent what the monarchy convinces people is right and just. I resent the nastiness it inspires.

The jeering behaviour may represent a minority of monarchists, I grant, but it is alarming how the institution of the monarchy seems to inspire a sort of vicious, bullying, “ingroup/outgroup” mindset in so many of its proponents.

On the occasion of the Queen’s death in 2022, there were a number of worrying incidents in which dissenters found themselves harried and attacked by crowds who had gathered to watch the new king’s convoy.

One man, Symon Hill, a Christian historian, found himself berated, then arrested for calling out “Who elected him?” in response to the announcement of the king’s accession, part of which called on the audience to accept Charles as their “lord and king”.

Farcically, Hill was then charged with breach of the Public Order Act, before the charges were dropped without explanation. To their credit, some royalist bystanders in the crowd reportedly told police that they disagreed vehemently with Hill’s position, but surely he had a right to freedom of speech?

Others were less sympathetic. In response to Hill sharing the news that he had been charged on Twitter, a Conservative councillor, Andrew Schraeder, replied: “To the Tower with you, you dour grump.” (Staggeringly normal response for an elected official to have in response to a private citizen exercising his right to freedom of speech in a public space.)

Another man, Patrick Thelwell, a gardener, Extinction Rebellion activist and libertarian socialist who pelted the king with eggs, alleged that members of the mob that immediately swept in screamed “Kill him, kick him to death.”

Which seems like rather an extreme response for what is essentially a Halloween prank played on a particularly wealthy old man. (Especially as none of the eggs even hit the king.)

Thelwell was later detained again at the king’s coronation, though not arrested. He was apparently searched for eggs, despite the fact he was only banned from carrying eggs as a bail condition of his trial earlier this year, which was resolved with his being handed a 12-month community order with 100 hours of unpaid work.

Another man in Edinburgh shouted “Andrew, you’re a sick old man” at the disgraced Prince Andrew, and found himself pushed and assaulted by the crowd before being dragged away by police.

Andrew has been accused of and consistently denied the alleged sexual assault and battery in 2001 of Virginia Giuffre, who was at that time sixteen years old. Though he claimed never to have met the woman in an interview, he nevertheless paid her £12m.

Despite this stain on the monarchy’s reputation, Andrew was later invited to attend the coronation of his brother in full regalia. Prince Harry, meanwhile, brother of the heir apparent William, and whose outspoken criticism of his family has netted its own controversy, wore a stripped-back suit and medals.

Then, on the day of the coronation, actress Adjoa Andoh made an offhand comment about the people on the balcony after the “inclusive” ceremony being “terribly white”, causing furore and the most complaints to Ofcom documented this year.

Her comment has been described as “racist”, which is frankly ludicrous, speaking as a white person myself. The response to such a mildly critical comment, made by a Black woman, speaks volumes regarding the attitudes to race held by the sort of person who watches royal events coverage with anything more than mild interest.

More disturbing is the way this mindset stretches to outright suppression of dissent. To see even protesters with a vision of a republican Britain that I find too conservative arrested, simply for speaking up, worries me.

Even more alarming: witness reports on the ground seem to suggest that the “Not My King” protest at the coronation was remarkably cowed. Bear in mind, this was not a violent or rowdy demonstration, not a riot. It was an assembly of likeminded people giving voice to their politics in a public space, as is – should be – their right. Yet, it seems many of them could only chant half-heartedly, some slinking away before the police decided to clap them in cuffs as well.

Keir Starmer’s Labour Party, now utterly bankrupt of all principles and policy besides “convince Tory voters to vote for us instead”, have refused to commit to abolishing the draconian Public Order Act 2023.

(In a terrifying sign of the times, the Liberal Democrats seem to be the only mainstream party that actually recognise what a massive overreach these laws are. God help us all.)

On the day of the coronation, the Labour Party released a statement from Starmer, wishing the king the very best, with nary a word said about republicans – some of them belonging to his very own party – being harangued by uniformed agents of the state.

And it isn’t just republicans who have been swept up in this authoritarian tsunami. A royalist who happened to be standing next to a small cadre of Just Stop Oil protesters found herself detained by police and held in a cell for 13 hours. It seems that even standing near people who might hold placards is now enough to warrant criminal suspicion and arrest.

In the face of this repeated and wilful injustice, and the way so many seem to be cheering it on, I just cannot bring myself to care what American tourists think about the monarchy. I do not care about how many vox-pops with people from some landlocked state in the Midwest say we should retain the institution.

At one time, I called myself a “small-r republican,” to distinguish myself from the kind of American politician that believes abortion, same-sex marriage and the right to change gender are abominable, but an ongoing epidemic of gun violence is an acceptable price to pay for liberty.

Then I realised that I do not care, and have never cared, about shaping the language of my politics to fit that of a country some four-thousand miles away.

Americans fought a war to escape our monarchy almost three hundred years ago. Global superpower they may be, but in principle, they have forfeited their right to a say in this matter.

That being said, we do share one thing in common with the United States: The right-wing in this country, having lost the argument in all other respects, has no choice but to fall back on pageantry, nostalgic aesthetics, and nationalist fervour to justify the tightening of its grip on power.

As a result, this country is in a state of democratic backslide, hidden in plain view by culture war propaganda tactics designed to mask a sudden authoritarian swerve.

Already, the Government has abrogated the right to protest in public. They have attacked the right of every citizen to a vote by implementing voter ID laws. And, in a callous display of unconscionable cruelty, they are preparing to make changes to the Equalities Act that would in all likelihood force transgender people in to bathrooms and other single-sex spaces that align with their birth sex.

And that isn’t even getting into the shockingly barbaric, inhumane way this nation’s government treats those who come to our shores seeking a better life.

So, yes, I favour a republic. Not because I hate Britain, but because I am appalled by the corrupt kakistocracy at which the reigning monarch is the head. There exist almost no checks and balances at all on the flagrant, repeated and frankly criminal abuses of power that have defined the government of this country for decades – if not centuries.

We still live in a country where the power of the Crown can in effect be wielded absolutely and without challenge. It is true that much of that power is now vested in the hands of Parliament, but the power Parliament wields is a magnet for those in society whose interest is not that of the people, but of the most self-serving and antisocial citizens among us.

I no longer believe that a Labour government could possibly deliver the broad and sweeping change that is desperately needed. The entire system is rotten, rotten to the bloody core.

I favour a republic, not because a republic is easy, nor cheap. I cannot, with all sincerity, say that a republic would not be in jeopardy of falling to extreme, violent ideology. Plenty of fledgling republics throughout history have stumbled at the first hurdle, descended into bloody terror, emerged ragged and broken, and then endured decades of political collapse and hardship.

I favour a republic because our current situation is archaic, authoritarian, and completely at odds with modern values.

I favour a republic because I am a democrat.

I favour a republic because I believe that the rights and freedoms to which every person is entitled by birth must never be abridged.

I favour a republic because the alternative, as we have seen, is chains.

I make no apologies for my position. Nobody should have to.

So here it is, loud and clear. I say it in defiance, in righteous anger, and in solidarity with all who are persecuted and punished for demanding political change.

ABOLISH
THE
MONARCHY