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I don't want to abolish the monarchy, just the stupefying coverage of it I don't want to abolish the monarchy, just the stupefying coverage of it
(2 months later)
Irony is a dangerous quality: it can return to haunt you. A few weeks before Prince William married Catherine Middleton in 2011, the Guardian published an editorial praising the prince as "a bastion of tradition with a deeply modern sensibility" who promised to be "a new kind of king". The editorial went on: "For too long, a hairshirt tendency on the left has insisted that a commitment to progressive values is incompatible with an appreciation for the magic and wonder of royalty. But in this era of austerity, couldn't we all do with being a bit more 'happy and glorious'?" It was time to put away the cynicism and bring out the union jacks. The Guardian would be refocusing its staff, recalling reporters from some "less newsworthy parts of the globe", so that they could provide unrivalled royal wedding coverage, including a round-the-clock live blog.Irony is a dangerous quality: it can return to haunt you. A few weeks before Prince William married Catherine Middleton in 2011, the Guardian published an editorial praising the prince as "a bastion of tradition with a deeply modern sensibility" who promised to be "a new kind of king". The editorial went on: "For too long, a hairshirt tendency on the left has insisted that a commitment to progressive values is incompatible with an appreciation for the magic and wonder of royalty. But in this era of austerity, couldn't we all do with being a bit more 'happy and glorious'?" It was time to put away the cynicism and bring out the union jacks. The Guardian would be refocusing its staff, recalling reporters from some "less newsworthy parts of the globe", so that they could provide unrivalled royal wedding coverage, including a round-the-clock live blog.
The piece appeared on the morning of 1 April. Readers who'd forgotten the date might have been deceived until they reached sentences describing Kate's "worklife challenge" as an accessories buyer for Jigsaw and the new range of "attractive commemorative crockery" the paper was about to produce; as with all the best April fools, the reader had moments of not-quite-knowing, of confusion, of wondering if their favourite paper had taken leave of its senses.The piece appeared on the morning of 1 April. Readers who'd forgotten the date might have been deceived until they reached sentences describing Kate's "worklife challenge" as an accessories buyer for Jigsaw and the new range of "attractive commemorative crockery" the paper was about to produce; as with all the best April fools, the reader had moments of not-quite-knowing, of confusion, of wondering if their favourite paper had taken leave of its senses.
Could it really be that the Guardian was renouncing the commitment to republicanism that it made in December 2000? Stranger things have happened, or rather would happen in future. Look at the Guardian of Tuesday this week, and the April fool's editorial of 2011 becomes less a joke than a prophecy. Nearly all of the front page and four pages inside, the work of at least half-a-dozen writers and reporters: and all for what? A BIRTH, A BOY, A PRINCE, A KING, ran the headline – a very good headline, too, Laurence Olivier could have spoken it, so much grander than DUCHESS OF CAMBRIDGE HAS A BOY. It had a poetical and historical ring – but didn't the poetry in it also seem to cheer on the process it was describing? Unless you believe that the string of four nouns ended in a sigh with an unspoken fifth – A LEECH, say, or A DOLT – then it would be hard to imagine the Guardian was doing otherwise than appreciating "the magic and wonder of royalty" it had so heavily ironised on April fool's day, 2011.Could it really be that the Guardian was renouncing the commitment to republicanism that it made in December 2000? Stranger things have happened, or rather would happen in future. Look at the Guardian of Tuesday this week, and the April fool's editorial of 2011 becomes less a joke than a prophecy. Nearly all of the front page and four pages inside, the work of at least half-a-dozen writers and reporters: and all for what? A BIRTH, A BOY, A PRINCE, A KING, ran the headline – a very good headline, too, Laurence Olivier could have spoken it, so much grander than DUCHESS OF CAMBRIDGE HAS A BOY. It had a poetical and historical ring – but didn't the poetry in it also seem to cheer on the process it was describing? Unless you believe that the string of four nouns ended in a sigh with an unspoken fifth – A LEECH, say, or A DOLT – then it would be hard to imagine the Guardian was doing otherwise than appreciating "the magic and wonder of royalty" it had so heavily ironised on April fool's day, 2011.
In other words, it was having a cake that it had eaten 13 years ago with the declaration that it hoped Britain would become a republic – gradually and only after "vigorous and grown-up debate", but with the clearly implied hope that the Queen would be our last dynastic head of state. It would be wrong to equate coverage with editorial approval – reports of floods and famines don't exist to celebrate them – but the tone and scale of the Guardian's did nothing to contradict the notion that suddenly the nation had burst out singing. And perhaps the fact was that the nation had done so, at least as an infinitely suggestible chorus conducted by most TV channels and every newspaper with the exception of the Financial Times. Not, perhaps, that the Guardian had set out to cheer, but babies are harder than weddings to ironise, and the pages of serious newspapers are now inspired by the presentational tricks of more popular ones, encouraging headlines to be sentimental instead of, or as well as, informative. And if a sentiment has to be chosen by the writer and the page editor, how much nicer to get in the mood and choose a nice one, the event being a birth, rather than something as cold and sharp-edged as the guillotine.In other words, it was having a cake that it had eaten 13 years ago with the declaration that it hoped Britain would become a republic – gradually and only after "vigorous and grown-up debate", but with the clearly implied hope that the Queen would be our last dynastic head of state. It would be wrong to equate coverage with editorial approval – reports of floods and famines don't exist to celebrate them – but the tone and scale of the Guardian's did nothing to contradict the notion that suddenly the nation had burst out singing. And perhaps the fact was that the nation had done so, at least as an infinitely suggestible chorus conducted by most TV channels and every newspaper with the exception of the Financial Times. Not, perhaps, that the Guardian had set out to cheer, but babies are harder than weddings to ironise, and the pages of serious newspapers are now inspired by the presentational tricks of more popular ones, encouraging headlines to be sentimental instead of, or as well as, informative. And if a sentiment has to be chosen by the writer and the page editor, how much nicer to get in the mood and choose a nice one, the event being a birth, rather than something as cold and sharp-edged as the guillotine.
That the techniques and temper of modern journalism are the enemies of republicanism is an idea that the late Christopher Hitchens understood and lamented. In a piece published in the same Guardian issue that raised the republican flag, Hitchens wrote of how royal coverage operated in the press "with the intensity of Gresham's law", the bad driving out the good and "encouraging laziness and sentimentality and salacity by making it too easy to fill page upon page with brainless twaddle, and encouraging contempt for the readership that makes itself such an easy target". His argument was interesting. What Hitchens proposed was not that we abolish monarchy but that we "transcend it or, to put it in more old-fashioned terms, that we grow out of it". We needed to begin the process of emancipating ourselves from "the mental habits of royalism", including "the infantilism and cretinism of the press". That way, it would melt away in the face of our disregard.That the techniques and temper of modern journalism are the enemies of republicanism is an idea that the late Christopher Hitchens understood and lamented. In a piece published in the same Guardian issue that raised the republican flag, Hitchens wrote of how royal coverage operated in the press "with the intensity of Gresham's law", the bad driving out the good and "encouraging laziness and sentimentality and salacity by making it too easy to fill page upon page with brainless twaddle, and encouraging contempt for the readership that makes itself such an easy target". His argument was interesting. What Hitchens proposed was not that we abolish monarchy but that we "transcend it or, to put it in more old-fashioned terms, that we grow out of it". We needed to begin the process of emancipating ourselves from "the mental habits of royalism", including "the infantilism and cretinism of the press". That way, it would melt away in the face of our disregard.
All very well said, but how easily done? Hitchens put forward no practical plan, but surely one way for a republican-minded newspaper to proceed would be to print next-to-no royal stories at all. The Independent adopted such a policy in the 1980s, though whether out of latent republicanism or respect for the monarch or to save its readers from brainless twaddle is hard to know; possibly – it was then a marvellously maverick newspaper – all three. The most famous instance of its rigour happened more or less by accident on the night of 8 August 1988, when the news arrived that the Duchess of York (Sarah Ferguson) had had a daughter (later baptised Beatrice). The news editor summarized the essential facts – hospital, sex, weight, state of mother and daughter's health – in a paragraph that found a lowly position on page two. The baby was only sixth in line to the throne; it now seems remarkable that the paragraph was remarkable, but by showing its contempt for the everyday excesses of royal coverage, the paper secured a word-of-mouth reputation for independence that expensive advertising campaigns would have struggled to achieve.All very well said, but how easily done? Hitchens put forward no practical plan, but surely one way for a republican-minded newspaper to proceed would be to print next-to-no royal stories at all. The Independent adopted such a policy in the 1980s, though whether out of latent republicanism or respect for the monarch or to save its readers from brainless twaddle is hard to know; possibly – it was then a marvellously maverick newspaper – all three. The most famous instance of its rigour happened more or less by accident on the night of 8 August 1988, when the news arrived that the Duchess of York (Sarah Ferguson) had had a daughter (later baptised Beatrice). The news editor summarized the essential facts – hospital, sex, weight, state of mother and daughter's health – in a paragraph that found a lowly position on page two. The baby was only sixth in line to the throne; it now seems remarkable that the paragraph was remarkable, but by showing its contempt for the everyday excesses of royal coverage, the paper secured a word-of-mouth reputation for independence that expensive advertising campaigns would have struggled to achieve.
For a few years after, the paper stuck to a policy that it would report only royal events that involved the Queen or her heir, and only royal speeches that had constitutional significance. It didn't last. When a story of marital difficulty between the Prince and Princess of Wales turned into an institutional crisis, the Independent naturally felt that it had to report it, though I can still remember the disapproval that ran through the office when, as editor of the Independent on Sunday, I put Diana's picture on page one. A part of the paper's moral aspiration had gone – not a particularly republican aspiration, but one that believed there were more important and interesting things to report, which was true until the monarchy began to destroy itself and could no longer be ignored.For a few years after, the paper stuck to a policy that it would report only royal events that involved the Queen or her heir, and only royal speeches that had constitutional significance. It didn't last. When a story of marital difficulty between the Prince and Princess of Wales turned into an institutional crisis, the Independent naturally felt that it had to report it, though I can still remember the disapproval that ran through the office when, as editor of the Independent on Sunday, I put Diana's picture on page one. A part of the paper's moral aspiration had gone – not a particularly republican aspiration, but one that believed there were more important and interesting things to report, which was true until the monarchy began to destroy itself and could no longer be ignored.
Things look better for them now. According to Tuesday's slightly loyal Guardian editorial (WELCOME, BABY CAMBRIDGE), the "logic-defying resilience" of the British monarchy means it will probably last for at least another 50 years. As I don't count myself a republican, I can't say I find the prospect distressing. Rather less bearable is the thought that the British population will go on tolerating a media that lavishes so much space and time on simple events that don't need – and can't bear – prolonged description. They stupefy us.Things look better for them now. According to Tuesday's slightly loyal Guardian editorial (WELCOME, BABY CAMBRIDGE), the "logic-defying resilience" of the British monarchy means it will probably last for at least another 50 years. As I don't count myself a republican, I can't say I find the prospect distressing. Rather less bearable is the thought that the British population will go on tolerating a media that lavishes so much space and time on simple events that don't need – and can't bear – prolonged description. They stupefy us.
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