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  Time passed, and cultures grew, and early humans encountered more abstract concepts, such as war, wisdom or love. These may not have been physical objects sitting in our field of view, but they still exhibited behaviour which impacted on our lives and they needed to be thought about. The most natural way of doing this was to use the same neurological wiring that dealt with predicting the actions of physical external entities. This worked fine, but there was a side effect. When we thought about these abstract concepts, we could not help but consider them as individual conscious entities themselves. That was what the paths in our brains we were using were formed to do. War, wisdom and love became personified. The Ancient Greeks, for example, called them Ares, Athena and Aphrodite. The same process applied to inanimate things that physically existed, but whose behaviour still needed to be monitored, such as fire or the sea. In this way, the polytheistic pantheons soon became crowded. Human beings were neurologically hardwired to personify unpredictable concepts. We could not help but invent gods.

  While the gods of universal concepts such as thunder or drunkenness were widespread, individual places gave rise to more specific local gods. When we thought of that hill over there, that island where the people weren’t very friendly, or the town that protected us, we would personify them into a highly localized deity. The impact of the actions of the tribal chieftain on the local area was, to our magical thinking brains, the same thing as their relationship with the local deity. Clearly, it would give a ruler’s career a boost if they were perceived to be extremely friendly with the local god, so elaborate rituals were staged to demonstrate to the population just how well the chief and the god were getting along.

  In time the roles of the local deity and the local chief moved closer together. Under the influence of some particularly powerful and egotistical rulers, the two roles were said to have merged. Rulers such as the Ancient Egyptian pharaohs or the pre-World War Two Japanese emperors were considered to be divine. They were the local gods now. When Egyptian pharaohs claimed the elaborate sexual rituals they conducted were necessary to ensure the fertility of the land, this wasn’t just an excuse to pretend that a few days of debauchery were work. Thanks to the peculiar way the human brain developed, the human leader had become the personification of the land. The link between king and kingdom, so clearly shown in The Fisher King, is written large in human history.

  Of course, after the Age of Enlightenment in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century, all this started to seem a little silly.

  Enlightenment thinkers much preferred rationality to magical thinking. Nations built on Enlightenment thought, such as the United States of America, were too sensible to personify their land as some form of deity. The role of head of state, the highest ranked official, was merged with the office of President. On paper, this made a great deal of sense. But in practice it had some odd side effects. Modern people still continued to personify their country, even though rationally it made little sense, because that is just how their brains worked. You can see this in the Russian talk of the Motherland or the German talk of the Fatherland. Making the President of the United States the personification of America was problematic, because at any one time about half of the country hates the president’s guts. If you loved America but really hated Bush and/or Obama, then you did not want to conflate the two.

  This failure of the American head of state to successfully symbolize the nation may explain the importance of the flag in the American imagination. In the absence of a real life personification, Americans can become increasingly emotionally attached to the sight of the Stars and Stripes, to a degree that can appear a little odd to outsiders. It is also tempting to suggest that this need to personify is responsible for the curious character of Uncle Sam, who is said to represent the American government. Most countries find the idea of a character personifying their government, as opposed to their nation, a little weird.

  Once the irrational nature of the head of state is understood, we find that the practical but fundamentally shambolic nature of our neurological wiring offers an explanation for the failure of the Australian people to ditch the British Queen in the 1999 referendum. The offered alternative, that of a government-selected president serving five-year terms, appealed to rationality rather than magical thinking. But because the position of head of state does not exist for rational reasons, applying logic to the problem of filling it is to miss the point entirely.

  You can appreciate why republicans in British Commonwealth countries get so exasperated by the continued desire of their fellow citizens to keep the monarchy. For those who consider themselves rational, the refusal of magical thinking to slink back into the pages of history where it belongs is a constant source of annoyance. But magical thinking is hard-wired into us at a very deep level, and the idea that it will be possible for humans to stop thinking as they do does not seem plausible.

  It does not help that conversations about how to select non-royal heads of state are frequently led by politicians. These politicians can be relied on to come to the conclusion that the best type of people to deal with the demands of the position are other politicians. They have an opinion of their profession, in other words, that differs from that of the general public.

  The personification of a nation is supposed to capture the character of that country, and preferably promote the greatest and most noble aspects of that character, so the idea that this will be best achieved with a politician or an ex-politician is not widely held in the general population. Very few countries wish to promote themselves as smug, power-hungry and one hidden-camera away from a major fraud investigation. Appointing a politician to the position of head of state is like a range of upmarket consumer goods using a turd for a logo.

  This is unfortunate, because no one is claiming the British monarch is the best personification of any nation, least of all Australia. She holds that position because of an historic link between her family and the political structures of that country, and that link is not particularly important to a large number of modern Australians. There is a similar situation in Canada, where 40 per cent of the population3 would prefer to have an elected head of state. The population of Quebec, in particular, have to go out on a limb to find any historical connection to Elizabeth and her kin.

  Is there a way to recognize the irrational nature of the role of head of state and still find a real-life candidate for the position who is something other than a politician? One possible solution is to give the status of head of state to not one but to a number of people, such as the proposal for an Australian council of Aboriginal elders mentioned earlier. A few countries have gone down this road. The presidency of Bosnia-Herzegovina is shared between three different people who represent the main ethnic groups of that territory, an eminently sensible arrangement in light of their recent history. The small but wealthy microstate of San Marino, which is entirely surrounded by Italy, considers two people known as the Captains Regent of San Marino to be their joint head of state. These elected captains serve only a six-month term, however, so it hardly seems worth getting the crown fitted.

  The tiny European nation of Andorra is another example. It gives the position of head of state to two people known as the Co-Princes of Andorra. Oddly, one of these princes is the President of France. This means that a staunch republican such as the current French president François Hollande is also a royal prince, which must embarrass the hell out of him. It also means Andorra is in the unique situation of having a democratically elected monarch, albeit one democratically elected by the citizens of a different country. Perhaps there is something in this idea? Perhaps heads of state should be determined by elections held in completely different nations. The complicated politics of which country chooses the head of state for which other country could be solved by a form of international Secret Santa. It’s a thought.

  Multiple-personnel heads of state are rare, however, because there is something depressing about symbolically representing your country as a compromise
or, even worse, a committee. As another alternative, could a person who is neither royal nor a politician take the position? Republicans in the U.K. frequently cite the broadcaster and naturalist Sir David Attenborough as the type of person they would like to see as President of the United Kingdom. Attenborough is highly respected, much loved and feels like an integral part of the island’s culture and personality. Could Attenborough or other similar national treasures successfully fill the role?

  There are a number of problems with this approach. Filling the role with monarchy or politicians is inherently problematic, but so too is transferring the position to the world of celebrity. There is a transient aspect to celebrity which does not fit well with the sense of deep-rooted tradition the role is trying to project. Famous figures who do not have this air of transience, such as Attenborough, are rare indeed. You cannot guarantee there will always be a candidate of his quality to hand.

  Nor can you guarantee they would accept the job. Contenders with sufficient status to be considered for the job would need a long, consistent career behind them. They would be getting on in years, presumably financially comfortable, and not lacking in status or respect. The fruits of such a career would be satisfying indeed. Why, then, would they throw that all away and choose a life as unrelentingly grim as that of head of state? Because if there is one factor that is frequently overlooked in the discussion of royalty, it is this: being a head of state looks bloody awful.

  4. The Question of Cruelty

  On July 22, 2013 a baby boy was born. It was a very happy occasion, as you would expect for the arrival of a first child to a young, recently married couple. The parents were William and Catherine, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. The baby was named George in honour of his royal ancestry, even though the most famous Georges in the family were known principally for being obese or insane. The baby was delivered by Sir Marcus Setchell, who has the unusual honour of being the Queen’s official gynaecologist, a job which no doubt entitles him to make lots of jokes about “crowning” after a few drinks at parties. The baby’s full title was Prince George Alexander Louis of Cambridge, which was odd because he wasn’t actually from Cambridge in any meaningful sense.

  It seemed like the entirety of the world’s press was camped outside St. Mary’s Hospital in London. The American media, in particular, were so obsessed with the birth that it was feared they might go into sympathetic labour and require an epidural. When the proud parents emerged clutching their cute-as-a-button, podgy-faced new arrival, countless millions were watching through global media. They were waiting for the brief moment when his face was no longer obscured by the white blanket he was wrapped in. At that point millions of hearts went out to the sleeping babe and countless minds thought, “You poor bastard.”

  Imagine the future that child has in front of him! His life will not be his own, which is the minimum requirement we need to grow and develop into a fully rounded human being. Who knows what his childhood would be like if he was free to grow up under normal circumstances? George will not be able to go wandering with the promise that he’d be back in time for tea, or pass unnoticed as he shoplifts biscuits from the corner shop, or pester older kids to go to the pub to buy cheap cider for him. How, in these circumstances, is he going to grow into a sane, happy individual? What will he do if his heart tells him he can make it as a footballer, or if he wants to be a vet, or if he comes up with a brilliant idea for a new app which could make him a millionaire? What if he doesn’t want hundreds of camera lenses pointing at him throughout his entire life, or to be the lead in a real life remake of The Truman Show? What if he wants to be a Goth?

  There is very little George will be able to do in these circumstances. He has been born into a gilded cage. A gilded cage is the best type of cage to be born into, admittedly, but that’s not the point. The fact that his upbringing will brainwash him into thinking that he’s the lucky recipient of glorious power does not change that fact, and nor does it make it easier to justify morally. This pretend power will not allow him to get heavily into obscure genres of dance music, or to stay up all night trash-talking strangers on Xbox, or spend entire weekends wearing a onesie and pretending to be a Jedi. The illusion of power and importance is all well and good, but it is no match for freedom and the ability to actually do whatever it is that you want to do. Perhaps the cruellest aspect of his situation is that it will not give him the opportunity to earn status through hard work and personal achievement. How will it be possible for him to better himself when he was born to be king?

  This is something that pet owners will grasp immediately, for who hasn’t looked at a fish in a bowl, or a gerbil in a cage, or a budgerigar in a birdcage and wondered about the quality of life of the animal trapped inside? Dog owners will be familiar with the way their pet sits at their feet and looks up at them expectantly, for hours on end, in the vain hope that they will switch off the Breaking Bad boxset and go and throw balls around in the park. It does not seem like much of a life, compared to the adventures of a pack of wild dogs roaming the wilderness with their doggy comrades. All of this highlights a major problem with royalty, which is that keeping a monarch is intrinsically cruel.

  This problem is usually addressed by the process of abdication. A member of royalty is allowed to quit, renounce their title and disappear off into something akin to normal life. There has been something of a craze for this among European monarchs in the last couple of years, with Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands, Albert II of Belgium and King Juan Carlos of Spain all quitting the day job in order to spend more time watching daytime television. In George’s own family there was an abdication in 1936, when the British King Edward VIII jacked the job in after less than a year. This allowed him the freedom to marry whoever he felt like, and it meant that the British could end the 1930s without a pro-Nazi monarch, so it was a win-win situation for all involved. Yet abdication did not get Edward his life back. Instead, it left him in a form of limbo in which he was neither a monarch nor a regular citizen. Even if baby Prince George abdicates his royal responsibilities as soon as he is old enough to understand the word, he will still be unlikely to have anything resembling a normal childhood.

  Ultimately it is not the existence of abdication that allows those nations that keep a monarchy to sleep at night. It is the belief that their pet royals do not know any better. A pet gerbil does not have any concept of the life of a wild gerbil, roaming the Eurasian woodlands and deserts in a close-knit gang and chewing anything it feels like. You may, on occasion, detect a deep, unidentified yearning in the black little eyes of a domestic gerbil, but that animal will still not be able to consciously identify exactly what it is that is missing in its life. A goldfish may be bored to the back teeth of swimming round and round in little circles, but it still does not have any concept of the way its ancient Chinese ancestors used to frolic in clean, flowing mountain rivers. In a similar way, a royal has no concept of the notion of nipping out for a quick drink on a quiet weekday evening in order to kill time before the hockey game, then bumping into an old friend and ending up at a party of some guy you only vaguely know but who has a really attractive flatmate. Such regular human behaviour is not something royals pine for, because they have no understanding of what it is that freeborn humans do.

  Keeping this illusion going is not easy. It requires the building of a large buffer between the monarchy and the healthy human population. The most extreme example of this was constructed in Britain, and it was achieved by the creation of what was mischievously called the “upper class.” The upper class was a selection of families who were kept segregated and placed in special schools, where they were taught that they possessed a magical quality known as “superiority.” This superiority was essentially a watered down, less powerful version of royalty and, needless to say, it didn’t actually exist. Nevertheless the widespread belief in the reality of this form of diet-royalty, in the peer groups which surrounded the monarchy, has proved to be an effective method of keeping royalty ign
orant of their true human nature. As a result, contemporary monarchs are usually unable to identify the cause of the nagging ennui that throbs in their stomach whenever they find themselves alone.

  This seems like a workable solution to the problem of maintaining a head of state. A specially bred family is separated from normal society and deliberately kept ignorant of their true human nature, so that they view their captivity as a form of blessing. Monarchy is presented as a victimless crime, because if a victim does not realize what has been done to them then there will be no complaints. The pet royals comply voluntarily with their owner’s wishes, reliably opening this or waving at that as their imposed schedules dictate, and they never complain or attempt to escape when our backs are turned.

  Yet this is not the full picture. What about all those other innocent people, the so-called upper class, who are partly segregated from society in order to help keep the royals ignorant of what is really going on? These are people who could have lived full, rewarding lives had they not been indoctrinated at birth into the belief that they possess this non-existent magical quality of “superiority.” Unlike the royals, they do mix with the rest of the population, and the result can be awkward. Most people can be relied on to humour the upper class in social situations but it is not always easy, especially when they start discussing their value system. They will often talk about how the special schools that they were indoctrinated in are the best schools in existence. It can be difficult to keep a straight face in this situation, especially if you have ever met people who have graduated from these schools.

  The British system, then, is not victimless, and it is not something that the British would recommend to other nations. The sorry plight of the upper class is something that is all too often ignored in the defence of the British monarchy.

  5. Leading from the Front