Elevate Your Corporate Event: No Sweat!

As an Irish aristocrat of such ancient pedigree that my ancestors remember when the English were still experimenting with trousers, I approach the subject of Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor and his appalling ex-wife much as one approaches an unlabelled sausage in a provincial buffet: with curiosity, distaste, and the sense that it will, in some obscure way, explain the British Empire.

Let us begin with the family firm. The so-called “Windsors” are, of course, Saxe-Coburg-Gothas hastily rebranded during a previous disagreement with Germany. It was the monarchical equivalent of hiding the Aldi prosecco in a Fortnum’s bag and hoping the guests are drunk enough not to notice. They are not a dynasty so much as a German theme pub that got out of hand.

Andrew is what happens when a system designed to produce one functioning heir insists on producing spares for export. This is Second Son Syndrome, the engine-room of English feudal colonialism. The first son got the title and the big house. The second son got a commission, a horse, and a ticket to whichever part of the map had recently been coloured pink. Thus were the surplus Hons flung at India, Africa, the Caribbean and Ireland to “win their fortunes”, by which was meant “bully the locals while sending home amusing letters to Mama”.

The Brits industrialised this into a philosophy: Titled at home, Entitled abroad. The Titled had land; the Entitled took everyone else’s. Over centuries, the second sons left a global trail of half-built railways, offended natives and golf clubs.

Andrew is the late imperial edition of this model – cavalry not required, helicopter provided. He joined the Navy, of course, and did some perfectly respectable things in uniform, but the real vocation was the uniform itself. Rank, for Andrew, was primarily a cosplay opportunity. The man wore medals like a child wears stickers: for being present when something happened in his general vicinity.

Then came the great romantic moment. When Andrew married Sarah Ferguson, a communist newspaper is said to have headlined it: “Scrounger Marries Parasite”. For once, dialectical materialism nailed it. It ought to have been adopted as their joint Latin motto: Mendicarius Parasitam Duco. On the coat of arms, two credit cards rampant, over a bouncing cheque couchant.

Sarah arrived as the People’s Redhead – hearty, horsey, allegedly “down to earth.” What this meant in practice was that she had a God-given charisma for acquiring unsecured credit. If Andrew was Titled, she was Entitled with compound interest. Together they discovered that the world is full of very rich, very lonely men who are thrilled to lend you villas, jets and envelopes, provided you wave vaguely in their direction and call them “dear friend”.

Their lives became a rolling seminar in petty corruption: free ski chalets, free flights, free this, free that, all under the ancient royal principle that “if it’s not nailed down, it’s a gesture of affection”. Sarah treated the royal phone book as a natural resource to be extracted; Andrew treated the world as a duty-free shop in which the only duty was other people’s.

Then came the truly farcical phase: the unsuitable billionaire friend, the allegations, the out-of-court settlements, and, crowning glory, the famous television interview in which Andrew attempted to clear his name by explaining his relationship to pizza and perspiration. At that point the whole edifice passed from tragedy through farce into surrealist performance art. “I do not sweat,” he effectively announced, “I merely leak entitlement.”

Here we reach the nub: the difference between being titled and feeling entitled. A title is, technically, a description: Duke of This, Earl of That, Viscount of Somewhere You’d Rather Not Live. Entitlement is a condition of the soul in which one believes those words mean: “I may do as I please, for the consequences will be borne by staff.” Andrew was born titled and trained entitled. Sarah married into the title and arrived pre-installed with the entitlement. For a time, Britain was happy to pay for both.

Their joint saga is not an aberration; it is brand consistency. Monarchy is feudalism by subscription: you pay annually in deference and tax, and in return the family promises to wave at you from balconies and occasionally open a garden centre. It worked, more or less, when the Titled remembered to pretend to serve. It fails spectacularly when the Entitled start selling access like dodgy festival wristbands.

As for the moral of this cautionary tale, it is simple enough for even a second son to grasp. If you breed generation after generation to believe that other people’s bodies, wallets and attention are part of the estate, they will behave accordingly. If you maintain a caste whose official role is to be “above politics”, they will quietly attempt to be above consequences as well.

From my own lofty but impecunious perch at Cashelmagaleen House, I still occasionally use my own absurd titles – Ninth Earl of This, Twelfth Baron of That – but only for restaurant bookings, and never as a defence in a criminal trial. The difference, dear reader, is that I know my nobility is a joke. Andrew and Sarah thought theirs was a business model.

The British may yet keep their monarchy as a sort of national heritage re-enactment society. But if they must keep the Titled, they should cease indulging the Entitled. Otherwise they will go on producing Andrews: second sons of a second-rate idea, still convinced the sun never sets on their right to help themselves.