Arthurian Legend Explains British Parliamentary Dysfunction Far Better Than Political Science Has Ever Managed
Dear Diary,
I have solved British politics. The answer is King Arthur. Not the historical figure, who was probably a sixth-century Romano-British warlord of limited documentary evidence, but the mythological one — the Once and Future King, who according to legend did not die but fell into an enchanted sleep beneath a hill, waiting for Britain’s hour of greatest need before he rises again to lead the nation. I believe Arthur is under Westminster. I believe he has been there for approximately fifteen hundred years. And I believe the present state of British governance makes considerably more sense if you accept that the country is being managed by people who are literally sitting on their sleeping king.
The Myth, For Those Who Require It
The legend of Arthur’s sleep is one of the oldest and most geographically disputed in British mythology. Various hills and caves claim to be the location: Cadbury Castle in Somerset, Craig-y-Dinas in Wales, the Eildon Hills in Scotland. The common elements are always the same: Arthur sleeps, attended by his knights, waiting for the horn to sound. The English Heritage account of Arthurian legend is admirably comprehensive while remaining carefully neutral on the question of Arthur’s actual current location. I take this as institutional discretion.
The Westminster Evidence
Consider the following. Westminster Palace is built on what was once Thorney Island, a patch of raised ground in the Thames marshes. It has been a seat of power since the eleventh century. It has accumulated an extraordinary density of history, tradition, ceremony, and procedural complexity that has no rational explanation other than the deliberate preservation of an institution whose real purpose has been forgotten by the people running it.
If a sleeping legendary king were directly beneath your parliament building, you would develop, over the centuries, an instinctive reverence you could not quite articulate. You would add ceremony. You would add costume. You would speak in forms of language that belong to another era. You would, eventually, convert democracy into procedural origami and not fully understand why but feel strongly that the procedure must be preserved. This is a perfect description of Parliament. I rest my case.
The Hour of Greatest Need: A Timeline
The legend says Arthur wakes at Britain’s darkest hour. We must ask: what constitutes the darkest hour, and are we in it? The English Civil War did not wake him. The Blitz did not wake him. Brexit did not wake him, though I understand it was considered. The present condition — in which officials publicly request privacy for people who are professionally public while the housing crisis continues unaddressed — also has not woken him.
I am beginning to think that either the horn has not been blown, or Arthur has heard it, assessed the situation, and decided to stay in bed. This would be a completely rational response. Waking up after fifteen hundred years to find that the ravens are considering industrial action and that the Special Relationship requires the King to fly to Washington would test anyone’s commitment to duty.
The Knights: Current Whereabouts
If Arthur is under Westminster, his knights are presumably there too, sleeping in an anteroom somewhere between the division lobbies and the committee corridor. This would explain a great deal about the acoustics. Sir Lancelot has presumably been asleep long enough to have mostly forgiven himself. Merlin, if I had to guess, is somewhere in the policy advisory structure, producing documents that sound reasonable on first reading and become progressively more confusing the longer you think about them.
The Museum of London’s material on Arthurian connections to the city confirms that London has historically positioned itself in proximity to Arthurian legend as a legitimising strategy. Someone in the eleventh century had the same theory as me and built a palace on it. I consider this validation.
Arthur sleeps. The horn is unblown. Parliament sits on its king. And in Knightsbridge, we watch, and wait, and wonder whether we will get a parking permit in time for the eventual waking.
Yours, Paige Shiver
More satire at thedailymash.co.uk.
The Question of What Wakes the King
I have spent some time considering what, in practical terms, would constitute the signal. The legend speaks of Britain’s darkest hour. In the original Arthurian sources, the horn is sounded, or the sword is drawn, or someone calls the king by his true name in the right circumstances. None of these instructions translate obviously to a modern parliamentary context.
My best current theory is that the alarm requires a specific combination: a Prime Minister who cannot recall what the mace is for, a Foreign Secretary who refers to Magna Carta as “that old thing,” and a Chancellor who proposes abolishing the concept of historical precedent for budgetary reasons. At that point, and apparently only at that point, the enchantment breaks, the knights stir in their antechambers, and the once and future king rises to look at the state of the country and immediately wishes he had stayed asleep.
I consider this a feature of the myth, not a bug. Britain has always needed the threat of something to keep itself sufficiently together. The ravens do it for the Crown. Arthur does it for the rest.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/
