My opinion on the royal family may not receive applause in all British households, but I’ve come to think they’re an outdated, unnecessary institution. The older I get, the more republican I become.
They’re a dysfunctional family – elevated to a level of deference that more than irks me. That’s not to say I haven’t respected some of them. When the Queen died, I cried. That surprised me.
But even her Christmas speeches – all that talk of tolerance, respect, equality – always jarred slightly when delivered from a room dripping in gold, privilege, and eye-watering wealth. It felt like being lectured on minimalism by someone sat on a throne made of diamonds.
And yet.
There I was – a paying oik at Royal Ascot. And I must admit I loved parts of it. The flags, for a start. Proper flags. Not the tatty eyesores weaponised by racist halfwits with two teeth and the IQ of a turnip. Just… flags. Displayed without irony or menace. I felt British. Actually British.
I was suited – a get up that had seen two weddings and a baptism and frankly deserved its day out – and I drank in the pomp and ceremony along with aggressively overpriced alcohol. My mate Chris bought two bottles of Whispering Angel at £77 a pop (which I knew full well was £19.99 in Waitrose), and we clunked plastic wine cups like we were in Monaco rather than Berkshire.
Then came the Royal procession. Up on the big screen first, the usual line-up: King Charles, Queen Camilla, and a supporting cast of people I couldn’t name if my life depended on it. I craned my neck, peered over the early-arrivals hogging the prime spots, and squinted – partly at the sun and partly at the thought, “Here we go…”. That familiar internal eye roll. The republican in me sharpening its knives.
Sociologist Émile Durkheim talked about something called “collective effervescence” – that strange, almost electric feeling you get when you’re part of a crowd participating in a shared ritual. Sporting events, concerts, religious ceremonies… or, as it turns out, Royal Ascot. The spectacle isn’t just visual; it’s social glue. You don’t just watch it – you absorb it. For a moment, my individual cynicism was diluted in a crowd-sized cocktail of belonging.
Then there’s Benedict Anderson’s idea of nations as “imagined communities”. The point being: most of us will never meet each other, but we still feel connected through shared symbols – flags, rituals, institutions. The monarchy, whether you or I like it or not, is one of the biggest, oldest symbols we’ve got. In that moment, I wasn’t saluting Charles-the-man; I was brushing up against Charles-the-symbol.
And Michael Billig’s concept of “banal nationalism” might explain why it felt oddly comfortable rather than aggressive. He argued that national identity is often reinforced in quiet, everyday ways – flags, ceremonies, habits – not just loud, chest-beating patriotism. Ascot, at its best, is that quieter version. It feels like belonging rather than shouting.
Put simply, the setting affected me. The crowd. The ritual. The proximity. The stripping away of irony. For a few minutes, the monarchy stopped being a political argument and became part of a shared experience – curated, polished, and undeniably effective.
So, here’s where I’ve landed with it:
I don’t think I was having some Damascene conversion. I’m not about to start collecting commemorative plates or defending inherited privilege down the pub. I still think the whole setup is outdated, excessive, and fundamentally a bit absurd.
But in that moment, stood there with a plastic wine cup in hand and overpriced rosé in my system, I felt something real. And I can’t shrug that off just because it doesn’t fit neatly with what I think I believe.
It wasn’t about Charles or Camilla; not really. It was the atmosphere, the crowd, the ritual of it all. For a few minutes I wasn’t analysing or judging. I was just… part of it. Part of something shared that didn’t feel hijacked, ugly, or weaponised.
And that’s the bit that’s stuck with me. Because maybe my issue isn’t with the feeling itself – that flicker of pride, that sense of belonging – but with who normally gets to own it and how it gets used. At Ascot, for once, it felt untainted.
I’m still a republican – that hasn’t changed. But I suppose I’ve had to admit to myself that identity, like most things worth a damn, isn’t as clean or as logical as I’d like it to be. Sometimes it turns up uninvited, dressed in a morning suit, and catches you off guard.
@ iankirke.bsky.social