I was never a monarchist. One of my earliest memories is of being a bolshy little girl refusing to stand up for the national anthem played (as was the custom in places of public performance back in the twentieth century) after a showing of ‘Born Free’ at Bristol Gaumont in 1966. Still howling at the travails of Elsa the Lion, I resisted my mothers pleas to get to my feet. I’d like to think that even at the tender age of seven I was already a keen meritocrat and a loather of nepotism – but I think it more likely that I was already an attention-seeking diva.
Imagine my surprise when a couple of years back I became quite the fan of the Royal Family. I could be found singing the praises of Duchess Kate and mourning the passing of Duke Phil.
It’s hardly an egalitarian twist to have millions of poor people bowing down to a man who is where he is through an accident of birth
After the death of the Queen, I came over completely full-English, snarling in this magazine in an essay
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