I was not born in the United Kingdom, my ancestry is not British, and before 2019, I had never set foot in the country. Yet, this nation has marked my life in a special way. I grew up hearing anecdotes of a post-war Britain from my father, who lived on Baker Street in Marylebone as the son of an Argentine diplomat. My favourite book was Harry Potter, and my special historical interest was the Tower of London, along with the many stories of those beheaded in its courtyards. I never imagined that my first job would be as an Assistant Social Secretary at the British Embassy in Washington, D.C., an experience that would allow me one too many tales of my own.
The enchantment I felt for the grandeur of the country soured as Britain fell from the skyscraping pedestal I had placed it on. I worked there through two Ambassadors, the latter of whom was recalled and arrested due to his personal connection to the disgraced financier Jeffrey Epstein. I was there on October 7th, during the evolving stages of the war in Gaza, and through the mass protests taking over the streets from the Capitol to the White House.
Before the end of my first year, I sought to reconcile the conflicting images of a once-great nation in my head. This could not be the same Foreign Office that shaped Anthony Eden, nor the political ecosystem that once animated Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher. Or so I thought. I took it upon myself to converse with the diplomats. As I sat on the other side of a Counsellor’s desk, he shifted uncomfortably as he struggled to disguise the underlying truth, one of powerlessness and apathy to the horrors of politics. I continued working, spending long hours meticulously curating palatial receptions seeking to impress and flatter those in the Biden administration, just to quickly shift gears into catering to the whims of a new administration. Blueprints and hundreds of pages of work from earlier projects were forgotten.
Meeting after meeting, Britain’s famed character found itself hidden under the obsequious repetition of the ‘special relationship’ mantra. Diplomats feigning relevance fell into routine, purporting that American interests were uniquely and exclusively British interests. Where once I had aspirations to witness regal diplomacy, the realisation took hold that the Brits practised a new brand of diplomacy in the art of deference. And I came to find the United Kingdom, less of a united kingdom and more of a concerted principality.
Every Pretan child learned one date in school, a day hundreds of years ago when the brave men of Beyond would land on the rocky beaches of the Concerted lands. They learned how soldiers strode behind their Prince in admiration as he entered separate countries and left one nation. This was the founding moment of the Concerted Principality. Princes seeking to emulate him succeeded to the throne. Many died a brutal death, some by poisoning, some by blade. And some were deposed by Dukes and Earls and Counts and Barons. But it mattered not, because Prince became Empire and Empire became Glory.
Generations of Concerted Pretans put down the heathens, guided the barbarians and civilised the uncivilised. They scoffed at the pagans, with their adulation of intangible and unreasonable tenets. If they couldn’t see the churchly canons, why should the canons be able to see them? Judge them? It is the Prince who should be heard! The Empire revered.
Pretans’ chests fill with pride and their minds with awe, hearing tales recounted of the fearless longbows in the fight upon Saint Crispin’s Day and the almost lost, but won battle against the Mighty Bull menacing the South East low-lying countryside.
Noble exaltation and mass revolution, and the Pretans spawned a Republican Realm. A Puritan Patron beheaded a monarch. His severed head dropped from the scaffold. The second surviving son caught the head and took the crown. Axe turned to Patron.
The ambitions of a father cost those of the heir. Lo, the spectre of the Patron’s whisper sought refuge in a newborne century. The Prince reigns, but the Chamber rules. Pretans conquered the world, taking their direction to every corner of the globe unbid. The motherland became the workshop of the world. A global dominion took breath.
Pretans were venturesome and proud of it. They not only strayed from the lines of faith but were undismayed by ambiguity, which gave way to opportunity. Business was business, whether with privateers or pesky diplomats. They claimed the seas, basking in the sun beaming through the wake of their ships.
Many ages ran their course. Protectorates broke away, a nasty affair. Mastery of vessels became cunning in the skies, sparing Pretans from rot and ruin after the battle of battles was won at last.
Thereafter, the Prince lay forgotten, the Chamber beset. In a deathbed attempt to reclaim relevance, the Concerted Principality beseeched the continent. Remember, remember, we saved you, too!
Western winds whistled through the capital. The imposing shadow of a once rebellious child darkened the streets. A foreign Prince claimed the Principality and renamed himself King. “Every Pretan must bow down to me, whether they know that they will or not.”
The Chamber roared, it shrieked and bellowed. Outside the Palace, calls were heard. “Abandon them, abandon them all!” Commanded one dignitary. “Close the city gates and build a moat!”, proclaimed another. “We are bound to expose our heads to the King”, murmured the Clerk-at-Arms as he stroked his golden mace, “If we do, He’ll trust us, He will”.
The brightest moment of a star’s life is usually in its final act: a supernova explosion. The Concerted Principality was blinded, left in eerie darkness, unable to find its head or its tail.
A familiar melody of an old patriotic hymn carolled softly, as the final leaves from the Great Oak flitted slowly to the ground.
Glory became Death.