Game of Thrones

Off With Their Titles

You know, sometimes I think the British monarchy really misses the old days when a simple beheading could clear the schedule nicely. None of this crisis management or strategic communications. Just a quick chop, a few gasps, and home in time for mead.

These days, royal punishment is much less dramatic. Nobody’s getting executed; they’re just being quietly demoted via press release and exiled to some damp mansion with heating from the Cromwell era. Progress, apparently.

Back in the Tudors’ day, the system was clear: annoy the monarch, lose your head. Boom. Anne Boleyn, Mary Queen of Scots—job done. Heads rolled, lessons were learned, and nobody needed a statement from the Palace.

Now? If you cross your cousin, you don’t lose your head; you lose your seat. At the coronation. Behind the corgis.

And it’s not just any corgi; it’s that one, the one that looks like it knows what you did and is thinking about leaking it to The Guardian.

From beheadings we moved into the age of deluxe disgrace.

Take Napoleon. Yes, exiled, but to an island with sea views and a decent rosé. Or Edward VIII, who abdicated for love and was rewarded with a villa in Paris, silk dressing gowns, and the sort of self-satisfaction only available to men who ruin empires and still get breakfast in bed.

I sometimes think I’d quite like that kind of punishment. “Nicole, you’ve been terribly naughty, so we’re sending you to the Riviera with a stipend and a daily croissant.” I mean, fine.

Fast-forward to today, and The Firm has swapped the sword for the spin doctor.

Henry VIII had executioners; Charles III has editors. Courtiers no longer whisper in dark corridors; they brief the BBC off the record, then say “no comment” on the record.

We saw the machinery at work with Diana, the original victim of royal optics. She was too honest, too emotional, too human. The Palace prefers feelings expressed via flower arrangement.

They’re freezing me out, she said once, and they did. With the precision of a Dyson fan set to “Arctic.”

Then came Harry and Meghan, who left to find peace and found Netflix. The Palace handled it beautifully in that passive-aggressive “Oh no, we’re fine, honestly” way only British institutions can. No scenes, no statements, just the slow removal of balcony privileges and a couple of subtle unfollows.

And then there’s Andrew.

Oh, Andrew.

He’s like that bloke at the family barbecue who insists on telling his military stories, only his end with Newsnight and an FBI file.

Once the dashing war hero, he somehow managed to turn an interview about friendship into a televised disaster that made the nation collectively hide behind the sofa.

Now titles, HRH, patronages—all gone. All that remains is a man, a navy blazer, and a press release so awkward it should’ve come with a health warning.

He was nicknamed “Baby Grumpling” as a child, which I think tells you everything you need to know. Even at school, he’d say, “Do you know who I am?”

Fergie’s still loyally by his side, like a woman clinging to the wreckage of a yacht because she liked the cocktails. She’s there with the big smile, the hair, the endless optimism, and an Instagram feed that screams “manifesting abundance” while quietly drowning in debt.

Rumour has it Andrew’s about to be relocated to a far-flung corner of the Sandringham Estate, which is royal-speak for “We’d deport you if we legally could.” His naval pension, which wouldn’t stretch to the fuel in his Range Rover, means the King will cover expenses. So basically a royal on welfare, but with antique furniture.

The last time a Duke lost his title was in 1919 for treason. Andrew’s crime was less treason, more television. But the result feels just as final.

Now the monarchy has learned that blood is bad for PR. Why bother chopping off heads when you can crop them out of photos?

These days, royal discipline means being uninvited, unfollowed, and gently ghosted by The Telegraph. It’s a slow fade to irrelevance, with velvet curtains and decent lighting.

Henry VIII rewrote the succession; King Charles just revises the guest list.

And so, here we are. Prince Andrew, not executed but erased.

No balcony appearances. No patronages. Just the faint hum of an Aga and the rustle of the Daily Mail landing on the doorstep like an overdue reckoning.

He hasn’t been beheaded. He’s been politely deleted.

No blood. No rebellion. Just the comforting purr of the Palace PR machine and a discreet text from Camilla that says, “Sending love. Stay off TV.”

And somewhere in Sandringham, the artist formerly known as Prince will measure his days in teabags, which, fittingly, come in Earl Grey.

Nicole James is an award-winning writer of fiction and non-fiction, with a career that reads like the contents of a very glamorous, slightly chaotic handbag, filled with glossy magazines, boarding passes, and just a hint of ink-stained panic.

She’s spent years writing columns for a variety of newspapers and magazines. These days, she appears in The Epoch Times and Quadrant, when not buried under a mountain of PhD papers, valiantly attempting to complete a doctorate in Creative Writing while her cat judges her from the printer.