There’s only one great British institution that’s really worth rooting for

Imagine that, as far back as you can remember, you’ve known a day will come when you will participate in an ancient ceremony which will confirm the entire purpose of your life in front of the nation you have been chosen by an accident of birth to lead. Seven decades or more pass by and then finally – finally – the big day arrives. But you’ve failed to learn your lines.

The coronation of Charles III has been sufficiently reviewed, parsed and in some quarters reverentially applauded at this stage. But apart from a few scolds on Twitter, few have remarked on the fact that the new monarch appeared incapable of uttering phrases such as “I will” or “I solemnly promise to do so” without squinting at a cue card held in front of him by a flunkey (the Promptmaster Royal?). Throughout the proceedings in Westminster Abbey, the new monarch peered at these cards, even though the meatiest bits of his oath amounted to a mere four or five sentences.

Prince William similarly read his own pledge of loyalty (total: 31 words) to his father with his eyes fixed on a card. Nobody ever suggested the Windsors were the sharpest knives in the cutlery drawer but we expect more from five-year-olds with supporting roles in nativity plays.

According to a YouGov poll, 64 per cent of Charles’ subjects cared either not very much or not at all about the coronation, and it’s hard to see last weekend’s mildewed proceedings stirring up much additional enthusiasm. Which, regardless of your constitutional preferences, is a bit of a shame. In its long post-Brexit fugue, the UK badly needed a bit of a celebration to remind itself that it’s still capable of having a party.

How Ireland drinks now: Teetotallers, wine-o’clockers and ex-drinkers

---

Mark Moriarty: two 15-minute meals made easy, with a few simple tricks

---

Every time I travel abroad I am gripped by the fear that Ireland is making a fool of me

---

A personal housing plan: Move to Newry, buy for €150,000 less, commute to Dublin

---

If you wanted an absurd mash-up of high camp, cod-nationalism and over the top costume changes (and who doesn’t?), the version on display on Merseyside has been infinitely superior to the one in London

What a stroke of luck, then, that it’s Eurovision week in Liverpool, a city which, to judge by the booing of God Save the King at Anfield on coronation day, is not particularly keen on this whole monarchy business.

If you wanted an absurd mash-up of high camp, cod-nationalism and over the top costume changes (and who doesn’t?), the version on display on Merseyside has been infinitely superior to the one in London. A highly polished slice of modern entertainment, it represents, to reclaim a much-abused phrase, global Britain at its finest.

Here in Ireland, we tend to gloss over how important the United Kingdom’s contribution has been to the history of the whole Eurovision enterprise. As Laura Slattery pointed out on the In the News podcast this week, the BBC has been central to Eurovision since its inception.

[ Eurovision 2023 TV review: One of the finalists will haunt your dreams even more than Conor O’Donohoe’s gold catsuit ]

The European Broadcasting Union (EBU), which runs the show, was born in 1950 in Torquay (home of that great European, Basil Fawlty), and the BBC was for many years first among equals in terms of the resources, talent and technical skills it brought to live entertainment. Likewise, for decades British popular music led the way in challenging American hegemony. Taken together, British pop and British telly were the benchmark to which other nations aspired.

Bad results

Like Ireland, the UK has suffered a long string of bad results in the televoting era. But Britain’s Eurovision history offers a counternarrative to the story of Europhobia that culminated in exit from the European Union (a body that has nothing to do with the EBU or Eurovision).

The potentially tricky business of co-hosting with Ukraine is being navigated skilfully between the twin traps of glibness and mawkishness

In this attractive alternative history, Britain is a strong, widely admired voice at the heart of Europe. Secure in its identity, committed to the highest standards of public service and the most professional technical standards, it also doesn’t take itself too seriously.

[ King Charles is a walking, breathing, polo-playing mascot for a gloomy nation ]

[ ‘This is boring’: King Charles ‘complained over timekeeping and wait’ before coronation, lip-reader says ]

All of that has been on display this week in Liverpool. At time of writing, things seem to be going swimmingly. The staging is the best it’s ever been. The presenters are excellent. The potentially tricky business of co-hosting with Ukraine is being navigated skilfully between the twin traps of glibness and mawkishness. Everything looks effortless, which is the best compliment you can pay to a live show of this complexity. Everyone knows their lines.

Compare and contrast with the furrowed brows and strangulated tones of Westminster Abbey. It was the previous coronation in 1953 that began the process of transforming BBC television from a promising experiment into a national cultural institution beloved and admired as much for its light entertainment prowess as for its journalism and factual programming. From Top of the Pops to Morecambe and Wise to Strictly Come Dancing, the BBC has set the very international standards of excellence and innovation that Brexiteers claim to dream of but rarely show much talent for.

Which may be why they’re so keen to tear the whole thing down. For those of us observing from outside, though, there’s only one great British institution that’s really worth rooting for.