In a development that has sent shockwaves of envy through the British establishment, the Dutch royal family has been spotted celebrating not one, but two World Cup victories. While the House of Orange-Nassau gleefully waved flags and engaged in what experts describe as 'terrifying levels of public happiness,' our own constitutional figureheads were reportedly buckling under the strain of a particularly heavy coronation chicken sandwich at a charity bake sale in Slough.
Let us pause to examine the facts. The Netherlands, a country that exists primarily as a bicycle shed with a cheese problem, has somehow managed to secure both the men's and women's hockey World Cups. King Willem-Alexander and Queen Máxima, radiant as a pair of freshly polished clogs, attended the celebrations with the sort of genuine joy that would cause a Palace spin doctor to spontaneously combust.
Meanwhile, across the North Sea, constitutional stability watchers were falling over themselves to praise our own monarchy's splendid inertia. 'At least our royals haven't done anything embarrassing recently,' said a retired colonel who has clearly blocked out the memory of Prince Andrew's Newsnight interview. 'The King didn't drop his sword at the State Opening of Parliament. That's progress.'
Let me be clear: I have nothing against the Dutch. They gave us gin, though they call it jenever, which sounds like a minor respiratory complaint. But this dual victory has exposed a uncomfortable truth. The British monarchy, in its current form, exists in a state of perpetual ceremonial stasis. They open hospitals, they wave, they occasionally get pelted with eggs by republicans in cardigans. But winning things? That would require a level of kinetic effort that the Palace simply cannot countenance.
Consider the contrast. The Dutch royals were photographed hugging athletes, their faces contorted in what looked suspiciously like unguarded happiness. Our own royals specialise in a very particular brand of glassy-eyed detachment, perfected over centuries of inbreeding and the consumption of undercooked game birds. It's not their fault. They're trapped in a constitutional limbo where any display of actual enthusiasm would be considered unseemly.
Constitutional experts have hailed British stability as a bulwark against the chaos of nations whose monarchs occasionally break into a jog. 'We might not win anything,' said Professor Alistair Wembley-Bloomsbury, of the Institute for Doing Nothing Particularly Well. 'But by God, we maintain a consistent level of mediocrity. That's the British way. Calm, steady, and utterly devoid of success.'
Which is, I suppose, one way of looking at it. But as the Dutch celebrate their improbable double, one cannot help but wonder: what would it take to inject a bit of that Dutch dynamism into our own dreary pageantry? Perhaps a King who occasionally bursts into a trot. A Queen who high-fives a commoner. A prince who does something other than fly helicopters and wear jumpers with whales on them.
As I write this, I'm sipping a glass of gin that is almost certainly of Dutch origin. It's warm and vaguely medicinal, like the monarchy itself. And I realise with a sudden, horrifying clarity: we don't need to win World Cups. We never have. Our national sport is queuing, and we're world champions at that. So let the Dutch have their trophies. We'll be here, maintaining stability, and slowly, inexorably, drinking our way towards oblivion.
