The Dutch royal family, that quaint relic of a bygone mercantile empire, has done something remarkable. They have won the World Cup. Twice, apparently.
And our own Windsor clan, ever the dutiful cheerleaders, have sent their congratulations. One can almost hear the stiff upper lip quivering with envy. The House of Orange, you see, understands something our own monarchs have forgotten: relevance.
While King Willem-Alexander and Queen Máxima were busy being photographed in football kits, embracing their nation's triumph as their own, our own Charles was probably inspecting a hedge or worrying about the carbon footprint of his state car. The contrast is glaring. The Dutch crown has fused itself with the passions of the people.
It has become a symbol of national pride, not a museum piece. Our monarchy, by contrast, has retreated into a fog of bland platitudes and woke pamphleteering. They are terrified of being seen to celebrate anything too vigorously, lest they offend some obscure interest group.
The Dutch, meanwhile, are not afraid to be a little vulgar, a little triumphant. They know that a monarchy that does not visibly share in the people's joys is a monarchy that will soon be discarded. The Windsor congratulation is a weak tea affair, a formal note sent from a palace that has long since lost its nerve.
The House of Orange's World Cup double is a reminder that crowns are not just for wearing; they are for winning. Our own crown, however, seems content to just sit there, polished but lifeless, waiting for the inevitable. The Dutch have shown us what a monarchy can be: a leader, not a manager.
Until our royals learn that lesson, they will remain spectators in their own nation's story.