We must never let daylight in upon magic,” wrote Walter Bagehot, the great Victorian author of The English Constitution, about our monarchy.
He was right, and his principle applies to the few other British institutions to which magic attaches. So I am alarmed that tonight the BBC will, for the first time, air controversial views by the head of our longest and most respected media dynasty, the Dimblebys.
Until now, successive British generations have grown up with the reassuring idea that the Dimblebys are immutable and above controversy. Royal personages may come and go, but it is always a Dimbleby who presides.
“The Dimbleby is dead. Long live the Dimbleby!” is the traditional BBC formulation.
Richard Dimbleby was the media priest-king who presented the coronation of Elizabeth II to the world in 1953. It was Richard’s son, David Dimbleby, who performed the same role over the committal of her body after her state funeral nearly 70 years later. (A usurper, Huw Edwards, was commentator on the funeral itself, and look what happened to him.)
Yet now David, ancient and revered head of the dynasty, is expressing personal views in public.
He criticises the “hypocrisy” of our present King in maintaining public neutrality while privately expressing strong views to ministers. Now it turns out that Great David, who fulfilled his dynastic, constitutional role so well by eschewing opinions, is airing lots of them. He thinks a republic might be as good as monarchy, that Charles III, when Prince of Wales, was “very opinionated” and royals have “antiquated” privileges. He condemns bowing and curtsying.
It matters not, for these purposes, whether the Dimbleby dynasty’s hereditary chieftain is right or wrong. What matters is that he is saying these things, and thus letting daylight in upon his own family’s magic.
The natural consequence of this King Lear-like foolishness is the dissolution of the dynasty; indeed, David’s heir, Henry, has never been anointed with the traditional television rights (and rites). Instead, he pursues a humbler course – telling the British people what they should be eating. If the crowned heads of BBC broadcasting can no longer pass down their roles to their children, nothing is sacred.
Perhaps most worrying of Great David’s indiscretions is his discussion of money. The Royal family has “vast wealth” supported by certain privileges, he complains, and “they can hide their investments”.
We staunch Dimbleby-ists tremble at the precedent he thus sets. Captious, ill-conditioned persons already remark that the Dimblebys seem to be extremely rich. Enviously, such people whine that the amount of the Dimbleby earnings, raised by an ancient feudal levy known as the television licence fee, are not subject to public scrutiny. If the figures became public, what shocking lèse-majesté that would be.
