Knights In White Satin

That’s how I imagine him, the present day knight, in something as far away from the heavy necessity of metal protection as satin pants. My son asked me if there were knights in Leyton, and that question reminded me to come back and finish this rant that dates from December 30th. It was pretty close to the worst time of year, statistically speaking, and so I felt that the appearance of one of those pretend knights on the radio was a kind of regal rubbing-in of salt in the still open, weeping wound of the post-Christmas slump.

I quite enjoy Radio 4 in the morning. It plugs the silence between the toaster’s ejections, between the lines of fact and spin. On this particular morning, though, a deep truth came in two short lines, an exchange between presenter Nick Robinson and politician Jacob Rees-Mogg. Robinson, as ever, jaunty and smug, laughing at his own superior view of the subject, Mogg mooing through his mouth. The topic was Liz Truss and her honours list populated with big party donors.

“Good morning Sir Jacob Rees-Mogg” began Robinson, before getting rapidly on to his point. Should someone as spectacularly incapable and dangerously incompetent as Truss be handing out honours to anyone, let alone those rich enough to buy them? Of course, Mogg must have known he was snapped up for this spot on account of him being in receipt of just such an honour, from just such a person (the previous premier muppet, Boris Johnson.).

JRM: “Good morning Mr Robinson”

These italics are mine, although Mogg would clearly recognise his tone in them. You should have heard it. If I could slope them another few degrees to the right I would…as if the italics themselves forced the hapless radio presenter into prostate paroxysms of deference over his lowly “mr”-ness.

Because Mogg, Rees-Mogg, whatever his name is, he clearly felt he had almost won this debate already simply by being a knight. That’ll show him, that “Mr Robinson”, he must have thought, that also-ran namesake of Ann Bancroft’s immortal character, that Robinson who was not immortalised in a Paul Simon song. It was self satisfied sneer of a knight armoured up, tapping the soft and mediocre temples of his assailant lightly with his metal foot. To be called “Sir” before the rest of one’s name, a name that was, like the “sir” bit, decided by someone else, one’s parents, evidently confers something mighty upon a certain type of person. A name, a title, all of these things…let’s face it, it’s no better than a date of birth. It’s a statistical measure of circumstances of the time. I’m named after one of the Clancy Brothers

Anyway, when I was a kid, a knight rescued maidens, fought other knights, said wise things and, where necessary, carried them out. In any case, it was something of an outdoor pursuit. There was some kind of honour involved, and a bit of gentlemanly violence, yes, it’s true. So I want Mogg on horseback, jousting on minute, talking his way out of a confrontation with a large, winged dragon the next.

Earn it, mate.

As it happened, the rest of the debate was obscured by my four year son’s demands for granola, but I’d heard enough. The rest was probably all game playing, point scoring, jousting in its own way, of the verbal kind. What I don’t understand is how anyone can put up with letters, titles or any such add-ons. I mean, look at this:

Sir Liam Noble.

It lends me an air of sleaze and corruption that I wouldn’t have the brains to sustain or the balls to put in my signature. If the shame of it doesn’t outweigh the gains, then you’re living in another world. Even the white satin pants would mess with my head, a too-smooth, frictionless frisson known only to the wearer, me, obscured by some ill-fitting suit wandering around with my self-satisfied face poking out of the top. But what a temptation it is to read all this as a great big metaphor for the state of the world, chasing approval, likes and letter after our names, honours bestowed, our social media faces looking back at us.

Of course I’d like to be offered a knighthood, if only to turn it down so I could have “Refused Knighthood Noble” on my resumé, like one of those people who turned down the OBE. I’d theatrically hand back the white satin pants as they blew in the wind like a flag of surrender, leaving me on hand free to get the selfie.