Opinion

It’s hard to keep track of all the “unprecedented” moments in Britain’s royal soap opera, but King Charles III evicting his disgraced brother from Windsor Lodge might just be the one that makes historians choke on their tea. Andrew Mountbatten Windsor, formerly known as Prince Andrew, once the nation’s dashing “spare” and now its most expensive embarrassment, has been officially stripped of all royal titles, military honours, and—most mercifully—his sense of dignity. The palace insists this “final severance” was about protecting the monarchy’s integrity.

After years of limping through scandal, Andrew’s latest demotion leaves him as plain “Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor,” a man now known primarily for his friendship with convicted sex trafficker, Jeffrey Epstein, a disastrous BBC interview, and a legal settlement he insists wasn’t an admission of guilt. The King’s decision to finally give his brother the royal boot in October 2025 was presented as an act of “duty and decency.” But let’s be honest—this wasn’t a moral reckoning. It was brand management. Buckingham Palace has become Britain’s most expensive PR agency, and Andrew the unpaid intern who tanked the campaign.

The monarchy has long sold itself as a beacon of stability. Yet in practice, it operates more like a family-run corporation addicted to scandal and funded by the UK public purse. According to 

, the royal household’s annual grant—already £86.3 million—is set to soar to £132 million in 2025–26. That’s before you add the £150 million in security costs quietly absorbed by police budgets and the £96 million in “lost revenue” from royal estates that could actually earn the public money. By the time you total it, the Windsors are burning through roughly half a billion pounds a year. For that price, Britain could hire 18,000 NHS nurses, or at least buy Andrew a lifetime supply of paying off people he’s never met.

It’s an extraordinary contradiction: a family that styles itself as the body of the nation itself, yet has to keep publicly amputating its own limbs to stay upright. Andrew’s downfall, though extreme, isn’t an outlier—it’s the monarchy distilled. A hereditary system with no democratic oversight, accountable only when the tabloids turn feral. Imagine any elected official facing accusations of sexual misconduct, ties to a criminal, and a catastrophic interview. They’d be gone within the week—at least in the UK (at least one would hope). Yet the monarchy handled it as a “private family matter” until the stench became too strong to ignore.

And still, the Palace’s solution wasn’t justice—it was distance. “The King’s thoughts are with the victims,” the official statement read, while ushering Andrew out the back gate. It’s the royal equivalent of sweeping a scandal under a £369 million Buckingham Palace rug, a sum the public is now paying to refurbish the building that quite literally houses their feudal overlords.

Of course, we’ve seen this drama before. The monarchy has a knack for recycling its own tragedies, as if the family tree doubles as a scriptwriting team. Elizabeth and Margaret were cast as the dutiful saint and the rebel sister. Their father, King George VI, became monarch only because his brother Edward VIII abdicated for love—and arguably for the tabloids. Then came William and Harry, the dutiful heir and the disillusioned exile. And now, Charles and Andrew: the responsible king forced to banish the rogue sibling. Different century, same pantomime. It’s almost as if the monarchy relies on familial conflict to justify its own existence—an endless rerun that keeps the public rooting for “the good one,” whichever Windsor happens to be least embarrassing that year.

 calculated that the true cost of the monarchy now exceeds £500 million a year, while countries with elected ceremonial presidents—like Ireland—manage the same duties for under £5 million. The arithmetic isn’t complicated: democracy is cheaper. Yet we’re told the royals are worth it because they bring in tourism. A claim debunked repeatedly by 

, which points out that tourists come for the palaces, not the people inside them.

And what of the institution’s moral claim to legitimacy? Polling by 

 shows support for the monarchy has collapsed to historic lows—just 51% think it’s still “important,” down from 86% in the 1980s. Among the under-35s, a majority already prefer a republic. Which means the next time Britain throws a coronation, half the crowd may be there to protest rather than to wave flags.

But perhaps the real absurdity is how much energy Britain still spends defending the notion that one family, by sheer genetic luck, should embody the nation. This is an institution that bars Catholics from the throne, keeps priceless loot from colonised nations in its crown, and calls itself “Defender of the Faith” in a country where fewer than half the people now identify as Christian.

The monarchy’s defenders insist it provides continuity. And in a sense, they’re right—it’s a continuous reminder that Britain has never quite completed installing its democracy. Every time a royal scandal hits, the Palace doubles down on “duty,” the public shrugs, and the same family carries on, polished but unchanged. Meanwhile, the NHS cuts staff, the trains don’t run, and Andrew has been left wondering whether he can list “formerly royal” on his CV.

So yes, King Charles can strip his brother of titles, exile him from Windsor, and issue a statement about “protecting the institution.” But the real question is: why does the institution still need protecting at all? Perhaps it’s time we stop pretending the Crown is a shield for Britain and start admitting it’s a mirror—one that reflects a country still addicted to hierarchy, scandal, and nostalgia dressed as grace. The prince may be gone, but the problem remains: a royal family clinging to privilege in a nation that’s finally starting to wonder whether the myth has simply run out of charm.

A Royal Rinse: Charles Scrubs Andrew, but the Stain Remains

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