Those casting their eye over the candidate list for the chancellorship of Oxford University might be forgiven for believing that social mobility has drastically reduced, returning to Trollopean quantities of languid toffs taking part in public life. Competing for the honour are Lord Peter Mandelson and Lord William Hague, both, you might think, the younger sons of Dukes; alongside them is Baroness Jan Royall, who I presume is the unmarried daughter of a European aristo. Lady Eilish Angiolini, remarkably, is correctly so, as she is a Lady of the Thistle, though not an Earl’s daughter: this usage, like haggis, is an anomaly of the Scots. The only commoner on the list is the Rt Hon. Dominic Grieve. Well done him for pulling himself up by his bootstraps.
Titles should be deployed properly, or not at all
These days, those who have a title don’t seem to know, or care, how to use it. The candidates are emphatically not the gilded scions of ancient families, though you couldn’t know this from the way they present themselves. (The mistakes, incidentally, are their own: a notice on the Oxford University website announces so. Snark.) Even newspapers don’t know what to do. Some coyly insert peers’ first names inside brackets: Lord (John) Jones, they write, as if faintly embarrassed about the whole enterprise. Wives of knights are dubbed ‘Lady Elaine Smith’ instead of ‘Lady Smith’. And don’t get me started on the craze for ‘Catherine, Princess of Wales’, as if she had been divorced.
The rot’s been setting in for yonks. In 2012, I heard a presenter on Radio 3 referring to ‘Baroness Julia Neuberger’. I wrote a letter to them (it was a slow day); a reply informed me that this mishandling was a ‘matter of personal style’. If it’s personal style for a national broadcaster not to care about accuracy in small things, then how can we trust it in larger ones?
You may think this doesn’t count as a burning issue. Yet it does matter, and not just for reasons of precision. Our system of honours distinguishes between peerages and courtesy titles. We tend not to dole out hereditary peerages any more (unlike the Belgian King, who joyfully made the astronaut Dirk Frimout a Viscount), but we still give out life peerages. A hereditary peer usually holds more than one title, so the Duke of Richmond and Gordon is also the Earl of March and Kinrara. A peer’s eldest son is, by courtesy (hence ‘courtesy title’) bunged the next title down: it doesn’t make him a peer. The younger children of Dukes and Marquesses are Lords and Ladies (in front of their first name, viz. Lord Frederick Gordon-Lennox); and so forth, tumbling down the ranks until you reach the Barons, whose sprogs receive nothing more for their troubles than an Hon. Should a hereditary peer die, his (or her, in some cases) eldest bags the title, and all the siblings get bumped up a level. Life peerages don’t change: the clue is in the name. On your death, your eldest remains an Hon.
And thus, crucially, we tell the difference between peers and those who are merely aristocratic sprigs. Lord Hague of Richmond, the product of a comprehensive school, and Baron Mandelson, a grammar school boy, most certainly gained their titles through merit. Look, it’s easy: Lord or Lady Smith for a peerage. Lord Thomas or Lady Thomasina Smith for a courtesy title.
As for the reason why they muddle it: I don’t think Lord William Hague wants to pretend that he’s really blue-blooded and has a Marquess Hague hovering somewhere in his family tree. The general public clearly does care about titles: not a month goes by without some fraudster claiming to be a prince, and the market in ersatz ‘Lord of the Manor’ titles is strangely buoyant. Pull down the ‘titles’ list on most websites, and you can allocate yourself anything from Colonel to Most Reverend. (I put ‘Esq’ in ‘Other’ on one account, so now my parcels are addressed to Esq. Philip Womack.)
Like with so many things, the blame lies squarely with Tony Blair, or, as is bound to be the case soon enough, ‘Lord Tony Blair’, and his wife ‘Lady Cherie’, and their relaxed style. The reason that this lot don’t use their titles properly is that they want to look chummy. ‘Lord Hague of Richmond’? Oh, far too grand and off-putting. Isn’t ‘Lord William’ that teensiest bit more approachable? You could have a pint with Lord William, couldn’t you? Even call him Lord Willy after a couple? Like the forced jolliness of an unloved uncle, it falls flat. Surely the race for the chancellorship of Oxford is one of the few places left where sonority and form still count?
More tellingly, though, those who misuse their titles won’t jettison them entirely, like a certain royal Duke and Duchess who cling on to their handles, despite living in a republic which specifically outlaws them. They want to have their cake and eat it, reminding us that they’re really like us, but just a weensy bit better. Plain old ‘William Hague’ and ‘Peter Mandelson’ would have done the job just as well.
Titles should be deployed properly, or not at all. With the coming abolition of the hereditaries, perhaps we ought to jettison life peerages entirely, call them Senators (or Elders – ha), and be done with it.
This article is free to read
To unlock more articles, subscribe to get 3 months of unlimited access for just £3
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in