Year of three PMs? Try three kings

We have had three prime ministers in 2022, but in 1936 the UK saw three monarchs: and also three prime ministers in three years—and it was all connected

When 2022 opened, no-one would have predicted the way it has turned out. The prime minister, Boris Johnson, was in a spot of bother over his attendance at a Downing Street party in 2020 which had, seemingly, broken the Covid-inspired lockdown rules, but he was typically combative. He issued an apology but his implacable will to power and his completely absent sense of shame gave him and his courtiers hope that this was another storm which could be weathered. There had been enough of them before: his advice to Elizabeth II to prorogue Parliament in August 2019 was found to have been unlawful by the Supreme Court; he had carried on an affair with an American tech entrepreneur, Jennifer Arcuri, while mayor of London which had included taking her on official trade visits; his senior adviser, Dominic Cummings, had broken the lockdown rules but had refused to resign and had been backed by the prime minister; and there had been serious questions raised about who had paid for the extravagant redecoration of the Number 11 Downing Street flat (the prime minister has occupied the larger Number 11 flat rather than the smaller Number 10 equivalent since 1997).

So Johnson had a track record of wriggling out of responsibility, or at least consequences, of improper behaviour and conduct. His charm remained intact, and he retained the affection of a (forgiving) section of the electorate (though I think this was smaller than often supposed). On 11 January, the Labour Party deputy leader, Angela Rayner, had tabled an urgent question about the party in question, and the loyal and dogged Michael Ellis KC, paymaster general, had been sent to respond and try to calm the mood in the House. Ellis is a master of obfuscation and misdirection, and had fought bravely, but considerable anger and concern remained. The following day, Wednesday 12 January, was the regular day for Prime Minister’s Questions, so Johnson would be exposed again. He decided to pre-empt the brouhaha and began the session with an apparently humble and quasi-contrite apology.

Mr Speaker, I want to apologise. I know that millions of people across this country have made extraordinary sacrifices over the last 18 months. I know the anguish that they have been through, unable to mourn their relatives and unable to live their lives as they want or to do the things they love. I know the rage they feel with me and with the Government I lead when they think that in Downing Street itself the rules are not being properly followed by the people who make the rules.

You can almost feel the empathy oozing across the despatch box. This was Johnson the ill-trained puppy, badly behaved, perhaps, but so full of good cheer and affection that sustained anger is impossible. He followed up with an heroic performance of more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger, wishing that he had acted differently.

With hindsight, I should have sent everyone back inside. I should have found some other way to thank them, and I should have recognised that even if it could be said technically to fall within the guidance, there would be millions and millions of people who simply would not see it that way—people who suffered terribly, people who were forbidden from meeting loved ones at all, inside or outside—and to them, and to this House, I offer my heartfelt apologies. All I ask is that Sue Gray be allowed to complete her inquiry into that day and several others, so that the full facts can be established.

This was surely a winning formula. His apology would inspire sympathy, the report expected from Sue Gray, second permanent secretary to the Cabinet Office, would push the issue into the long grass, and when a conclusion was eventually reached, everyone would have moved on and forgotten what they were ever angry about.

As we know, it was not to be. The prime minister continued to thrash around and receive more blows, and in June, the government’s deputy chief whip, Christopher Pincher (Con, Tamworth), admitted having made inappropriate sexual advances while drunk. Although he resigned, it transpired that Johnson had already known that Pincher was unreliable, and indeed had resigned as a whip in 2017 for much the same reasons. It was the final straw. On 5 July, Rishi Sunak, the chancellor of the exchequer, and Sajid Javid, the health and social care secretary, resigned within minutes of each other. The government began to crumble, within 48 hours some 31 ministers had walked out, and on 7 July Johnson announced his intention to resign.

The rest is still recent memory. Liz Truss, the foreign secretary, won the leadership and in September was appointed prime minister by Elizabeth II (who would die two days later). Truss’s own administration would last only 50 days, the shortest in history, and she left office under relentless pressure thanks to a disastrously received “Growth Plan” unveiled by her chancellor, Kwasi Kwarteng (Con, Spelthorne). A frantic scramble for the leadership ended in the uncontested accession of Rishi Sunak, the third prime minister of the year.

Two comparisons have been made repeatedly to put this crisis in context. The first is the German Empire’s “Year of the Three Emperors”, the Dreikaiserjahr. In March 1888, the first German emperor, Wilhelm I, died and was succeeded by his more liberal and progressive son and heir, Friedrich III, who was married to Queen Victoria’s eldest daughter. But the new emperor was already terminally ill with laryngeal cancer, and died after 99 days on the throne. He was succeeded on 15 June by the 29-year-old Wilhelm II, aggressive, hot-headed and ambitious for his young empire. From there, as we know, it seems a gentle slide into the catastrophe of the First World War. The Dreikaiserjahr is a great historical what-if; had Friedrich survived, might the German Empire have evolved into a more moderate, democratic, parliamentary monarchy which would not have hastened Europe towards war in the hot summer of 1914? Could an English empress have helped Germany stay on friendlier terms with the UK, avoiding clashes over colonial possessions and naval power? Or were the killing fields of Flanders an inevitable end-point of the rise of the great military machines?

The other comparison, perhaps with a nod towards Johnson’s classical education, was the even more frantic “Year of the Four Emperors”, AD 69. On 15 January, the recently acceded Galba was murdered by his Praetorian Guard commanded by an Etruscan nobleman called Otho, who then assumed the imperial dignity. But Otho was unable to pacify the empire, and on 16 April, after defeat at the Battle of Bedriacum, committed suicide by stabbing himself in the heart. The victor of that encounter, Vitellus, a former governor of Africa, was proclaimed the third emperor of the year. But he too would not last: in July, the armies of the eastern provinces rebelled, and their leader, Vespasian, from a second-rank equestrian family, became emperor when Vitellus abdicated, Finally a ruler with staying power had arrived. Vespasian ruled for a decade, dying in AD 79 after suffering severe diarrhoea and leaving as his last words “Vae, puto deus fio!” (“Dear me, I think I am becoming a god!”).

These are amusing and diverting examples of a rapid turnover of leaders. But there is a situation much closer to home, which seems to have been invoked less often. Most readers will know that 1936, the year of the Abdication, saw three kings: George V, the accursed Edward VIII, and the stoic and dutiful George VI. That is extraordinary enough—it remains the only voluntary abdication in our history—but it is also worth noting that it came at a time of considerable political change as well: Ramsay MacDonald retired as prime minister in 1935, giving way to Stanley Baldwin who began his third and last premiership, and he resigned in 1937 in favour of Neville Chamberlain. So from 1935 to 1937, we have three prime ministers in just three years. And all of that—this may seem familiar—with only one general election, in November 1935, the result of which was a foregone conclusion: the National government, a coalition of the Conservatives, the National Liberals and the National Labour Party, won 429 seats out of 615, a crushing victory over the scattered opposition parties.

The story of the Prince of Wales’s affair with Wallis Simpson, which spilled over into his 326-day reign, his decision to abdicate rather than give up his mistress and his long career as a ex-king-emperor, has been told exhaustively elsewhere and it adds nothing to recount it here. I would, however, warmly encourage you to listen to the excellent Royal Tea podcast (£) which details the relationship vividly and, better yet, features me as a contributor talking about the Royal Family, British politics and society and the institutional framework in which Edward had to operate. I promise you it’s worth the modest membership fee.

I will say, briefly, however, that by December 1936 the new (and uncrowned) king is given the unpalatable truth: Mrs Simpson, still married, cannot become his wife and queen, and will never be able to marry the king because of the Church of England’s clear doctrine that divorce is not allowable. His fanciful notion that he can contract a morganatic marriage with Wallis, whereby she would not receive the style and dignity of her husband, was a non-starter in constitutional and religious terms (and would hardly have pleased Edward in the long run, given his endless complaints about Wallis not being dubbed Her Royal Highness. And he is unwilling merely to have Mrs Simpson as his mistress—Stanley Baldwin had remarked that he could countenance her as a “respectable whore”, but official recognition is out of the question. Baldwin further makes it clear that if the king does not take the advice of his ministers, then they will resign en masse.

The political situation at this time was critical. The National government had been formed in 1931 after the Labour administration had resigned, unable to deal with the financial crisis which followed the stock market crash of 1929 without splitting irrevocably. George V persuaded the Labour prime minister, Ramsay MacDonald, to remain in office without his party (from which he was expelled) and to form a coalition government with the Conservative opposition under Baldwin and the Liberal Party, led by David Lloyd George but months away from fracturing into three parts and beginning its final decline. Although both Labour and the Liberals fractured over its formation, the National government won a colossal victory at the 1931 general election and by the middle of the decade was master of politics, unchallenged and beginning to get to grips with the economic situation.

By 1935, however, the leadership was tiring. MacDonald, having been prime minister for six years, still felt the psychological wounds of his departure from the Labour Party deeply, suffering from depression and insomnia. He was in his late sixties, and his health was beginning to collapse. In 1932, he was diagnosed with glaucoma, but that was a secondary problem. He was starting to suffer from dementia, and he knew it. In his diary at the beginning of 1933, he wrote that he had “crossed the frontiers of age”. Nor could it be hidden. One day he noted: “Trying to get something clear into my head for the House of Commons tomorrow. Cannot be done. Like man flying in mist: can fly all right but cannot see the course. Tomorrow there will be a vague speech impossible to follow.” The following day he recorded “Thoroughly bad speech. Could not get my way at all. The Creator might have devised more humane means for punishing me for over-drive and reckless use of body.”

It was clear to Members of Parliament that MacDonald was failing. His speeches were rambling and incoherent, his memory poor, his trains of thought erratic. It was played down to the press, but it was serious mental deterioration and it would only get worse, not better. Yet, self-aware though he was, MacDonald believed himself indispensable to the coalition he had created, and he pressed on, weakly. More and more of his responsibilities were passed down to Baldwin, who was lord president of the Council and effective deputy, if not effective premier. He developed a hopeless and subservient crush on the Marchioness of Londonderry, one of the greatest society hostesses, whose husband was secretary of state for air. MacDonald inundated her with fawning letters, signed “Your attendant ghillie”. One historian records grimly:

Most think that Edith and Ramsay did not actually become lovers, although the fact that she had a tattoo of a snake on her left leg, beginning at her ankle and wending its way intriguingly upwards, caused many to assume she was a fast woman.

It seems unlikely that the elderly, confused MacDonald was indeed the lover of Edith Londonderry; the relationship was more a symptom of the prime minister’s decline. Finally, in the summer of 1935, MacDonald could hold on no longer, and he offered his resignation to the king. George, himself in deteriorating health, was strangely fond of his first socialist chief minister, and accepted his decision with sympathy. “You have been the Prime Minister I have liked best; you have so many qualities, you have kept up the dignity of the office without using it to give you dignity.”

The succession was never in question. The leader of the Conservative Party, which in numerical terms dominated the government, had to be premier. But Stanley Baldwin was 67, had been a Member of Parliament for more than 25 years and had first been prime minister in 1923. He had never been dynamic—his chosen slogan for the 1929 general election had been the less than inspiring “Safety First”—but now he was tired. The chancellor of the exchequer, Neville Chamberlain, although only two years younger than Baldwin, was energetic and hard-working, and was chafing at being the government’s workhorse without the freedom to lead as he wanted. Yet Baldwin was popular. He was a skilled television and radio performer, and exuded an air of gentle calm which appealed to the electorate. The historian Lord Blake summed up his appeal.

He was peace-loving at a time when Britain hated the memory and dreaded the prospect of war. He was insular in an era of political isolationism, conciliatory in an age of compromise… Pipe-smoking, phlegmatic, honest, kind, commonsensical, fond of pigs, the classics and the country, he represented to Englishmen an idealized and enlarged version of themselves. While the political climate remained calm they venerated, almost worshipped him.

Baldwin took his coalition to the country in November 1935, and won the emphatic victory described above.

By now the king was seriously ill. A heavy smoker, he suffered from chronic bronchitis and was by now reliant on occasional doses of oxygen administered through a mask. He was 70 years old—his father had died at 68—and when his sister, Princess Victoria, died in December 1935, he became very depressed. They had been very close, sharing a sense of humour and speaking by telephone every day, though the princess had not liked the Queen, finding her “terribly boring”. On 15 January 1936, the king took to his bed at Sandringham. He would not emerge alive, and he was eased out of this life with a combination of morphia and cocaine by his doctor, Lord Dawson of Penn, on 20 January. The royal physician administered this cocktail—effectively a speedball, which would go on to kill John Belushi, River Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman—so that the death could be announced in The Times the following morning, rather than run the risk of being covered in the “less appropriate” evening papers like The Evening Standard and The Evening News.

So it was that Edward VIII came to the throne. There were already deep concerns about the new monarch in political circles. He was headstrong, independent and restless, but without any compensating insight or intelligence. As long ago as 1927, Edward’s private secretary, “Tommy” Lascelles, had observed quietly to Baldwin while his master was taking part in a horse race, “I can’t help thinking that the best thing that could happen to him, and to the country, would be for him to break his neck.” The prime minister had responded, “God help me, I have often thought the same.” It was evident to both politicians and courtiers that Edward had no sense of duty, except when it coincided with his own wishes, and chafed against all the constraints of a constitutional monarchy. He was sexually promiscuous, and in 1923 one of his discarded lovers had killed her husband, being acquitted of murder at the subsequent trial. His father had no illusions either, and had confided, presciently, to a courtier, “I pray to God that my eldest son will never marry and have children, and that nothing will come between Bertie and Lilibet and the throne.”

By 1936, however, all of the difficulties surrounding Edward had become focused in his relationship with Wallis Simpson. She could hardly have been a less suitable potential consort (except insofar as Edward seemed devoted to her), as she was American, married, divorced, and very possibly bisexual. Her saving grace, to follow George V’s line of thought, was that she was almost certainly infertile. But the real problem was the new king, who stubbornly refused to see any conflict between constitutional necessity and his own inclinations, or refused to understand why such conflict should exist. Baldwin was certain—rightly—that any kind of marriage was impossible. It was completely contrary to the Church of England’s doctrine, and would be unacceptable to the Dominions. That he would have been a spectacularly dreadful king was merely the icing on the cake.

Baldwin had not intended to stay in office long after 1935. He was exhausted and sleeping poorly, and his doctor was agitating for him to rest completely. But it was obvious that he could make no changes until the matter of the king was settled. So he stayed in office all the way through 1936, doggedly repeating his message to Edward that his choices were giving up his mistress or his crown, and that there was no third option. In December, the king sulkily told Baldwin that he would abdicate if he could not marry Wallis. Baldwin must have been relieved that the sovereign had finally understood his choices. There could be no marriage. On 10 December, Edward signed 15 copies of the Instrument of Abdication, and the following day, he broadcast a radio message to the nation explaining his departure. His last duty, on 12 December, was to grant Royal Assent to His Majesty’s Declaration of Abdication Act 1936. The House of Commons had considered the bill in around two hours, and the Lords returned it unamended. The Privy Council then gathered at St James’s Palace and gave orders to proclaim Albert, Duke of York, king. He took the regnal name George VI.

Baldwin was all but finished. He was drained, and prepared to quit. After announcing the abdication in the House of Commons on 10 December, he bumped into the National Labour MP, diarist and aesthete Harold Nicolson, husband of Vita Sackville-West, who described the scene.

I bumped straight into Baldwin in a corridor. It was impossible not to say something. I murmured a few kind words. He took me by the arm. ‘You are very kind,’ he said, ‘but what did you really think of it?’ I detected in him that intoxication that comes to a man… after a triumphant success. ‘It was superb,’ I answered. ‘I regretted only that Hitler, Mussolini and Lord Beaverbrook had not been in the Peers’ Gallery.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it was a success. I know it. It was almost wholly unprepared. I had a success, my dear Nicolson, at the moment I most needed it. Now is the time to go.’”

In April 1937, Baldwin announced that he would retire after the king’s coronation, which was scheduled for 12 May 1937. The outgoing prime minister was cheered lustily at the event, almost as enthusiastically as the king and queen themselves, and then retired a fortnight later. On 28 May, there took place another inevitable succession: Neville Chamberlain, already in his late 60s, became prime minister, a Chamberlain finally entering Number 10 Downing Street, 61 years after “Radical Joe” Chamberlain, the Liberal ex-mayor of Birmingham, was elected to the House of Commons. His younger son was still fit and energetic, and promised to renew the party which Baldwin had nursed successful for 15 years. His premiership would not fulfil its promise.

So there we have the three years of three prime ministers and the year of the three kings. It is an interesting period because it sees the departure of the hangover of Victoria’s world, which George V had certainly represented, but also the coming frustration of a general European conflict which would derail domestic politics utterly. It also, I think, demonstrates the fundamentally robust nature of the constitution. If Edward VIII had chosen badly, and he was the sort of man who did, it would have been a huge challenge to the architecture of the British state. Instead, that framework was able to steer him away from the crown, to allow the elected government to impose their will (and that of the white Dominions) on their sovereign, and to absorb this potentially existential shock but emerge intact. We had prime ministers all in their seventh decades, two of them in poor health and another restless and impatient, and yet the political process worked itself out. We speak of the “abdication crisis”, but, in truth, it was the crisis which failed to bark. Perhaps we should remember that when we fret at the shaky and unstable nature of our uncodified constitution.