A Tale of Two Unions E-Book

Mark Corner

• Herausgeber: transcript Verlag
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• Sprache: Englisch

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Beschreibung

Brexit is a tale of two unions, not one: the British and the European unions. Their origins are different, but both struggle to maintain unity in diversity and both have to face the challenge of populism and claims of democratic deficit.

Mark Corner suggests that the »four nations« that make up the UK can only survive as part of a single nation-state, if the country looks more sympathetically at the very European structures from which it has chosen to detach itself. This study addresses both academic and lay audiences interested in the current situation of the UK, particularly the strains raised by devolution and Brexit.

Leseprobe

Mark Corner has taught in universities in England, the Czech Republic and Belgium. He was also a Labour politician in local government from 1988-1992. For ten years he was a speaker in Brussels introducing the European Commission to groups of visitors. During his life he has become increasingly aware of the “EU system” as a unique set of institutions that more than any other can help to curb the destructive effects of nationalism.

Brexit is a tale of two unions, not one: the British and the European unions. Their origins are different, but both struggle to maintain unity in diversity and both have to face the challenge of populism and claims of democratic deficit.Mark Corner suggests that the “four nations” that make up the UK can only survive as part of a single nation-state, if the country looks more sympathetically at the very European structures from which it has chosen to detach itself. This study addresses both academic and lay audiences interested in the current situation of the UK, particularly the strains raised by devolution and Brexit.

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Mark Corner

A Tale of Two Unions

The British Union and the European Union After Brexit

Political Science | Volume 141

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First published in 2023 by transcript Verlag, Bielefeld© Mark Corner

Cover layout: Maria Arndt, Bielefeld

https://doi.org/10.14361/9783839464823

Print-ISBN: 978-3-8376-6482-9

PDF-ISBN: 978-3-8394-6482-3

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ISSN of series: 2702-9050

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Overview

Cover

Titel

Impressum

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Chapter One: Introduction

End of the unions? 

Outline of the book

Chapter Two: Very well, alone! Denying the narrative arc

The Tudors

Reconfiguration through the narrative arc

The Second World War 

The ‘Inner Empire’ and the ‘Outer Empire’: the other narrative arc

Conclusion 

Chapter Three: Europe’s narrative arc

Where is Europe?

Creating European Values

Conclusion

Chapter Four: Early attempts at supranationalism

The nature of supranationalism

Are nations manageable? 

Hobbes and the nation 

International anarchy

Nations become nation‐states

The fear of world rulers 

Conclusion 

Chapter Five: Monnet and his limitations 

The little man from Cognac 

The influencer and the campaigner 

The supranational option is adopted 

The flaws in the Monnet system 

Conclusion

Chapter Six: The long road towards British entry 

The Labour government and supranationalism

Rejection of the Coal and Steel Community 

The Treaties of Rome 

The UK tries to join

Accession and the first referendum 

Conclusion 

Chapter Seven: The long road towards British departure

The Single European Act and the Treaty of Maastricht

The social market

Hung, drawn and troikered

Immigration

Conclusion

Chapter Eight: Invasion and Expansion on the Isles

What did the Romans ever do for us?

1066 and all what?

Three kingdoms, four nations

The dynastic umbrella

Conclusion

Chapter Nine: Saving the UK4

The failure of Home Rule All Round

Devolution

The English ‘problem’

Conclusion

Chapter Ten: Home Rule for Northern Ireland?

The significance of the Belfast Agreement

The Future of Northern Ireland

The relation of the UK to the Republic of Ireland

Conclusion

Chapter Eleven: Wales and the English

Survival through language and religion

Industrial development and English overspill

The history of devolution in Wales

The problems of sharing power

Conclusion

Chapter Twelve: Wales and a British Union

Parliament and the Courts

The House of Lords

The subsidiarity principle

Other proposals: Council of Ministers and Constitutional Convention

Conclusion

Chapter Thirteen: The Future of the UK and the Problem of Little England

Seeking ‘national purity’

Black and Asian English?

Sitting on the rock

The Churn and the Cathedral

A comment on immigration

Conclusion

Chapter Fourteen: The strange romance of the sovereignty of parliament

Back to the 70s?

God and the British Constitution

Another narrative arc

The limitations of parliamentary sovereignty

Human rights and parliamentary sovereignty

Conclusion

Chapter Fifteen: Elites and Populists: Upending the top‐down approach

Change from above to below

Selling Europe to Europeans

Working for the top‐downers

Deliberative Democracy

Conclusion

Chapter Sixteen: On embedding the upward cascade

Permanent participatory mechanisms

Radical blinkers

Other proposals for reform of the EU

Conclusion

Chapter Seventeen: The Future of the UK

Conclusion

Chapter Eighteen: Conclusion

Final thoughts on sovereignty, constitutions – and the chance of reform

Bibliography

Chapter One: Introduction

In his autobiography Interesting Times, the economic historian Eric Hobsbawm used an unforgettable image when he spoke of writing books. He referred to ‘the desert island on which we usually sat, writing messages for unknown recipients in unknown destinations to be launched across the oceans in bottles shaped like books.’1 It has been so hard to get A Tale of Two Unions published, that I feel like someone whose bottle is launched only to be washed back to the shore by a perpetually incoming tide, however hard I try to throw it. Perhaps it would have been easier if I had been prepared to see Brexit as a tale of one union, the European Union, but as the more insightful commentators have recognised, it is not. It is as much a tale of the British Union as of the European Union.

Some seven years ago I published a book entitled The EU: An Introduction. It was written just before the referendum on whether Scotland would stay inside the UK and two years before the referendum in which the UK voted to leave the EU. If I can be forgiven for quoting myself, I wrote as follows in 2014.

Like the proverbial Pushmi‐pullyu of Hugh Lofting’s Doctor Dolittle stories, Westminster feels itself pulled in two directions at once by two different ‘heads’. One minute it worries about losing powers to Brussels. The next minute it worries about losing powers to Edinburgh. One minute it talks about a referendum on whether the UK stays in the EU. The next minute it agrees to a referendum on whether Scotland should stay in the UK. Caught between the two centres of power it sometimes seems to be paralysed. When the Scots claim that they can stay in the EU after leaving the UK, the Prime Minister is the first to warn them that this may not be so. But when they hear his stern lectures to the EU and about a possible ‘Brexit’ (British exit), they may well feel that leaving the UK is actually the only way of ensuring that they stay in the EU. Paradoxically, the more UKIP (the United Kingdom Independence Party) calls for the UK to leave the EU, the more Scots may feel that their safest bet is to leave the UK, leaving UKIP presumably to campaign as the Former United Kingdom Independence Party, a situation which at the very least will give it an unfortunate acronym.2

It seemed to me then, and seems even clearer now, that the story of the UK and the European Union is the story of two unions, not one, and that both are put at some risk by the events of the last decade. In the immediate aftermath of the vote to leave the EU in 2016, the emphasis was largely upon whether the EU would survive. Would ‘Brexit’ have a domino effect? Would the Netherlands be the next to go (Nexit?) Or perhaps, for very different reasons, Hungary (Hexit?). It was hardly a surprise when 2016 saw the respected writer on European Integration John Gillingham produce a book entitled The EU: An Obituary.

Six years on, Gillingham’s work seems rather out‐of‐date. For one thing, his hostility towards the EU was always underpinned by a free‐market ideology which is much less persuasive than it once was. In the EU: An Obituary he wrote:

The US and China, followed by others, have adapted successfully to the new conditions of a neo‐liberal global economy. Europe has not: command and control methods have remained a constant in a world of dynamic change.3

In 2023, that ‘neo‐liberal global economy’ seems less like a world of ‘dynamic change’ than one lurching from pillar to post. The ‘command and control’ (not quite so absent as Gillingham appears to think from the Chinese economy) mechanisms in Europe seem more like sane management. For Gillingham, Brexit was a chance for the UK to become more like the United States, and there has always been a substantial body of opinion in the UK wanting to do that. But much has changed in the last six years, not least the Trump presidency, the challenge of Covid and Russian expansionism. Institutional arrangements that might have seemed cumbersome and bureaucratic in 2016 seem defensible in the more uncertain and dangerous environment of the 2020s.

Partly because of the political developments just mentioned, the emphasis in the post‐Brexit world has been shifting towards the future of that other union, the UK, and the prospect that this might be the union whose obituary comes to be written. It is a perspective reflected in the title of a recent book by Gavin Esler, How Britain Ends: English Nationalism and the rebirth of four nations.

As the title of Esler’s book implies, there has been increasing emphasis upon these so‑called ‘four nations’ in recent political discourse, not least when it comes to dealing in different ways with the problems of COVID‑19. But ‘four nations’ talk hardly deals with the problems that arise when all four are meant to co‑inhere within a single nation‐state. As will be examined in more detail below, it is difficult to see how such language could apply to Northern Ireland. Sinn Fein would certainly not want to think of the ‘six counties’ as being a nation separate from the Republic, while the DUP would hardly welcome the idea that Northern Ireland was a nation separate from Britain – in the context of present debates about the so‑called Northern Ireland Protocol, they would see that as accentuating the danger of a border in the Irish Sea cutting them off from the mainland. It would be salutary to recall the so‑called ‘doomsday plan’4 for Northern Ireland entertained by Harold Wilson after the collapse of the Sunningdale Agreement in 1973. He considered the possibility of Northern Ireland becoming an independent state like the other former ‘dominions’, though without being part of the Commonwealth. The plan was abandoned when a shocked reaction on both sides of the border warned him that the consequence would be a catastrophic civil war. The ‘four in one’ scenario, almost casually adopted in the last couple of years, perhaps with the confidence that too much theory about constitutions was unnecessary and even alien to a British spirit of compromise and muddling through, looks highly problematic on closer scrutiny.

End of the unions? 

Both unions, British and European, have had their critics, and many people would like to see the end of one or both of them. This has long been clear in the case of the European Union, which if one includes its predecessor the European Economic Community (EEC) has been a subject of debate for at least three generations (or one lifetime). In 1975, now nearly half a century ago, there was a referendum on whether the UK should remain inside the EEC (European Economic Community), which though carried by a clear 2:1 majority did nothing to end the debate about Britain’s role in Europe. But the ‘Europe issue’ goes back further than that. UK resistance to any form of cooperation between nation states that involved the pooling or sharing of sovereignty was evident during the previous twenty‐five years, following the Schuman Declaration of 9th May 1950 and the creation of the first sovereignty‐sharing body, the Coal and Steel Community. It was even apparent in the immediate post‐war period when the UK alongside other European nations was discussing how they might receive assistance from the American Marshall Plan. This is discussed in a later chapter, though in a way that recognises it is ground that has been well covered already.

Where that other union, the UK, is concerned, the desire to end (or at least modify) it goes back even further. Where the intricacies of devolution are concerned, it is worth bearing in mind that in 1886 the Liberal Unionist Joseph Chamberlain proposed the idea of ‘Home Rule All Round’ and the notion was subsequently backed by the Earl of Rosebery, Liberal Prime Minister, in 1895 (as it was at the time by the Welsh MP and future Prime Minister David Lloyd George). It was Joseph Chamberlain who as Colonial Secretary struggled to find a way of bringing together a disparate Empire under the banner of ‘Empire Free Trade’. He sought to unite an Empire (and particularly the so‑called ‘dominions’ which were controlled by white settlers) initially around a common defence policy and then, when that failed, around a common economic policy, anticipating the route which the founders of the European Economic Community took in the 1950s when the plan for a European Defence Community collapsed in the face of French opposition. This was a British Union that was at the same time a global union built around a huge empire. Yet it failed to take off and Chamberlain’s ideas were never carried to fruition.

Home Rule All Round was therefore a spin‐off from a much more ambitious design, and it too proved unsuccessful. To some extent, it represented the Westminster government trying to offer more autonomy than it would have liked to the Scots and Welsh in order to offer less autonomy to the Irish than it feared they would demand. When most of Ireland ended up with more autonomy than even Westminster had feared, the result was to encourage the view that devolution was a half measure that was bound to lead to something more and that it was best not to whet the appetite of the parts of the UK outside England. The ‘thin end of the wedge’ argument that was often heard during discussions of devolution in the 1970s was simply repeating arguments that had been heard fifty years earlier in the aftermath of the creation of the Irish Free State.

Unsurprisingly, then, many took – and take – the view that the history of devolution will always be a process of trying and failing to create a halfway house short of independence. They therefore conclude that creating new independent nation‐states is the only way forward towards resolving the difficulties inside the British Union. Whether or not the European Union comes apart, they argue, the British Union certainly should.

A Tale of Two Unions has two concerns about this viewpoint. In the first place, it presumes that the existence of several hundred nation‐states vying for position in the world represents the workings of an inherently stable system. It does not. It simply leaves in place an anarchic system of unrestrained competition – and conflict‐ between nation‐states whose actions are subject to no effective constraints at an international level. In an earlier book, The Binding of Nations: From European Union to World Union, I suggested that the pooling of sovereignty, that is to say the willingness of nation‐states jointly to be bound by the decisions of bodies that they themselves create, is the only effective way of bringing some order to the chaos of international relations, which continues to cost so many lives. It is worth quoting the words of the current President of the Commission, Ursula von der Leyen, when she announced the EU‑UK Trade and Cooperation Agreement to the media at a press conference in Brussels on Christmas Eve, 2020. The agreement was designed to establish a way of working together after Brexit, and the issue of sovereignty intruded time and time again into the discussions. Van der Leyen remarked:

Of course, this whole debate has always been about sovereignty. But we should cut through the soundbites and ask ourselves what sovereignty actually means in the twenty‐first century. For me, it is about being able to seamlessly work, travel, study and do business in twenty‐seven countries. It is about pooling our strength and speaking together in a world full of great powers. And in a time of crisis it is about pulling each other up – instead of trying to get back on your feet alone. 5

The words cut little ice with the UK delegation. Within a month the Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, would be crowing about being first in the race to get everyone vaccinated. His ‘political sherpa’, David Frost, tweeted that the agreement ‘restores Britain’s sovereignty in full…our country begins a new journey as a fully independent country once again…’6 Nevertheless, the two years that have followed, with the ongoing pandemic, the Russian invasion of Ukraine and its continuing fall‐out in Europe, make van der Leyen’s comments even more pertinent. Frost thought that it was all about finding your feet again as an independent nation. But the last two years have demonstrated the urgent need for cooperation between nations that cannot hope to deal effectively with crises by acting alone. Frost’s buoyant ‘with one bound we are free’ mentality, like Gillingham’s enthusiasm for the dynamic change powered by a neo‐liberal global order, appears painfully out of place in these troubled times.

This remains the perspective from which I regard the European Union as a pioneer of what may eventually be an effective means of managing the 200 or so nations that currently relate to one another without any effective constraints on what they do. It should be noted that this Union is a body which all the countries who may eventually leave the United Kingdom will probably want to join. The Republic of Ireland is already a member, so a re‑united Ireland will simply continue to be part of the European Union in the way that a reunited Germany was accepted overnight as part of the EEC in 1990. The Scottish National Party, which in the earlier referendum on the EEC in 1975 was the only party to campaign for a ‘leave’ vote, has come down firmly on the side of remaining in or re‑joining the EU. Wales, though it narrowly voted to leave the EU in 2016, might well wish to join were it to become an independent nation‐state. Only England itself, whether or not it will feel quite as self‐assured on its own as supporters of English independence claim, may choose to go down a different route. 

My second concern with the view that the problems of the British Union can be resolved by creating four new independent nation‐states is that it doesn’t examine the potential of maintaining the UK with a far greater degree of devolution than has been shown so far. The central argument of this book is that ironically it is precisely the sort of mechanisms that the UK resisted when it was a member of the EU that can prevent it from imploding now as the UK. Even more ironically, the mechanisms which might upset the English as part of a British Union are precisely those which inside the EU protect the rights of individual member‐states. They prevent the sort of loss of freedom that the UK so consistently complained about when it was part of the European Union.

Hence the book tries to suggest what a British Union might look like if it was to have a chance of survival after Brexit. It will suggest that as in the EU itself, there should be policy areas inside a British Union where any member state has an effective veto. Inside the EU, for instance, no new treaty can be passed without the unanimous consent of existing members. If the UK had been managed on such lines, it would have been unthinkable that Scotland could have voted to stay in the EU and yet the UK be able to insist on Scotland being dragged out of it on the basis of votes in England and Wales. Later chapters will examine what form a British Union might take in more detail. The general point is that, as Chesterton said of Christianity, it is not that devolution has been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and therefore not tried.

In trying to look carefully at what a more extensive commitment to devolution would look like, this book is indebted to the writings of Vernon Bogdanor, and in particular to Beyond Brexit: Towards a British Constitution, where he suggests that some of the constitutional reforms that were at best implicit while the UK was a member of the European Union, might have to become explicit in a reformed British Union. It may well be that in the 2020s such an approach increasingly has the look of trying to close the stable door after the horse has bolted. Many in Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland may feel that the UK is beyond repair, however much the process of devolution was to be extended in ways that have hardly been explored so far. Nevertheless, it is a worthwhile exercise, if only to try to see why these nations, even if they have despaired of the future of the UK, are not unwilling to become part of the EU.

As I began writing the book in 2021, I expected that in the light of Brexit there would be serious consideration in the UK of how a constitution might be developed in a manner that could help to strengthen the nature of the British Union. There were some books that made an attempt to do so, and some serious consideration has been given to the subject by politicians (for instance the Labour leader Mark Drakeford’s interesting proposals as leader of the Welsh Senedd, published in 2019 and then revised in 2021). All the same, I soon realised that I should not under‐estimate the influence of those for whom leaving the EU is only the first part of a process whereby England leaves the UK and even finally emerges in all its glory as a fully independent nation‐state. Moreover, this seems to be a view evidenced on both sides of the political spectrum. On the Right it is seen as England asserting its virile nationhood. On the Left it is seen as England waking up from imperial delusions (including imperialism at home in its treatment of the other nations inside the UK). Norman Davies, author of highly influential tomes on Europe and ‘The Isles’ (the UK and the Republic of Ireland), insisted in his later book Vanished Kingdoms that the collapse of the United Kingdom ‘is a foregone conclusion.’7 Davies recalls that one of the more moderate leaders of Sinn Fein, Arthur Griffith, had called for a ‘dual Kingdom’ solution to Ireland’s search for independence on the model of Austria‐Hungary. Yet such an outcome never materialised in either case. The Austro‐Hungarian Empire imploded after the First World War, and the United Kingdom had to come to terms with the Irish Free State coming into being four years later, removing proportionately more territory from the UK than Germany had lost at the end of the war. Davies suggests a similar implosion for what might be regarded as an internal British Empire, namely what has remained of the United Kingdom for the last century.

Another more recent example is Anthony Barnett’s introduction (written in 2021) to the third edition of Tom Nairn’s The Break‐Up of Britain (originally written in 1977). Barnett writes that ‘by making British sovereignty the measure of the country’s freedom, the English who backed Brexit have turned the UK into a prison for its smaller nations’ His reaction is to call for what he calls ‘the only exit’ from the breakdown of the UK, which he describes as ‘a course of action that shatters the spell of the Brexiteers’, namely for ‘the English to insist on the break‐up of Britain.’8 These are not the words of an English nationalist but of an anti‐imperialist who has come to the conclusion that the smaller nations are ‘imprisoned’ inside the United Kingdom.

However, there is another way of looking at it. If the English were to put together a proposal for a new constitution such as the later chapters of this book try to describe in more detail, then they would shatter the spell of the Brexiteers far more effectively by showing how the sovereignty‐sharing that was at the heart of the EU project can be at the heart of the UK project too. Barnett does not seem to recognise that a sizeable slice of the Brexiteers would love to move on from trying to break up the European Union to trying to break up the British Union. Having rejected supranationalism without, supporters of an English nation‐state would see it as only logical to reject supranationalism within. The David Frost language about ‘a new journey as a fully independent country’ would apply to the ‘four nations’, disentangled at last and able to make their own way in the world. The trouble is that Right and Left combine in thinking that the unregulated nation‐state is the only kid on the block. The Right thinks that this is a matter of national pride. The Left thinks it is a matter of becoming free from control by other, larger nations or empires. But the result is to have an even higher number of nation‐states in an essentially anarchic environment where nation‐states are bound by no effective control mechanism. There is only one exception to this rule – the European Union in which nation‐states have voluntarily agreed to be bound by a legal system that they have jointly created. It is a unique system to whose merits many on both Right and Left of the political spectrum appear to be oblivious.

The book concludes that the pooling of sovereignty remains the vital ingredient of an international order that is not going to end up in chaos. The last century has seen huge loss of life following the descent of nations into open warfare with one another. Encouraging them to consent to the formation of institutions by whose decisions they jointly agree to be bound remains a crucial part of the process of making warfare a thing of the past, something that has happened in parts of Europe but not, as the tragic events of 2022–3 have shown only too well, the whole of it. It may not be a familiar approach to international relations, and it may express itself through the formation of institutions that are unlike those which apply at the national level, but this does not make such a system unworkable. Nor does it automatically make it elitist, as if it was more susceptible to the formation of undemocratic bodies. 

Outline of the book

The first part of the book outlines the process by which the United Kingdom joined the European Economic Community and then left the European Union forty years later. It is very aware of the fact that this is a story that has been told many times before, so it focuses on the key concept of sovereignty‐sharing and why it was both fundamental to the so‑called ‘European Project’ and anathema to successive British governments. This then paves the way, in the second half of the book, for a suggestion of how it is precisely this principle, which was consistently rejected by the UK, that is essential to its capacity to maintain itself as a United Kingdom. At the same time, it gives consideration to those who are pressing for a less elitist form of government both at the EU and at the UK level. In conclusion, it examines what prospects there are for a real reform of the constitutional status of the United Kingdom. It is notable that in a recent book Michael Keating9 argues that the EU and the UK are both highly compatible plurinational unions. This book seeks to explore further the nature of that claimed compatibility.

Whether what is proposed here will prove helpful I have no idea. The one thing that seems clear to me is that leaving the European Union and then breaking up the British Union will not solve the UK’s problems but make them even worse. The undoing that began with Brexit is in danger of being only half‐complete. The question now is whether it can be stopped from going any further. It is perfectly possible that the candle could burn once again at both ends of the political spectrum in order to facilitate a breaking‐up of the British Union, just as it facilitated the withdrawal of the UK from the European Union. English nationalism on the Right could be joined by a desire on the Left to unravel the Empire ‘at home’ and give independence to what would be seen as the colonised parts of the United Kingdom, just as independence was given to the British Empire abroad. In a recent Podcast Professor Edgerton declared that an independent England was an ‘unfortunate necessity’, the ‘only way out of this mess’ (he meant Brexit) and even a way of ‘re‐enabling’ democracy in the UK.10 Thus, the same combination threatens as that which led to Brexit – English nationalism on the right and on the Left a sense that there is unfinished business to be done which means getting rid of the ‘Empire within’, much as in the last century the UK got rid of the ‘Empire without’. For both ends of the political spectrum, Brexit has become a halfway house towards the final dismantling of the United Kingdom into its constituent parts. This book is intended to show why that is not a desirable outcome and that it can be avoided by recognising the value of what has been and is being done to hold together the European Union. In that case the centre may be able to reassert itself against the destructive forces which, having tried and failed to pull the European Union apart, now seek to do the same with the British Union.

When Elizabeth II died in 2022, many commentators at once brought up the prospect of former ‘dominions’ following Barbados in the direction of declaring themselves republics. They were less willing to address the question of how far Charles III would be a less effective head of the British Union than his predecessor. They reminded us that an earlier Charles, Charles I, lost his head, but were less aware of the fact that he fought what is now often called a ‘War of Three Kingdoms’ rather than an ‘English Civil War’.11 The future of the British Union, not to mention its long‐lasting fragility, was still far away at the back of their minds. It may not be able to stay there for long. Justifying the sub‐title of his recent book, The Fractured Union, Professor Michael Keating wrote that: ‘The United Kingdom has not, at the time of writing (July 2020) suffered a complete break, but the Union is subject to increasing stress.’12 That is still a reasonable assessment of a union that remains strained, but not quite yet to breaking‐point.

This chapter began with Hobsbawm's imagery of launching a message in a bottle and the difficulties of getting A Tale of Two Unions published. I would like to thank transcript publishing for launching this particular message in a bottle, and in particular Dr Mirjam Galley for her painstaking editorial assistance in the preparation of the book.

Endnotes

1  Hobsbawm, Interesting Times, p. 300.

2  Corner, The EU: An Introduction, p. 91.

3  Gillingham The EU: An Obituary, p. 240.

4  See the BBC News report on September 11th 2008 http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/politics/7610750.stm

5  Quoted in Duff, Britain and the Puzzle of European Union, pp. 102–3. These remarks were made on Christmas Eve 2020 by President of the Commission Ursula van der Leyen at a press conference on the outcome of the EU‑UK negotiations concerning Brexit.

6  Ibid.

7  Davies, Vanished Kingdoms, p. 679.

8  Nairn, Break‐up of Britain, p. xxiii.

9  Keating, Michael. The Fractured Union.

10  Edgerton, Podcast entitled ‘Disunited Kingdom’, 28/1/2020, https://shows.acast.com/opinionhasit/episodes/60dc5b861f5e91001249f664.

11  See, for example, Trevor Royle’s Civil War: The Wars of the Three Kingdoms 1638–1660, originally published by Little, Brown in 2004 and then re‑published in 2014 by Palgrave Macmillan under the slightly different title The British Civil War: The Wars of the Three Kingdoms 1638–1660.

12  Keating, The Fractured Union, p. viii.

Chapter Two: Very well, alone! Denying the narrative arc

The first chapter insisted that Brexit was a tale of two unions, not one, and that it was at least as likely to upset the British Union as the European Union. It is unsurprising that Philip Stephens’ recent book Britain alone ends with the question: Would it be Britain alone or England alone?1 Later this book will attempt to outline both how the British Union might hope to survive Brexit and how the European Union might reform itself after the withdrawal of the UK. But the book begins by considering what it is that so easily encourages a large number of people inside the UK in general, and England in particular, to relish the thought of being on their own in a world that is clearly becoming not only ever more inter‐connected but also more dangerous.

In April 2010 the historian Niall Ferguson wrote an article in the Financial Times arguing that an excessive focus on the Third Reich and the Tudors was harming the teaching of history in British schools.2 He pointed to a disturbing paradox. On the one hand, the general level of interest in history appeared to be high. Historians on television attracted large audiences and a large following for the books that followed their broadcasts (one million copies of Simon Schama’s History of Britain were sold), while journalists like Jeremy Paxman and Andrew Marr reached mass audiences with historical material. But despite this high level of general interest, history was unpopular in British schools. It was not a compulsory part of the secondary school curriculum after the age of 14, which it continued to be in most other European countries. In 2009 only 4% of GCSEs taken were in history – fewer than sat the Design and Technology GCSE. Only 6% of ‘A’ levels taken were in history – more pupils sat ‘A' level Psychology.

The immediate presumption is that this must be because the teaching of history is littered with dates – it's a case of 1066 and all that, the title of W.C. Sellar and R.J. Yeatman's famous satire written nearly a century ago. But Ferguson's take is different. What has gone from the teaching is what he calls a ‘narrative arc’, essentially the sort of historical overview that existed in Henrietta Elizabeth Marshall’s Our Island Story, A Child’s History of England published in 1905 (modern editions feel free to make the title a history of ‘Britain’) and is outlined in Brendan Simms’ ‘update’ of that story, Britain’s Europe: A Thousand Years of Conflict and Cooperation. Instead, students picked from a smorgasbord of unrelated topics – and when they did, a huge number of them chose to concentrate (for both GCSE and ‘A’ Level) on Hitler (studied by over half of GCSE candidates and four‐fifths of ‘A’ Level students) and the Tudors. As Ferguson put it in his Financial Times article: ‘Knowing the names of Henry VIII’s six wives or the date of the Reichstag fire is no substitute for having a real historical education.’

Ferguson’s article was a snapshot from a decade ago, and one must be careful about ‘narrative arcs.’ Some of those who, like the well‐known British politician Michael Gove, criticise what they see as the ‘unpatriotic’ approach of history professionals, have done so in terms of claiming that their approach is essentially fragmentary, ignoring the single, unifying narrative of ‘our island story.’ But even if Gove is correct to call for the ‘narrative arc’ to be maintained, there is every reason not to make it describe a linear chronology of national progress.3 Such a reading of the past is particularly associated with the idea of an ‘ancient constitution’ handed down through the ages. It is closely associated with the sovereignty of a parliament which, having thrown off the constraints of monarchy, gradually came to represent the will of the people and was always associated with the preservation of liberty. Such a narrative not only misrepresents the past but frustrates the attempt to develop a constitution which might keep the United Kingdom from fragmenting today. However, a false narrative is no reason for commending silence.

Nor does the recent concern to stress women’s history or black history, for instance, undermine the concern for a narrative arc. No one can suppose that ‘black history month’ means abstracting people of colour from the flow of history and studying them in the abstract. A focus on Hypatia, mathematician, astronomer and philosopher, as an example of the importance of women in the history of philosophy, is going to place her in historical context and talk about Neoplatonist ideas in Alexandria, as well as the society in which she lived and (probably) died at the hands of a Christian mob. This is a case of strengthening the narrative arc, not abandoning it.

Ferguson is therefore right to have criticised a fixation on specific periods rather than placing them in the context of a long process of historical development. It could be argued that concentrating on the highlights is a natural part of studying history. But the highlights may be misleading when studied without their broader setting. Shorn of context – but only when shorn of context – these two periods of history can easily be seen in ‘island fortress’ terms. Taken in isolation, they bolster a belief that we do better on our own, tied to no one else. And it is precisely that belief which has helped to detach the United Kingdom from the European Union and now threatens to unravel the United Kingdom itself. For the ‘Very well, alone!’ attitude, the phrase in the famous David Low cartoon after the fall of France in 1940, with the shaking fist held high on the cliffs of Dover behind the protective moat of an angry sea, could easily transpose itself into an angry fist shaken across the border between (for instance) England and Scotland. That is why this book is a tale of two unions rather than one. 

The Tudors

Take the first of the two periods mentioned by Ferguson. The Tudor period begins with England as a member of Christendom (or at least the Western half of it), a supranational organisation based on the Roman Catholic Church. Membership arguably began with the adoption of the Roman liturgy and Roman calendar at the Synod of Whitby in 664. For nearly 900 years after this, the English church was the church not ‘of’ but ‘in’ England. There was one English Pope during all this time, Adrian IV in the 12th Century.4 There were also protest movements against the ecclesiastical establishment such as the Lollards, gathering pace as the Reformation approached, arguing for the equivalent of more national autonomy where the form of Church services was concerned. The relevant issues concerned matters such as the chance to read the Bible in English translation (rather than in the Vulgate, the official Latin translation of the original Greek and Hebrew texts) and to celebrate communion in both kinds (receiving both the bread and the wine). The theological details are not essential: the point is that there should be a degree of what would today be termed subsidiarity, having the Bible available in the language spoken by the common people in one of the distant parts of Western Christendom, and tailoring the ritual practices of different areas to the needs of their inhabitants. Receiving communion in both kinds might seem irrelevant and abstruse; yet in its way it was the equivalent of any protest against an elite trying to reserve to itself the privileges of enhanced status. The priest who alone is entitled to receive the blood of Christ in an age of faith later became the male property‐owner who alone was entitled to have a say in his nation’s affairs during a time when democracy was beginning to establish itself.

In the reign of Henry VIII, these protest movements exploded into a decision to withdraw from the Western Christian establishment. How did this come about? Despite the influence of Lollardy and the writings of John Wycliffe among others, the divide was hardly ideological, in the sense of reflecting the deep theological issues like ‘justification by faith’ and ‘predestination’ that concerned the famous Protestant Reformers on the continent, Luther and Calvin. Indeed, Henry VIII seems to have been theologically conservative throughout his reign. He received the title Fidei Defensor (Defender of the Faith) from Leo X for an early work in support of the seven sacraments and defending papal supremacy. F.D. remains on British coins beside the sovereign’s head to this day, the present monarch content to inherit the title awarded to his ancestor for defending the Catholic Church against the heretical ideas of Martin Luther. Indeed, Henry was steadfast in his opposition to Luther and spent several vacillating years trying to find a way of remarrying within the Church. In theological terms he wanted Catholicism without the Pope, just as some people in the UK would like the single market without the European Court of Justice. He didn’t want the Protestant faith. In a famous speech to Parliament in 1545, towards the end of his life and ten years after the Acts cementing the break with Rome had been passed, Henry conceded that the Bible was now available to people in their mother‐tongue but complained in his final speech to Parliament in 1545 about the way ‘that most precious jewel, the Word of God, is disputed, rhymed, sung and jangled in every ale‐house and tavern.’ It was hardly the words of a Protestant Reformer celebrating the power of Scripture. From Henry’s point of view, he did not want anarchy breaking out in his realm. 

He might have been bought off. Emphasis is always placed upon the issue of Henry’s divorce, but there were other matters too, like his desire for a more prominent place inside Western Christendom, perhaps as Holy Roman Emperor, or through receiving a share in the new lands being opened up in South America (which ended up being divided between Spain and Portugal).5 Naturally enough, the Pope’s own room for manoeuvre was limited and there were plenty of other powerful monarchs insisting that such prizes should go to them. But it provides important perspective to recognise that Henry was interested in playing the power game from within the ecclesiastical establishment for as long as he could and had no ideological convictions motivating him to leave it.

Although these debates from nearly half a millennium ago are centred upon theological divisions that for most people would not be nearly so important today, a parallel with Brexit is not hard to discern. Whatever the influence of sheer passion (or lust) upon a King who is fated to be remembered above all for having had six wives, one can perfectly well see a purely political motivation for the break with Rome. It could even be described (to borrow the language of Nigel Farage) as an attempt to ‘take back control’ – or perhaps to take control for the first time. The Church of England that emerged had (and arguably has) no distinct theology. Despite Thomas Cromwell’s attempt to portray the English Reformation in terms of a return to an older, purer state of affairs before papal corruption, (an argument repeated to more effect by Cardinal Newman as part of the nineteenth century Oxford Movement before his conversion to Rome) it was closer to the Caesaropapism of the Orthodox Church. In the best Byzantine tradition, Henry VIII was ensuring that he had a religion tailored to supporting his dynasty, the ‘defender of the faith’ managing to turn himself into the Ivan the Terrible of the Western church. Anglican theology would be bound by the interests of the English state rather than by external controls. It was for this reason that Henry VIII banned the study of canon law and made it treasonable to contact Roman jurists. For canon law was something that applied throughout Christendom. It was an example of supranational law, a higher legal order than that which exists at the national level. For this reason, canon law has sometimes been seen as anticipating the supranational law which Robert Schuman introduced through the Treaty of Paris establishing the Coal and Steel Community.6 Some critics of the Schuman Plan, noting the fact that five of the six original members of the European Community were overwhelmingly Catholic and the sixth, West Germany, was evenly divided between Protestants and Catholics, even managed to see in the formation of the EEC a Catholic plot to restore mediaeval Christendom.

When Henry’s divorce from Catherine became unavoidable, the popular mind was steered towards certain perceptions of Rome, just as it has more recently been steered towards certain perceptions of Brussels. Rome was presented as a centre of indulgence and corruption, full of pampered prelates, just as Brussels is seen as full of over‐paid bureaucrats. As John Wycliffe had attested more than a century earlier, the criticism was not without foundation. Similarly, the financial arrangements of the time were interpreted to mean that a lot of money streamed out of England to the hotbed of corruption in Rome, while nothing was ever seen as coming in the other direction. An act concerning ‘Peter’s Pence’ (1534) ended financial contributions to Rome, the equivalent of ending the UK’s contribution of 1% of GDP to the EU budget. In fact, in Henry’s case it was much clearer than it is today in the context of Brexit that there were financial advantages to be had from leaving. The dissolution of the monasteries (1536) brought considerable benefits to the Crown, which acquired a great deal of land that could be redistributed to Henry’s supporters.

In the end, the son that Henry VIII had so desperately sought to have turned into the traditional ‘sickly boy’ who doesn’t survive, and ironically it was his two daughters, both strong women in different ways, who survived and (at least in the case of Elizabeth) showed that the country could prosper in a Hexit environment. An attempted Spanish invasion was foiled by Francis Drake (but with crucial help from the Dutch that is often under‐stated), while the nation’s wealth increased through the buccaneering equivalents of modern venture capitalists. A cultural Renaissance through Marvell, Shakespeare and others completed the picture. England (plus Wales, which was effectively annexed in 1536) went on to become a successful trading nation open to the whole world, as the Brexiteers have convinced themselves that it will now. Nothing could better respond to their hopes than a connection between the end of the second Elizabethan age and the glories of the first Elizabethan age, when a generation after the break with Rome England began to ‘connect’ with the rest of the world through the development of ships that were able to cross oceans. All the trade deals ‘waiting to be had’ after throwing off the shackles of EU legislation provide the equivalent of the exploits of those Elizabethan adventurers. 

Reconfiguration through the narrative arc

This is, of course, a far from complete account of the century in question, but what would immediately render its incompleteness clear is the recovery of Ferguson’s ‘narrative arc’ that was mentioned earlier. It needs an examination of the century that followed when England was plunged into what used to be called the ‘English Civil War’ but is now more often referred to as the ‘War of the Three Kingdoms’. It also needs an examination of the century before, when England came to terms with the loss of territories in France at the end of the Hundred Years War. It is the picking and choosing that by focusing on a particular period obscures the complexities of England’s (and later Britain’s) real past.

If, for instance, we take the narrative arc backwards and follow the account given by Brendan Simms, we can return to the moment when the Normans were victorious at the Battle of Hastings. At this point the ruling class of clergy and nobles in conquered Angleterre spoke French and wrote in Latin, while a carefully planned inventory of the spoils of war (the Domesday Book) was used to allocate them to the victors. Victorious though they had been, the Norman conquerors remained culturally and socially attached to French‐speaking Normandy. They thought in what some people today call ‘continental’ terms because this is where they had their legal obligations and their cultural roots, besides being the land where they spent much of their time and perhaps even where their hearts lay. They, and the Plantagenet Kings who succeeded them, never distanced themselves from their French origins.7

The extent to which mediaeval England remained essentially part of a French‐run feudal network has been understated because of the focus on the period of the English Reformation described above. The ‘break with Rome’ appears differently when it is remembered that for many centuries England remained a significant part of Catholic Europe, and indeed the sort of dispute over marriage and divorce that finally led to the English Reformation had been a regular feature of disputes between the mediaeval papacy and various heads of state. It is worth recalling that a similar conflict between monarch and pontiff took place three centuries before Henry VIII, when Pope Innocent III made Cardinal Stephen Langton Archbishop of Canterbury, investing him in Rome without the King’s knowledge. The King reacted by expelling the clergy at Canterbury and confiscating their property. As a result, King John was excommunicated. England was placed ‘under interdict’, its places of worship closed, and its sacraments suspended. In theory anyone who died was now denied salvation. In an age of faith, it was the equivalent of a trade war. In the end, King John backed down, Archbishop Langton was received in England and there was restitution for the exiled clergy. This is important background for the events taking place at Runnymede. The signing of Magna Carta in 1215, often seen as a crucial moment in the evolution of some kind of homegrown parliamentary democracy, was partly an expedient to deal with England’s problems in Europe. Duly conciliated, the Pope went on to excommunicate all the barons who had forced John to sign the Great Charter.8

These events illustrated that ‘the Kingdom of England was not a modern sovereign state, but an integral part of that great inchoate feudal commonwealth of Latin Christendom, of which, in theory at least, the Pope was head.’9 After all, it was hardly as if Innocent III was exclusively concerned with King John of England. He was also busy managing the rivalry between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines in order to ensure the success of his candidate for emperor, Frederick II. He applied another interdict, this time to France, forbidding the rites of the church until Philip Augustus, searching for an heir and wanting to give up his Danish wife Ingeborg in order to marry the daughter of a Bavarian duke, agreed to remain with Ingeborg. One of Philip Augustus’ arguments was that King John of England had received a papal dispensation to leave his wife Isabella, Countess of Gloucester. Mediaeval history is full of instances where monarchs demand a divorce, often with precisely the sort of concerns about securing a line of male descendants and thereby (they imagined) a stable dynasty which applied to Henry VIII. Often the arguments surrounded the issue of whether the King had married someone to whom he was related by blood (and the definition of how close a blood relation had to be was revised during the period). Thus, Innocent III chose to annul the marriage of Alfonso IX and Berengaria of Castile on grounds of consanguinity (Berengaria eventually retired to a convent). The same pope deposed the King of Navarre for making a treaty with the Moors and in 1212 approved a crusade against the Moors which began the ‘reconquest’ of Spain. In 1215, the year of Magna Carta, he summoned the Fourth Lateran Council, which the King of England (alongside those of France, Aragon, Hungary and Jerusalem) rushed to attend.10

There was therefore a lot more happening in early thirteenth‐century ‘Christendom’ than troubles with the English king, and where royal marriages were concerned there was already ample precedent for the sort of difficulty in which Henry VIII was to find himself three hundred years later and the sort of arguments which he used in order to seek papal sanction for his divorce (such as the fact that his wife Catherine of Aragon was his late brother’s widow).

Following the narrative arc backwards from the Tudors provides one with a rather different impression to that of an independent country finally throwing off the shackles of continental involvement. It is more as if the country was used to defining itself in terms of its continental role and presence. It expected to have an important part to play in the affairs of Christendom. The problem where Henry VIII was concerned was that the usual levers which could be pulled in order to ensure that he was a powerful player on the continental scene didn’t work for him in the way they should have – and in different circumstances might have. Was he not a ‘Renaissance prince’ who could take his place at the heart of Europe and even in due course have a claim to the imperial throne?

Part of the reason why this was such a sensitive issue in the sixteenth century lay in the events of the previous century when England had to come to terms with losing the Hundred Years War with France. England had to accept the loss of territories on the mainland, of Europe and acceptance came only after a traumatic period of civil conflict in the late fifteenth century with the Wars of the Roses. It was the Tudor dynasty that finally put an end to that civil war when Henry VIII’s father ascended the throne in 1485 after the Battle of Bosworth, but the Tudors were uniting a nation against the background of its exclusion from the mainland so far as the possession of territory was concerned.

Therefore, the broader narrative arc suggests that when the Tudors came to power England had been thrown onto the defensive, losing much of its presence on the continent and some of its ability to be at the centre of European affairs. Henry’s failure to secure papal support for his divorce from Catherine (not least because her nephew was the emperor Charles V) reflected this loss of influence. When England (and Wales, which was annexed in 1536) broke with Rome, it was more a reaction to loss of influence in mainland Europe than a desire to be free of European control. Moreover, the English Reformation itself threw the country even further onto the defensive against Catholic reprisals and for precisely that reason increased rather than decreased its involvement in European affairs.

In the late sixteenth century England had to face the might of the Spanish Armada. In this context it was careful to maintain links with the Dutch, partly because of a shared Protestant faith but also because this was another coastline from which attacks could be launched against England. It was vital to ensure that the Dutch ports were not taken over by Spanish forces. The ability of ships from Dutch ports to blockade the Spanish Duke of Parma’s forces was crucial to the success of English resistance to the Spanish Armada. This reinforced the significance of the North European coastline to English security. Having lost control of parts of France, England remained concerned about what was happening in the Netherlands and the German principalities, but this continental interest was primarily defensive, a means of deterring invasion when it was impossible to have complete control of the seaways.11

These essentially defensive concerns kept England constantly involved in the affairs of mainland Europe throughout the period after the Anglican Reformation, an interest to which the break with Rome made absolutely no difference. England showed itself prepared to be involved in later military actions on the continent, such as the siege of the Habsburgs in Cleves, and in dynastic affairs which were always part of building alliances, such as the marriage of James I’s daughter to Frederick, the Elector Palatine, later deposed as King of Bohemia. In the early seventeenth century, the Czechs were certainly not living in a ‘faraway land of which know nothing’, as Neville Chamberlain famously said about them during the Munich crisis of 1938. In the seventeenth century, though regrettably not in the twentieth, their interests were recognised to be part of the defence of the English realm.