Discovering the Quirks of England’s Monarchs in David Mitchell’s Unruly
From the moment I stumbled upon Unruly: The Ridiculous History of England’s Kings and Queens by David Mitchell, I knew I was in for a ride. The title itself promises entertainment, but it was the author’s signature wit and irreverence that truly hooked me. With lines that remind us of the absurdity of monarchical grandeur—“They were brilliant! Unless you met them personally, in which case they were awful. Bit like Peter Sellers”—Mitchell effortlessly contrasts idealized history with reality, drawing readers into a refreshing take on England’s vibrant, albeit chaotic, past.
Mitchell’s narrative dives into the messy worlds of kings and queens, where ambition, treachery, and sheer brute force were the hallmarks of leadership. Asking crucial questions like, “Where do kings come from and what are they made of?” he sets the stage for a discussion that feels both audacious and enlightening. What resonated with me was his assertion that monarchy, rather than being a noble institution, is often rooted in the violence and thuggery of its initial monarchs—essentially, England’s lineage bears the mark of “thieving thugs” like William the Conqueror.
Perhaps most striking is Mitchell’s ability to weave the past into contemporary relevance, linking the shenanigans of medieval monarchs to today’s political landscape. His writing is peppered with humor that never undermines the depth of the historical context. When exploring the “divine right to rule,” for example, he deftly critiques the profound gaps in power legitimacy, questioning why we still cling to such traditions today. This irreverence evokes the voice of Philomena Cunk, but with a depth and intelligence that brings Mitchell closer to the likes of Stephen Fry—both of whom can turn history on its head with humor and insight.
One standout element for me was the discussion surrounding the often vilified King John, whose incompetence resulted in the Magna Carta—a turning point in English law and governance. It’s ripe with irony that this historical blunder birthed such a monumental document. Mitchell captures these absurdities beautifully when he comments on how “the notion that these kingdoms and dukedoms were merely a powerful man’s personal property was very strong,” inviting readers to reconsider their own perceptions of authority.
There’s even a clever parallel drawn between medieval castles and asbestos—“Seemed like such a great idea, got put in everywhere and then the lethal and resource-hungry consequences dragged on for decades.” It’s these memorable phrases and analogies that make Unruly not just a history lesson, but a joyride through time, filled with clever puns and well-researched anecdotes.
As I reached the end of Mitchell’s exploration of the Tudor dynasty and the resultant Wars of the Roses, I felt a pang of disappointment that the book halted before the modern era. Yet, in his final reflections on meritocracy and Shakespeare’s skewing of royal dignity, I found an optimistic note suggesting that we are evolving towards recognizing the value of individual achievement rather than mere lineage.
Unruly is perfect for anyone curious about history, especially those who appreciate a fresh, comedic lens through which to examine the past. It offers thought-provoking questions about identity and governance, making me reconsider not just England’s tumultuous history, but our collective human experience. I closed the book filled with admiration for the author’s style and his ability to marry the foolishness of our past with the hopes of a more egalitarian future. It’s both a celebration and a critique—a spirited reminder that kings, however ludicrous, have shaped the world we live in today.
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