Modern monarchy can feel a bit pointless. If there’s no pomp, there’s no point, surely? Duchy Original oaten biscuits and broad bean coronation quiche are tragically deficient in the shock, awe and fabulousness department compared with George IV’s 100-course banquets on a 4,000-piece silver gilt dining set, with real fish swimming in a channel running through the centre of his table. But there is still a touch of the old autocratic mystique. An investigation by the US media company Insider in January 2022 revealed 1,133 royal employees, including a “carpet planner” and “deputy yeoman of the plate pantry”. The palace dismissed Insider’s database of staff as “a series of ill-informed and baseless claims”. However, King Charles seems committed to keeping his end up in terms of flunkeys: the 2022 annual review of Clarence House (Charles’s residence since 2003) alone revealed it employed the equivalent of 101 full-time staff, including “four chefs, five house managers, three valets and dressers and a couple of butlers”.
Although the royal household significantly slimmed down in the 19th century, a proliferation of secretive sinecures, archaic titles, brocaded uniforms and feathered headgear remain. It is described by former Liberal Democrat MP Norman Baker in his 2019 book about royal excesses, … And What Do You Do?, as a “medieval mountain of absurdity”: equerries, pages, aides-de-camp, ushers and “enough chaplains to organise a football knockout competition”. “They are there to ease the monarch’s passage through life,” says Adrian Tinniswood, author of Behind the Throne: a Domestic History of the Royal Household. “But there’s another side to it – surrounding the sovereign in an aura of mystique, of magic almost. Those traditions remind us that even though we would like to think the royals are just like us, of course they’re not. Because if they were, what’s the point of them?”
What indeed? As we gird our loins for a weekend of golden coaches, swords and spurs, here’s a guide to some of the more esoteric job titles among the Windsors’ entourage, and what – if anything – the roles actually involve.
Piper to the sovereign
The worst alarm clock ever, this is the royal job everyone knows about. Since acceding to the throne, the sovereign’s day starts at 9am, with the royal piper providing 15 minutes of bagpipe bangers outside his window (that’s two sessions of seven minutes, with a brief retuning break). The role of piper to the sovereign was established in 1843 by Queen Victoria, because she liked bagpipes, and it is, the BBC claims, “one of the most coveted [roles] in the piping world”. The lucky current 17th incumbent is pipe major Paul Burns. Burns travels with the monarch – there’s no escape from the pipes, even on tour – and is the only non-royal allowed to wear Balmoral tartan, which is quite the perk.
Horological conservator
A great name for “clock guy”, of whom the royals have a whole team. In a 2020 video posted on the royal family’s Twitter account, horological conservator Fjodor van den Broek explained that there are 400 clocks on the Windsor Castle estate and he winds them weekly; it takes a full weekend to deal with every seasonal clock change. No wonder one of the team was reported to have suffered a clock-induced repetitive strain injury in 2014.
Lord great chamberlain
This is a job there is no point in dusting off your CV for – it’s hereditary. But don’t worry, it’s also unpaid. Dating back to the 12th century, the title rotates in a rather confusing fashion (according to a 2019 freedom of information request) between three noble families. What are you missing? The current lord great chamberlain will be putting the crown jewels on the King at the coronation, for a start. Not to be confused with …
… Lord chamberlain of the household
A dull-sounding part-time role, “overseeing the conduct and general business of the royal household”. It was probably more fun from 1737 until 1968, when, improbably, the lord chamberlain also had the power to censor theatre productions. Baker highlights in his book one staging instruction issued to a 1959 Lionel Bart musical production: “The builder’s labourer is not to carry the plank of wood in the erotic place and at the erotic angle that he does and the lord chamberlain wishes to be informed of the manner in which the plank is in the future to be carried.”
Deprived of erotic plank-monitoring duties, the lord chamberlain still takes part in some ceremonial stuff: in September, we watched the Queen’s lord chamberlain, Lord Andrew Parker, ceremonially break his wand (historically used for poking rowdy people at court) over her coffin, which is quite the mic drop of a resignation.
Fendersmith
It sounds like a 90s indie band, but the royal fendersmith cleans and maintains palace fireplaces, lighting and fires. In 2019, fendersmith Gary Jones hit the news for what the Sun called “steamy trysts” with a royal chambermaid. Jones succeeded his father, Robert, in 1984, because apparently fendersmithing runs in families. Fun fendersmith fact: the tune played by a piper at the Queen’s funeral was called Salute to Willie, the Royal Fendersmith and commemorates fendersmith Willie Banks, who died in 1993. It was written by his brother James, a pipe major.
The warden and marker of the swans
First, let’s clarify the swan situation: the king doesn’t own all British swans but since 1482 the crown can claim all swans that aren’t marked (that’s interpreted as ringed now). Working out whose are whose is part of the annual “swan upping” census, which also doubles as a welfare check. This year’s starts on 17 July at Sunbury Lock; you can find out more on royalswan.co.uk, an extremely superior domain name.
By 1993, swan wrangling had apparently become so complex, the former keeper of the swans’ gig (a 13th-century creation) was split into two jobs. Now, there’s a warden of the swans, Christopher Perrins, an Oxford biologist, but also a marker of the swans, David Barber. Barber presides over the swan upping in a nice red jacket and a hat with a swan’s feather in, but his is not a purely honorific role: “All year round I’m dealing with different issues with Natural England, giving permission to people to move swans, or dealing with problems with injured swans,” he said in an interview last year, which regrettably omitted to ask him whether a swan can in fact break a man’s arm.
Garter principal king of arms
The GPKA, as no one calls him, is the top official of the College of Arms, the body responsible for overseeing British heraldry (coats of arms and the like). He receives a regal £49.07 per annum but also “gives heraldic and other advice to the Crown and government departments and receives an honorarium to cover his time and expenses”: phew. Among the GPKA’s duties is pronouncing the new monarch; David White, who now holds the office, did this in September 2022. If you like a blingy uniform, this is very much the job for you. White’s outfit, which he also wears at the state opening of parliament, is glittering with gold brocade.
Astronomer royal
The first astronomer royal for England, John Flamsteed, was appointed in 1675 when King Charles II founded the Royal Observatory in Greenwich (an equivalent Scottish position was created in 1834). Flamsteed was tasked with drawing an accurate map of the night sky, which he did at the Tower of London, with some difficulty. “According to legend, his astronomical duties were often disrupted by the ravens at the Tower, who would perch on and foul his telescopes,” the Observatory website says. Astronomer Martin Rees, the current incumbent, faces no such challenges: it’s an honorary position rewarding astronomical eminence now. However, Rees only gets £100 a year, with no cost of living uplift.
Grand carver of England
Carving meat is a tricky business (one 16th century carving manual devoted 4,000 words to chopping six plates of peacock), so it’s no surprise that historically the royals had a chap to do it for them. The role of grand carver still exists: it’s a hereditary position, currently held by the 12th Earl of Denbigh, 11th Earl of Desmond, Alexander Feilding. However, given that Charles currently has four chefs, it seems unlikely that Feilding is regularly revving up his electric carving knife to tackle the king’s Sunday roast (Charles never eats lunch anyway, according to his US biographer Christopher Andersen).
Royal watermen and the king’s bargemaster
In a fit of parsimony almost equalling Queen Victoria replacing palace loo roll with newspaper squares, Edward VII slashed the number of royal watermen, who historically assisted the royal family travelling along the Thames, from 48 to 24. This happened approximately half a century after the royal family stopped travelling by water and thus requiring any watermen at all.
The remaining 24 are “purely ceremonial” according to the royal family website and paid “a small honorary sum per year” (sources suggest it’s £3.50). They are under the command of the king’s bargemaster. Refreshingly, in this aristocratic lineup, the current bargemaster is Chris Livett, a seventh-generation Thames waterman, who still recalls “the smell of coal and industry on the river when I would tag along with my grandfather, towing ships and barges”.
Master of the horse
Created in 1340, the master of the horse used to be a significant political appointment according to Tinniswood, but now it’s – you guessed it – purely ceremonial. The crown equerry deals with day-to-day horsey business and the master only appears at occasions demanding an absolutely spectacular hat. That’s not strictly accurate, but the master’s outfit at trooping the colour in 2012 has the look of something a Drag Race contestant, with plenty of inspiration and a mastery of the hot glue gun, might dream up if the category were “equestrian eleganza”.
Gold and silver stick
They sound like what you would chuck for the corgis, but these are ceremonial bodyguards, not actual sticks. When they’re on duty, they get an additional “in waiting” appended to their title. “Gold stick-in-waiting once attended the king from rising to going to bed,” according to the Household Cavalry Museum; now it’s just for show. Princess Anne is the current gold stick; don’t even dream about chucking her, it’s probably treason.
