Penny Mordaunt’s Sword Trick: How Britain Sells Stability to a Cynical World
Penny Mordaunt and the Global Art of Falling on One’s Ceremonial Sword
By Our Special Correspondent, still jet-lagged from watching Britannia rearrange the deckchairs
LONDON—When Penny Mordaunt strode into Westminster last week clutching a 17th-century sword the size of a small flagpole, half the planet wondered if the British had finally decided to auction off the monarchy on live television. Instead, she was merely rehearsing for the State Opening of Parliament, a ritual so arcane it makes the Japanese tea ceremony look like a McDonald’s drive-through. Yet from Jakarta to Johannesburg, trading screens flickered: if the Lord President of the Council can balance steel, silk, and a fixed grin for forty-five minutes, surely global supply chains can survive another quarter.
Mordaunt, for the uninitiated, is the UK’s nearest approximation to a political Swiss Army knife: equal parts naval reservist, reality-TV diver, and walking Wikipedia of parliamentary etiquette. Internationally, she is mostly famous for two things—holding a sword at Charles III’s coronation without impaling anyone, and for being the last woman standing in the Conservative Party’s 2022 leadership demolition derby before politely stepping aside so the markets could panic over Liz Truss instead. In other words, she is Britain’s designated survivor: always present, rarely in charge, perpetually one heartbeat—or one gilt chair—away from the nuclear codes.
To the outside world, this makes her either an exquisite antique or a cautionary tale, depending on the exchange rate. Washington views her as the acceptable face of Brexit, the one who doesn’t quote Churchill at breakfast. Brussels quietly admires her ability to sound pro-global trade while wearing a brooch shaped like Britannia trampling a customs union. Meanwhile, Beijing’s state media runs her sword-carrying footage on loop, subtitled: “See, decadent West still settles budgets by cosplay.”
But dig beneath the gold leaf and you find the same grim arithmetic haunting every mid-tier power. Mordaunt’s department, the newly rebranded “Ministry for Common Sense,” has been tasked with slashing £20 billion of bureaucratic fat without touching anyone’s actual lunch. From Lagos to Lima, finance ministers recognize the maneuver: promise efficiency, deliver austerity, blame the previous guy. The difference is that Britain does it while wearing a tiara and live-streaming the agony on YouTube.
There is, of course, a broader geopolitical lesson here. In an era when strongmen pose shirtless on horseback and populists tweet policy at 3 a.m., Mordaunt represents the counter-trend: the polished veneer of continuity. When she glides through Westminster in black velvet and ostrich feathers, she reassures foreign investors that the UK still knows how to stage the pageant of stability—even if the backstage wiring is held together by duct tape and a prayer. Call it performative governance: if the ritual looks immortal, perhaps the balance sheet will be, too.
Yet the sword is real, and so is the blade she walks. One slip on the carpeting and the ceremonial becomes the medical; one misread line and the global press corps will feast on Britain’s latest embarrassment like vultures at an all-you-can-eat carrion buffet. The stakes, in their quiet way, are enormous. Every time Mordaunt completes the choreography without incident, the pound edges up a fraction against the dollar; every bead of sweat caught on 4K cameras is instantly GIF-ed across trading floors from Singapore to São Paulo.
At the G7 pre-summit in Hiroshima last month, aides whispered that the Japanese hosts had prepared a contingency katana, just in case the British delegation forgot theirs. It was a joke, of course—until it wasn’t. Such is the fate of middle powers in 2024: your national identity distilled into prop comedy, your fiscal credibility indexed to a woman’s ability to curtsey in heels while holding three pounds of Sheffield steel.
So when Penny Mordaunt next emerges beneath the stained-glass saints of the Royal Gallery, remember that the world is watching—not because Britannia still rules the waves, but because Britannia is now live-streamed on TikTok, and the algorithm favors drama. If she falters, the memes will travel faster than the shockwaves of any actual policy shift. If she succeeds, dealers in Dubai will chalk up another win for the folklore of reliability. Either way, the sword stays sharp, the costume remains bespoke, and the global audience leans in, half hoping for triumph, half hoping for blood.
In the end, that may be the most international lesson of all: every nation gets the circus it can afford. Britain just happens to charge admission in pounds sterling and broadcast it in 4K.
