For the British monarchy, the relationship with sport has always been a carefully managed affair. A wave from the royal box, a polite handshake with the winning captain, the odd charity match on the lawns of Buckingham Palace. It is dignified, distant, and distinctly congratulatory rather than celebratory. So when the Dutch royal family were photographed openly weeping with joy, jumping up and down, and hugging their athletes after a double World Cup victory, it did not go unnoticed. This was not just a sporting achievement. It was a cultural statement.
The scene was Eindhoven, but it could have been Utrecht or Amsterdam. King Willem-Alexander, Queen Maxima, and their daughters Princess Catharina-Amalia and Princess Alexia were in the stands as the Netherlands won both the women's hockey World Cup and the men's 4x400 metres relay in the same weekend. The images are striking. The king, normally reserved in his official capacity, is caught mid-cheer, his face a picture of unbridled delight. Queen Maxima, arms raised, looks like any other ecstatic parent at a school sports day. The contrast with the traditional British stiff upper lip could not be more pronounced.
This viral moment raises an uncomfortable question for our own royals: what are they for? In an age of intense scrutiny and dwindling relevance, the Windsors have relied on the soft power of duty and distance. The Dutch model offers an alternative. It suggests a monarchy that does not stand above the nation but within it, sharing its triumphs and its tears. It is a model that trades a degree of mystique for a profound sense of belonging. When the king of the Netherlands celebrates like a fan, the nation feels seen.
On the streets of London, the reaction is telling. In a pub in Clapham, a group of thirty-something professionals watch the coverage on a muted Sky News. There is a sense of envy, a sharp awareness that this is not how it works here. “Can you imagine Charles doing that?” says one, a marketing executive. “He’d probably offer them a commemorative plate and a firm handshake. The Dutch royals look like they’re actually having fun.” Another points out the class dimension. “Our royals are so remote because they are still, deep down, aristocrats. The Dutch royals are just a family that happens to be royal. They cycle to the supermarket. It makes them relatable.”
This is not merely a question of personality but of design. The Dutch monarchy was reinvented after the war, stripped of many of its formal trappings. The British monarchy has clung to them, perhaps too tightly. The image of Willem-Alexander celebrating is a political asset. It builds a reservoir of goodwill that will sustain the crown through its next crisis. It makes republicanism seem a bit churlish, and a lot less fun.
Back in the Netherlands, the victory parade in The Hague is a sea of orange. The king and queen are on an open bus, caps on, singing along. There is no razor wire, no phalanx of guards. The crowd surges, and they let it. It is a masterclass in modern monarchy. For the Windsors, the lesson is clear: if you want to survive, you have to be willing to be one of us. At least for the length of a lap of honour.