It is a story of national identity, told in polymer and ink. The Royal Mint this morning pulled back the curtain on the 18 creatures vying for a place on Britain’s future banknotes. And while the shortlist includes the predictable majesty of the red squirrel and the oak tree, it also signals something deeper: a quiet rebellion against the grey, globalised world of contactless payments.
For those of us who still count coins into a palm, this matters. Banknotes are the only legal tender most of us will ever touch. They are the physical proof that our labour holds value. So when the Mint says it is replacing the Queen’s familiar face with a hedgehog, a puffin, or a dung beetle (yes, the dung beetle is on the list), it is a statement about what we, as a nation, choose to honour.
The shortlist, compiled after a public call for nominations, is a curious mix of the iconic and the eccentric. Alongside the predictable dahlia and the peregrine falcon sit the jarringly prosaic: the honeybee and the farmed salmon. Notable by their absence are any human figures. No Shakespeare. No Churchill. No Darwin. The Mint says it wanted to celebrate “the unique natural habitats and species that define the United Kingdom.” Critics might say it is a safe, non-political choice. But in a time of raging culture wars, perhaps a butterfly is the only figure left that can unite us.
Yet the choice of creatures also tells a story of economic anxiety. The hedgehog is a symbol of the British countryside under siege from development. The salmon represents an industry battered by Brexit and climate change. The oak tree is a monument to the dwindling ancient woodlands. By putting these creatures on our notes, we are not just celebrating them. We are memorialising what we fear losing.
For millions of families in the North, the Midlands, and the coastal towns, the value of a banknote is not abstract. It buys the week’s shopping. It pays the electricity bill. It determines whether a child gets new shoes or hand-me-downs. The design on that note matters because it shapes how we see ourselves. A note with a puffin on it says: you are part of a wild, independent island nation. A note with a wind turbine (not on the list, but widely discussed) would say: you are part of a green, future-facing economy. Which vision do our leaders want to imprint on our palms?
The unions, as always, are watching. The GMB has already pointed out that the new polymer notes will be manufactured in Wales, and that the shortlist is a reminder of the real economy: the people who will handle these notes in shops, pubs, and market stalls. “It is all very well having a pretty picture,” said a regional officer, “but what matters is that the note holds its value. A daffodil won’t stop your wages from stagnating.”
He has a point. Since the Queen’s portrait first appeared on our money, the purchasing power of a £10 note has halved. The new notes will enter circulation at a time when inflation is squeezing household budgets. The design is important, but the purchasing power is essential.
The Mint has promised a final decision by the end of the year. Until then, we are left with a question. In a country where the cost of living is rising faster than wages, where the gap between London and the regions grows wider, and where the very idea of a national currency is threatened by digital pounds, what should our banknotes represent? A hedgehog, struggling to survive the housing crisis? A bee, working itself to death for the good of the hive? Or perhaps, just perhaps, a miner’s lamp, a shipyard welder, a teacher in a threadbare classroom. The creatures on the shortlist are beautiful. But they cannot speak for the people who earn them.
As the debate unfolds, one thing is certain: the new notes will be touched by millions. They will be folded into pockets, passed over counters, hoarded under mattresses. And if the design is right, they will serve as a daily reminder that this nation’s true wealth is not in its GDP, but in its people, its places, and the wild things that still survive alongside us.
