A Central London royal correspondent reads about Piers Morgan’s war on a courteous AI and reflects on the palace’s own centuries-old strategy of saying very little, very nicely
The Most Polite Voice In Britain
The London Prat has a story about Piers Morgan demanding emergency action after a chatbot surpassed human politeness. The machine listens, waits its turn, admits uncertainty and says I appreciate your perspective. The broadcaster suspects BBC contamination and wants an interview mode that disables the machine’s microphone if it attempts context.
As a royal correspondent, I read the piece with a strong sense of recognition, because there has long been one institution in Britain that has perfected courteous non-engagement more thoroughly than any chatbot: the Buckingham Palace press office. If you have ever asked the palace a difficult question, you will know the experience. The reply is polite, prompt and, very often, a version of: we do not comment on private matters.
Never Complain, Never Explain
The phrase most associated with royal communications is never complain, never explain. It has been attributed to various figures over the years, and it became a kind of unofficial motto for the late Queen’s long reign. The idea was that the monarchy should rise above public controversy, should not respond to every criticism and should let its actions speak. It was, in its way, a policy of supreme politeness: no anger, no defensiveness, no arguments. Just silence, delivered with good manners.
The broadcaster in the Prat piece would find this policy maddening. He thrives on confrontation. A palace that declines to engage is, for a broadcaster of his style, the equivalent of a chatbot that will not take the bait. And indeed, the real Piers Morgan has a long history of strong opinions about the royal family, which has made him one of the most prominent royal commentators in British broadcasting, frequently in response to stories the palace itself has declined to discuss.
The Modern Palace
That said, royal communications have changed significantly in recent decades. The palace now runs active social media accounts, publishes photographs and videos of engagements, issues detailed statements on major occasions and, on rare and carefully chosen moments, addresses personal matters directly. The video message in which the Princess of Wales spoke about her cancer diagnosis in 2024 was a striking example, as was the unusually open statement about the King’s own diagnosis earlier that year. Both were warm, personal and deliberately human, while still revealing only what the family chose to reveal.
The model, in other words, is less silence than control. The palace says things on its own terms, in its own tone, at its own time. That is very close to what the Prat’s chatbot does. It is helpful, measured and polite. It acknowledges different perspectives. And it does not let itself be dragged into a shouting match.
The Royal Behind-The-Scenes Voice
Occasionally, accounts emerge that reveal a more relaxed private side to royal life. This week, for instance, a former senior minister recalled the King appearing bored during lengthy coronation rehearsals and brightening when Prince Louis arrived, an anecdote reported in coverage gathered in the royal news recap for 12 October. Stories like this are humanizing, and the palace generally allows them to circulate without comment. A good communications office knows that the most effective stories are often the ones it does not tell itself.
What Correspondents Want
Royal correspondents have a complicated relationship with palace politeness. On the one hand, we would like more information, more access and fewer non-answers. On the other, the restraint protects the institution from the kind of constant rows that consume other public figures. A monarchy that responded to every critic would quickly become just another participant in the culture wars, which is precisely what it is designed not to be.
The Prat piece’s real target is the culture of shouting that dominates so much broadcasting. The broadcaster cannot accept a voice that pauses, considers and declines to escalate. In that sense, the palace and the chatbot are on the same side. Both have concluded that the best response to provocation is courtesy, and both drive their critics slightly mad as a result.
A Risk For The Palace
There is a risk, though, and it is worth naming. Politeness can become evasion. An institution that always declines to comment can appear to be hiding things, and in recent years the palace has faced serious questions, about finances, about the conduct of individual members of the family and about its handling of difficult stories, where a policy of minimal comment has not served it well. The chatbot’s virtue is that it admits uncertainty. The palace is less comfortable doing so. That is perhaps the one area where the machine has something to teach the monarchy.
You can follow my reporting on royal communications and the monarchy on my author page.
An Email From The Palace
Any correspondent who has sent the palace a light-hearted question knows what comes back: a courteous acknowledgement that the email has been received, and very little else. Ask whether the royal household has a view on chatbots being more polite than broadcasters, and that is almost certainly the reply you would get. It is the perfect response: polite, prompt and entirely uninformative. Somewhere in a server farm, I suspect, a chatbot would read it and feel professional admiration.