Churchill Replaced by a Hedgehog. And the Butterfly Didn’t Even Make the Cut.

There was a time when Britain was a serious country. But judging by the plans for our new British banknotes, those days are rapidly disappearing. We built railways, invented the jet engine, produced some of the finest literature in the world and, when absolutely necessary, defeated people who were attempting to take over Europe. We had engineers, scientists, composers, explorers and statesmen whose achievements were considered sufficiently important to warrant putting their faces on our banknotes.

Winston Churchill, for example, spent much of the 1940s ensuring that Britain remained Britain, despite the considerable efforts of a rather unpleasant Austrian with a moustache. For this, we rewarded him with a place on the five-pound note. A modest tribute, perhaps, but one which seemed entirely reasonable. Unfortunately, the Bank of England has now decided that Churchill’s contribution to civilisation is no longer quite what we’re looking for. Instead, we are apparently going to have a hedgehog.

Yes. A hedgehog.

An animal whose principal achievements involve eating slugs, sleeping for several months and occasionally getting flattened by a Volkswagen Golf. This, it seems, is the creature that the Bank of England considers an appropriate successor to one of the most significant figures in British history. I appreciate that hedgehogs are rather charming, and I have always been pleased to see one pottering about the garden, but I cannot imagine that the outcome of the Second World War would have been particularly satisfactory had Churchill responded to the Battle of Britain by curling into a ball beneath a privet hedge.

The decision is part of a grand initiative to replace historical figures on the next generation of British banknotes with wildlife. So Churchill, Jane Austen, J. M. W. Turner and Alan Turing are all being politely escorted towards the exit, while a collection of creatures from the nation’s gardens, fields and coastal cliffs prepare to take their places. The winners are a hedgehog, a puffin, a barn owl and a bumblebee. Quite how this particular selection is supposed to represent the character and achievements of the United Kingdom is anyone’s guess, although I suspect that the hedgehog’s tendency to retreat from difficult situations may have been considered particularly appropriate.

Naturally, this wasn’t a decision taken lightly. Oh no. We live in an age when absolutely nothing can happen without a consultation, preferably followed by a committee, a review and a glossy report explaining why the consultation was necessary in the first place. Nearly half a million people apparently participated in the exercise, which means that a considerable proportion of the population took time out of their lives to express an opinion about which small mammal should appear on something they probably haven’t used since 2019. I find this extraordinary. We have an economy that appears to require constant attention, public services that are forever announcing funding difficulties and railway journeys that can cost more than a short holiday in the Mediterranean. Yet somewhere, in an office at the Bank of England, people have been studying the relative merits of a puffin and a hedgehog.

I would dearly love to have attended one of these meetings. I imagine a large conference table, several bottles of mineral water and a presentation entitled British Wildlife: Delivering a Strategic Vision for the Future of Currency. Someone from the design department would have explained the importance of representing biodiversity, while another person would have raised a concern about whether the puffin was sufficiently inclusive of inland communities. A third would probably have asked whether the hedgehog had been consulted about its image rights. Eventually, after several hours and perhaps a particularly expensive lunch, everyone would have agreed that the nation desperately needed a bumblebee on its money.

However, while the replacement of Churchill is certainly questionable, I have a much more serious grievance with the entire business. Because the butterfly didn’t make it.

Now, anyone who knows me will be aware that I have rather a fondness for butterflies. During the summer months, I spend a perfectly respectable amount of time wandering around the countryside counting them, recording the various species and occasionally becoming disproportionately excited about something that, to the untrained eye, looks remarkably similar to a moth. There is something rather satisfying about discovering a butterfly that you haven’t seen before, particularly when you’ve spent the previous twenty minutes attempting to persuade it to remain stationary long enough to identify it. Other people might choose to spend their weekends playing golf or sitting in a pub. I find myself peering into hedgerows, occasionally muttering things about wing markings and wondering whether the rather uncooperative insect in front of me is a Meadow Brown or a Gatekeeper.

And so I was particularly disappointed to discover that the marsh fritillary had actually been shortlisted for a place on our currency. This is a beautiful butterfly, with wonderfully intricate orange, cream and brown markings, and a considerably more distinguished appearance than most of the people currently appearing on television. It received more than 108,000 votes, which is not an insignificant expression of public support. More than a hundred thousand people had apparently decided that a butterfly was exactly what Britain’s financial system required. Sadly, this wasn’t enough. The butterfly was rejected, and the bumblebee was chosen instead.

A bumblebee.

Now, I have nothing against bumblebees. They are industrious little creatures, and I understand that they perform a useful service pollinating flowers and generally contributing to the continued existence of the natural world. But let’s examine their qualifications for appearing on a banknote. A bumblebee spends much of its time bumbling about, frequently in the wrong direction, before flying into a window and requiring rescue by someone wielding a drinking glass and a copy of the parish magazine. It is covered in hair, makes a peculiar buzzing noise and seems to have only the vaguest understanding of aerodynamics. Admittedly, this description could also apply to several people I have encountered at motorway service stations, but I wouldn’t suggest putting any of them on a twenty-pound note either.

The butterfly, on the other hand, is elegance itself. It moves effortlessly through the countryside, lands delicately on flowers and generally gives the impression of having made something of an effort with its appearance. It does not buzz aggressively around your head, attempt to investigate the contents of your lemonade or require you to dismantle half the conservatory in order to persuade it to leave. It simply arrives, looks beautiful for a while and departs. If we are going to celebrate British wildlife on our currency, surely this is precisely the sort of creature we should be encouraging.

Perhaps the Bank of England felt that the butterfly was insufficiently representative of modern Britain. After all, it tends to emerge only when conditions are favourable, disappears whenever the weather becomes unpleasant and spends much of its adult life doing very little beyond eating and reproducing. Then again, I can think of several members of society who have managed rather nicely on precisely those principles, so perhaps that wasn’t the issue.

The selection of the other animals is equally baffling. Take the puffin, for example. A delightful bird, certainly, but one that looks as though it was designed by a committee which couldn’t agree whether it was supposed to be a penguin or a parrot. It has an enormous brightly coloured beak, a slightly bewildered expression and a walk that suggests it has recently returned from a particularly enthusiastic wedding reception. I have no doubt that puffins are wonderful creatures, but I am not convinced that the average British person has ever encountered one outside a nature documentary. I certainly haven’t seen many waddling around the supermarket car park in Chippenham.

Then there’s the barn owl, which I have to admit is a magnificent choice. Barn owls are beautiful, graceful and possess an expression of such profound wisdom that one could easily imagine them being appointed to the House of Lords. They glide silently across fields, surveying the countryside with the authority of a senior judge, before suddenly descending upon an unsuspecting mouse and tearing it to pieces. Quite a useful metaphor for the Treasury, now that I think about it. Perhaps the barn owl should appear on the fifty-pound note, where it could stare disapprovingly at anyone foolish enough to attempt to spend one.

But I keep returning to the hedgehog. I simply cannot get past the hedgehog.

Here we have a creature that travels at approximately two miles an hour, sleeps through a substantial proportion of the year and, when confronted by a difficult situation, immediately withdraws from public life. It has no particular interest in productivity, contributes nothing to the gross domestic product and appears to regard the arrival of winter as sufficient justification for taking several months off work. On reflection, perhaps it is the perfect symbol of twenty-first-century Britain. All it needs is a high-visibility jacket, a clipboard and a pension scheme, and it could probably secure a position in local government.

Of course, the Bank of England will tell us that the new designs are intended to celebrate the natural world and help incorporate sophisticated anti-counterfeiting technology. Apparently, wildlife provides all sorts of interesting opportunities for security features. I am sure this is true, although I have always assumed that the principal purpose of a banknote was to function as money rather than provide an educational introduction to British fauna. If we are now expected to learn about endangered species every time we pay for a newspaper, perhaps we should go the whole way and include a small nature quiz on the reverse. Answer three questions correctly about the breeding habits of the marsh fritillary and your twenty-pound note becomes worth twenty-five.

There is also the small matter of whether anyone actually needs banknotes any more. I cannot remember the last time I paid for something substantial using cash. These days, almost every financial transaction involves waving a telephone at a machine and waiting for an electronic noise to confirm that my bank account has become slightly smaller. Even the smallest village coffee shop now seems equipped with a contactless terminal, while parking meters increasingly require an application, an account, a password, a verification code and the patience of a medieval monk. We have managed to develop a financial system in which purchasing a cup of coffee is almost instantaneous, but paying to leave your car in a field can require seventeen minutes and a reliable internet connection.

Which makes the whole banknote redesign exercise even more remarkable. We are apparently spending considerable time and effort deciding which animals should decorate pieces of plastic that fewer and fewer people actually handle. By the time the new notes enter circulation, I wouldn’t be surprised if the average British citizen has forgotten what cash looks like altogether. Someone will produce a ten-pound note in a pub and everyone under thirty will gather around to photograph it, presumably before uploading the resulting images to social media with the caption Does anyone know what this is?

Still, perhaps I am being unnecessarily cynical. There is something rather appealing about celebrating the natural world, particularly at a time when so much of the countryside appears to be disappearing beneath housing developments, distribution warehouses and roads that lead to other distribution warehouses. If putting a hedgehog on a banknote encourages somebody to take an interest in wildlife, perhaps there is some merit in the idea. And I would certainly rather see a barn owl than yet another corporate logo or inspirational slogan.

But I do feel that we have missed an opportunity. The butterfly deserved better. Indeed, given the amount of time I spend counting them, I feel I should have been consulted personally. I could have produced photographs, supplied detailed observations and explained at considerable length why the marsh fritillary was infinitely more suitable for national recognition than a buff-tailed bumblebee. I might even have prepared a spreadsheet. Instead, the public has apparently spoken, and the butterfly has been left fluttering about in obscurity while a hedgehog prepares for its debut in the British financial system.

Perhaps there is still time for a compromise. We could retain Churchill on the five-pound note, place the butterfly on the ten and allow the hedgehog to appear somewhere less prominent, perhaps on the back of a parking ticket. The puffin could have a commemorative postage stamp, the barn owl could remain on the fifty and the bumblebee could be appointed to some sort of advisory panel, where it could continue buzzing about without achieving anything particularly useful.

Alternatively, we could introduce a completely new denomination specifically for the butterfly. A seven-pound note would be ideal. It would be inconvenient, completely unnecessary and almost impossible to use in any meaningful transaction. Supermarket staff would require additional training, self-checkout machines would refuse to recognise it and the government would undoubtedly establish a dedicated department to oversee its introduction. Within six months, there would be calls for a public inquiry into why the project had cost £400 million.

Which would make it a thoroughly British innovation.

In the meantime, I shall continue counting butterflies and hoping that the Bank of England eventually comes to its senses. Churchill may have saved Britain, Alan Turing may have helped transform modern computing and Jane Austen may have produced some of the finest novels in the English language, but apparently none of them can compete with a small prickly mammal that spends half the year asleep.

And the butterfly still hasn’t got a look in.

Perhaps I should write to the Bank of England. Although, knowing my luck, the reply will arrive on headed paper featuring a bumblebee.