This story is all based on the point of divergence starting with the 1917 Speaker's Conference, which recommended implementing proportional representation in British general elections. In the event, this was defeated in the Commons. The point of divergence is that Lloyd George backs the reform, winning over enough for it to be included in the Representation of the People Act 1918. And thus the story goes.

Chapter I: The Goat

The play begins on December 14th, 1918.

This was the day of the Khaki Election, arguably the first great realigning election. Its name was fitting; every town from Wolverhampton to Waterford was populated with the crowds of uniformed ex-servicemen, some with missing limbs, some blinded. It was an omnipresent reminder of the Great War, which had ended just a month earlier. Ten percent of the workforce lay dead; 723,000 men, with triple that number wounded. No city in Britain would be spared the sight of crippled beggars on their streets. Yet victory, wholly unexpected when it came, was met with euphoria, celebrated according to legend with open copulation in the streets.

In this shadow came the first general election since 1910. This election would be a first for many reasons, not least because of a particular piece of legislation passed earlier in the year. The Representation of the People Act 1918, often known simply as the Fourth Reform Act, which brought the franchise to all men over 21, women over 30, and replaced Britain’s electoral system, an antiquated and unfair model called First Past the Post which inflated the seat count of the big parties and deflated that of the smaller ones, with a new proportional model known as the Single Transferable Vote, replacing Britain's 707 constituencies with 141 5-member ones, leaving 705 seats available.

The man at the front of it all was Britain’s wartime leader, David Lloyd George, whom Conservatives referred to as “the Goat.” Lloyd George, still with near dictatorial wartime powers, was a hero, the man who won the war. He had become Prime Minister in 1916, widely thought the best chance of bringing victory, replacing his rather ineffective Liberal predecessor, Herbert Asquith. Despite his own personal triumph, Lloyd George’s Liberal Party were in dire straits. The expansion of the franchise to many working class men in 1867 and 1884 had gradually begun to squeeze the party, and the Liberals were split in two between those supporting Asquith and those behind the Goat. Those supporting Asquith even sat on the Opposition benches. This split was finalised in the 1918 Maurice debate, effectively a vote of no confidence in Lloyd George in which Asquith himself, still technically leader of a single unified party, and many Liberals opposed the Prime Minister. The vote failed, and so did any cohesion within the Liberals. They were, in all but name, two parties.

The Khaki Election itself demonstrated the vast changes in Britain. 705 seats were available in the Commons, with 353 needed for a majority. The Conservatives, under a Canadian called Andrew Bonar Law, came first with 283 seats. To the shock of many, and dismay of those Liberals and Conservatives who had reluctantly approved proportional representation, Labour roared to second place. They leaped from 42 seats to 163, a remarkable achievement. The Labour leader, William Adamson, a Baptist Scottish miner from Fife, later wrote of his “giddy, childlike euphoria” at the realisation that it would be he standing at the despatch box at the head of His Majesty’s Opposition. Those Liberals who had stood behind David Lloyd George came in third place, with 113 seats, while 99 seats went to Asquith’s allies. In Ireland, the radical Sinn Féin captured nearly half of the 105 seats available, 50, while the Irish Unionists won 26, and the Irish Parliamentary Party won 20. The number of unionist and separatist MPs from Ireland were virtually equally split, but it hardly mattered when it came to Ireland’s future. Smaller parties such as the National Democrats won 13 while the National Socialists (a centre-left social democratic party, despite its name), won MPs in all four constituencies they stood in, among them Jack Jones, later described as “the wittiest man in the Commons.”

The nature of proportional representation meant that seats were given even to those parties who won a fraction of a percentage of the vote. Nine parties won a single seat, most famously the Women’s Party which propelled the internationally famous Christabel Pankhurst into the Commons, where she would remain for almost forty years as one of the five members representing the Staffordshire constituency of Sandwell. Other parties to secure single seats included the left wing Highland Land League, which would eventually morph into the Scottish National Party, coming second in Argyllshire, while the National Association of Discharged Sailors and Soldiers and Socialist Labour also secured single seats. But of course, of far greater significance was the major parties formed.

The Khaki Election is also often known as the Coupon Election, after Lloyd George and the Conservative leader Andrew Bonar Law sent out “coupons” to all those MPs who had supported the wartime coalition. The coupon endorsed them as official representatives of the coalition. Receiving it was widely seen as a sign of patriotism, and condemned those who did not receive it to be regarded as anti-war or pacifists at a time of great patriotism. Not a single Asquith Liberal received one, while plenty of Conservatives did so. The Conservatives did not oppose those Liberals with the coupon, as Lloyd George intended to keep the wartime coalition in place despite irritation among many Conservatives that the Prime Minister had gone against them on the question of electoral reform. Some argued forcefully that the triumph of Labour to second place proved that they were right. Winston Churchill roared that “with one piece of legislation, we have put Bolsheviks within range of Downing Street.” But power was still open to the Conservatives. So it was that, despite the fact that Lloyd George and his allies came third, the election was still an endorsement of the Coalition and thus it would govern.

The new coalition took shape the very next day. Despite the fact that the Conservatives under Bonar Law were the largest party, David Lloyd George was to remain as Prime Minister. All 13 elected MPs from the National Democratic Party and 2 members of Labour also joined the coalition, for an eventual tally of 411 seats, a majority of 167 when taking into account the boycotting Irish MPs.


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Sort of, the Fourth Reform Act took the 707 constituencies and replaced them with 141 5-member constituencies, for 705 seats available in total.
 
I will be following this TL with great interest. The new coalition would have a majority of 67, not 56. I have calculated this as follows: 705 minus 411 = 294. 411 minus 294=117 less the Sinn Fein MPs [50] who didn't take their seats in OTL and I assume in this TL=67. In Ireland Sinn Fein plus the Irish Unionists plus the Irish Parliamentary Party [IPP]= 96 seats. Which party or parties won the other nine seats?

Compared to OTL the Asquithian Liberals, Labour and the IPP did better in this TL, while the Conservatives, the Coalition Liberals and Sinn Fein did worse. In OTL Asquith lost his Fife East seat, but even with STV he could still have been defeated. Assuming that the five constituencies of Dunfermline District of Burghs, Kirkcaldy District of Burghs, Fife East, Fife West, and Perth were combined to form a Fife and Perth constituency. In OTL the Coalition Liberals won Dunfermline District, Kirkcaldy District and Perth, the Conservatives took Fife East and Labour won Fife West. The Asquithian Liberals contested only Fife East with Asquith receiving 42.2% of the vote.
 
I will be following this TL with great interest. The new coalition would have a majority of 67, not 56. I have calculated this as follows: 705 minus 411 = 294. 411 minus 294=117 less the Sinn Fein MPs [50] who didn't take their seats in OTL and I assume in this TL=67. In Ireland Sinn Fein plus the Irish Unionists plus the Irish Parliamentary Party [IPP]= 96 seats. Which party or parties won the other nine seats?

Compared to OTL the Asquithian Liberals, Labour and the IPP did better in this TL, while the Conservatives, the Coalition Liberals and Sinn Fein did worse. In OTL Asquith lost his Fife East seat, but even with STV he could still have been defeated. Assuming that the five constituencies of Dunfermline District of Burghs, Kirkcaldy District of Burghs, Fife East, Fife West, and Perth were combined to form a Fife and Perth constituency. In OTL the Coalition Liberals won Dunfermline District, Kirkcaldy District and Perth, the Conservatives took Fife East and Labour won Fife West. The Asquithian Liberals contested only Fife East with Asquith receiving 42.2% of the vote.

Thank you, edited :) The other nine seats went to 3 Independents, 4 Co-Operatives, 1 Agriculturalist, and 1 Independent Nationalist. Asquith was able to keep his seat in this timeline, despite being shunted to third place.
 
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Chapter II: Dominoes

Across the Irish Sea, a second government was taking shape. All 50 Sinn Féin MPs refused to take their seats in Westminster and in January 1919 attended the Dáil Éireann, or Assembly for Ireland, the revolutionary government based in Mansion House, residence of the Lord Mayor of Dublin. There, the independence of the Irish Republic was declared. The British government refused to recognise the new government, and the War of Irish Independence began. Two weeks later the leader of Sinn Féin, Éamon de Valera, escaped from prison to be declared president of the new Republic which began setting up its own courts, raising its own taxes, and spending money just like any sovereign parliament. Britain was hardly in the mood to fight another war, but the Irish republicans were happy to help them along. Michael Collins founded the Irish Republican Army, which initiated a classic guerrilla war, targeting British soldiers, police, and anyone suspected of collaboration with “the occupier.” The British response was to outlaw the Dáil Éireann and Sinn Féin while deploying the infamous Black and Tans onto the Irish streets to visit brutality on the population.

Ireland was to be the first domino in the gradual decline, and collapse, of the British Empire.

1919 was the year which the Socialist Review insisted Britain came closest to a worker’s revolution. There are certainly reasons to believe this; more than 60,000 people flooded into central Glasgow in late January to protest high rents. A famous photo, now a symbol of the socialist movement in Britain, emerged of a red flag rising amid a sea of grey-clothed protestors, shining in their presence like a sun. The British Army were forced to intervene with tanks supported by exclusively English soldiers, while the Cabinet discussed utilising the new Royal Air Force against the rioters. Earlier that month, 10,000 people including 2,500 soldiers had marched through Folkestone to protest being sent to fight Russia, where civil war waged and thousands of British troops were already shivering at Archangel and Murmansk. This was one of many; more than fifty mutinies by British troops took place across the country, the most famous being aboard HMS Kilbride at Milford Haven, when the sailors refused to go to sea and hoisted the Red Flag. Race riots erupted in Liverpool, mostly committed by unemployed ex-servicemen, while that same city saw its police force strike, demanding recognition of the National Union of Police and Prison Officers. There was genuine fear within the government, including from Lloyd George himself, that Britain was on the edge of bolshevism.

Yet what many of the socialist persuasion neglect to mention is that the goal of only a very small minority was to overthrow capitalism. Britain was far from Glasgow becoming Saint Petersburg. The overwhelming majority of protestors were simply angry at their own personal conditions, whether it be low pay, poor conditions, high rents, or unemployment. The reality was that Britain was not a place for politics of the extreme, even after its most devastating war (for now). The Communist Party of Great Britain, offspring of the Third International in 1920, never saw electoral success which allowed it any kind of relevance. The revolutionaries spent more time arguing with each other than the government. On the continent, the reality was different for both the victors and losers. Germany was embroiled in revolution for the first half of 1919, while Italy had been on the winning side yet saw widespread unrest culminating in fascist rule. Such madness would not come to Britain, exactly.

But the economic conditions helped just as much as any cultural feature. As 1919 became 1920, labour was rapidly reabsorbed especially thanks in part to the Restoration of Pre-War Practices Act, though to the loss of women who had acquired wartime jobs, and by 1920 unemployment had fallen to a level below that before the war, with the notable exception of southern Ireland. With this, strikes began to fall. It was a very brief recovery and new storm clouds would begin to swirl once more, but for the time being the government had a moment to catch its breath before 1921 came along and everything went completely south. The government tried to do what governments are meant to do, but seemed to be pulling in two directions. Lloyd George was a true radical, but trapped in a coalition of conservatives. As a result, the near-dictatorial wartime powers the government enjoyed over the economy quickly fell away. The coal mines and railways returned to private hands, despite strikes in the former, while wage and price controls fell away. The government was handing back all of the controls it might have needed for the economic renaissance it craved. Lloyd George’s pre-election promise of “homes fit for heroes” was hardly met; by 1923 the shortage of new homes would be worse than in 1918.

Meanwhile, Lloyd George was troubled by the notable fact that his party was still split in two. Both sides claimed legitimacy, each with a powerful leader, and neither seemed destined to vanish. Behind the scenes, Lloyd George and Asquith were very quietly mumbling to each other about working together especially after the general election had quite clearly been rather disastrous for them, but little of substance emerged yet. There was also the important fact that Labour had shunted the war-weary Liberals into third place. Labour had emerged from the war with a new constitution pledging it to “common ownership of the means of production,” and its middle class membership had soared. Coming second in the election had invigorated the party massively; at their June 1919 conference in Southport, William Adamson was practically carried to the stage, welcomed as a hero. This soon fell away. Many on the left began to slowly turn on him as he disappointed by insisting Labour was a far more moderate force than they wanted. Adamson had seen early on how Labour’s mighty electoral achievement had awakened the socialist bogeyman, and had no intention of aligning himself with would-be revolutionaries especially when the new political order practically guaranteed he could only govern in a coalition. He would pay. At the 1919 conference, Adamson gave a speech in which he suggested coalition with the Conservatives in the future might not be so bad, before coming dangerously close to condemning the rioters in Glasgow. Put simply, this was a betrayal. People in the crowd began shouting at him and objects were thrown onto the stage. The speech opened the floodgates; the grievances suddenly became many and Adamson, recognising which way the wind was blowing, hastily resigned as leader in October. “I never knew one speech could bugger you so badly,” he later complained. J. R. Clynes would replace Adamson, doing his bit to calm the party down, but the incident had demonstrated how fragile Labour’s innards were. The party was a mosaic of different leftie persuasions, and the 1919 crisis would be the first instance of the party’s natural habit of gladly tearing itself to small pieces the moment it fell into Opposition.


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I have looked again at my calculation for the coalition's majority. It should be 167. If Sinn Fein is included with the opposition, the coalition would have a majority of 117. But witbout the fifty Sinn Fein MPs the coalition's majority is increased to 167.
 
I have looked again at my calculation for the coalition's majority. It should be 167. If Sinn Fein is included with the opposition, the coalition would have a majority of 117. But witbout the fifty Sinn Fein MPs the coalition's majority is increased to 167.

Whoopsie doodle
 
Chapter III: How Is The Empire?

While chaos mounted at home, so too did it in the empire. Three summer months in 1919 saw a thousand British soldiers die in the now forgotten Third Anglo-Afghan War, while unrest spread in Iraq and India. Following the Great War, the empire was tottering. The first signs of her demise were apparent. But in 1921, this would be thrust to the centre in the empire’s most painful sore; Ireland.

The war was still raging across the Emerald Isle, which was escalating by November of 1920. Fourteen British agents were killed in Dublin on “Bloody Sunday”, November 21st, and later that day British security forces entered the pitch of a football match and opened fire into the crowd, killing sixteen. In December, British forces burned down the centre of Cork. County Cork, Dublin, and Belfast saw three quarters of the casualties while roving squads of IRA men patrolled the countryside, preying on the British security forces who responded with brutal reprisal attacks. Lloyd George made some effort to conciliate with the Government of Ireland Act 1920, establishing separate devolved parliaments for north and south, which suited the Protestants of Ulster, but not the Catholics of the south. It wasn’t enough for them; only full independence would be acceptable.

On June 7th, 1921, King George V arrived in Belfast to attend the opening of the Northern Irish Parliament at the City Hall. He had been warned not to go for fear of assassination, but insisted. He had a message for all Irishmen. He eloquently appealed for them to “forgive and forget,” calling for conciliation and goodwill. It was an olive branch to the revolutionaries. It might have had some effect, were it not for what happened next. The King left City Hall, an enormous crowd of thousands either side of him as he did so. A young man called Jackie Finnegan emerged from the crowd. An unemployed yet fanatical young republican, he had been with the rebellion against British rule since the beginning and wanted for the murder of a constable. He held a powerful Webley revolver in his left hand. In an instant he fired three shots; the first struck the King in the chest, the second grazed his shoulder as the Sovereign was thrown backwards by the force of the first impact. The third round struck a nearby policeman in the neck, spraying the fallen King with blood. Finnegan’s revolver jammed as he tried to fire again, and before he could move he was grabbed by two officers and dragged out of the crowd, one of them gripping him by his hair. The crowd screamed at the first gunshots and began to panic, many sprinting away, while others nearby tried to throw punches at Finnegan as he was pinned to the ground. The young republican was knocked unconscious when one man broke free of the police trying to contain the crowd and landed a punt to his head. Meanwhile the King was dragged to a nearby car which rushed to Belfast City Hospital, leaving a long slick of blood on the street. DNA tests in 2007 found that the road in front of Belfast City Hall is indeed still stained with royal blood.

In London, the Cabinet was in session when a civil servant entered and passed a telegram to Lloyd George. The Prime Minister read it silently, turning white as snow as he did so. He refolded the telegram and looked up at the rest of the Cabinet, who were still in oblivious discussion. One by one they noticed him and fell silent. “Gentlemen,” he murmured. “The King is dead.”

In Dublin, the Dáil Éireann learned of the news at around the same time, de Valera and a small company receiving the news by phone at his safehouse. Some of the more militant republicans whooped in triumph, as Éamon de Valera tried to shush them. More than one of those present saw the inevitable escalation of the war as a good thing; it would make it even easier to rally the Irish people into one unified force, so they thought. de Valera hoped to avoid such a calamity, and urgently telephoned a local newspaper expressing “deepest sorrow and condolences” for the death of the King, insisting that the action was completely unconnected to Sinn Féin. It was only an hour after he had done so that a British reply came; not in words, but actions, as armoured vehicles surrounded his safehouse. de Valera had been watched by British intelligence, his every move tracked, but for the sake of preventing martyrdom a move had not yet been made. de Valera ordered his men to surrender, and not a shot was fired as they were taken into custody by solders with fixed bayonets bursting into every house on the street. “They’ll get us for this,” de Valera said to one of his comrades as they were taken in.

Three days after his death, George V arrived in London aboard HMS Hood, the Royal Navy’s grandest ship. Four million people, ten percent of the national population, surged into London to pay their respects. Three million would pass the King’s coffin at Westminster Hall, joined by countless heads of state. Four days later, a mile long cortege left for Westminster Abbey. Big Ben tolled fifty-six times – once for each year of the King’s life – and artillery salutes of fifty-six guns were fired from Hyde Park and the Tower of London. Arriving at Paddington, the coffin was taken by train to Windsor for burial in St George’s Chapel, where the King’s father, Edward VII, had been buried, and among his earlier predecessors both Henry VIII and Charles I. The government sent a wreath of white lilac and white carnations in the shape of the Victoria Cross with an inscription signed by David Lloyd George. At the centre in white letters were the words “For Valour.” George V had died a hero, in the service of his country, and that is more than can be said for many monarchs.

For many historians, the death of George V marks the definitive end of Pax Britannica. It came to symbolise the beginning of the end of the Empire, starting in Ireland, as the very physical embodiment of empire was murdered by his own imperial subjects. The 27 year old Edward VIII was thrust onto the throne, and sitting in Buckingham Palace he had no idea what to do. Edward VIII was a vain, petulant, politically naïve womaniser. He may have been adulated amid the outpouring of patriotic spirit, but that didn’t make him the right man for the job. Edward VIII is now a cursed name; the reasons why he is now known as the Traitor King had not yet come into play, but from the earliest days of his reign the government was worried. At his coronation he spoke of his optimism that “we shall smash the rebellious Irish” and in an unprecedented interview with the Daily Telegraph spoke openly and informally about his private life.

The public may have been thirsty for vengeance, but much of the Cabinet was not. Yet it was clear to all that nothing less than a full scale response would be acceptable. Lloyd George took no joy in authorising the mobilisation of 100,000 men and instructing the War Office to put occupation plans into effect. Blockhouses, blocked roads, censorship, arrest of dissenters, all were to become facts of life in Ireland as it effectively became a police state. While Germany had its political chaos, Italy fell to fascism, Russia slid beneath Stalin’s fist, and France traded prime ministers every other day, the war in Ireland was to be Britain’s own crisis. The lights had gone out in Europe in 1914. They were showing no signs of turning back on.

The protests against deployment seen in 1919 were nowhere to be found this time; the King had been murdered and the country was threatened with breakup. This literally was For King and Country. Anti-Irish riots had swept major cities and towns throughout Britain. HMS Hood’s first task after returning the King’s body home was to anchor herself in Dublin Bay and turn her guns to face the city in a show of force, joined by a squadron of destroyers. When shots were fired from the city towards Hood, she showed her presence was no feeble act by launching a 15 inch shell into Booterstown, wiping out half a street, the ruins of which still stand as a memorial to the war.

From the beginning, the British faced two tasks; defeating the enemy, and winning the population. To accomplish the latter, Lloyd George had made the characteristically rare step of listening to Herbert Asquith. Before the King’s murder, Asquith had already called British actions “the blackest annals of the lowest despotisms in Europe” and was now lobbying the government to avoid practicing warfare in such a way which would stain Britain morally and drive the Irish population to the republicans. But Lloyd George was adamant in the Commons that, in his words, “the example of Ireland must forever be the example we turn to when asked for evidence that appeasement of aggressors shall not work.” It was a lesson which would need to be employed in the future.


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. Lloyd George made some effort to conciliate with the Government of Ireland Act 1920, establishing separate devolved parliaments for north and south, which suited the Protestants of Ulster, but not the Catholics of the south.

Too little, too late. Turns out maybe you should actually reign in the Black and Tans if you want to win over the Irish.

“the example of Ireland must forever be the example we turn to when asked for evidence that appeasement of aggressors shall not work.” It was a lesson which would need to be employed in the future.

Figures, nobody ever listens to the advisors in time...
 
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