Simon Jenkins' A Short History of England is the kind of book that makes history feel like high-stakes political drama — except it’s all real, and Jenkins is the narrator with a raised eyebrow and a ready gavel. I first read it in 2012, soon after it came out — when the Coalition Government was still freshly minted and austerity was the word of the day. I returned to it in 2019, just as Brexit was splintering political certainties. And now, revisiting it today, I’m struck again by how Jenkins compresses over a thousand years into one sleek, iron-willed volume.
This isn’t your usual textbook draped in dates and dust. It’s brisk, beautifully written, and refreshingly opinionated. Jenkins, ever the journalist, refuses to tiptoe around strong takes — he lauds the Tudors’ flair, slaps down Edward VIII with relish, and remains unrepentantly skeptical of imperial grandeur. What you get is a political history: kings, queens, Cromwell, Churchill, Thatcher — Parliament’s slow growth into supremacy, and monarchy’s reluctant retreat into pageantry. It’s England as seen from the high seats of Westminster and the crown, with only the occasional glance toward the street below.
That’s part of its charm — and its limitation. Jenkins writes with such confidence that you almost forgive him for the gaps. Culture, science, and social movements receive fleeting mention. The peasants may revolt, but only in the margins. Scotland, Wales, and Ireland appear like supporting characters in an overwhelmingly London-centric play. For someone wanting the “bones” of English political history — the scaffolding of power — this is a masterclass. But for a richer understanding of how the English lived, loved, and labored? You’ll have to supplement.
Still, there's something thrilling about Jenkins' clarity. Each era is boiled down to a thesis — often bold, occasionally reductive, always memorable. He’s never in doubt, and that makes for brisk reading. He’s the kind of historian who treats every monarch like a case study in leadership, every prime minister like a test of the English constitution. I often found myself scribbling marginalia, disagreeing here, applauding there — but never bored.
So why read it thrice? Because like England itself, Jenkins’ narrative is dense with repetition, resilience, and reinvention. Every reading yielded new insights depending on the times I was living through. In 2012, I admired its scope. In 2019, I questioned its omissions. Today, I appreciate it as a sharply written, elegantly biased companion to more inclusive, grassroots-centered histories.
Simon Jenkins’ A Short History of England is history as argument, not as archive. It may not tell you everything — but it tells you what Jenkins thinks matters most. And sometimes, that’s the most revealing kind of history of all.