The Duke of Edinburgh’s award is more popular than ever

AFTER THE second world war Silvertown was no place for ambition. Many of John Green’s friends, penniless and illiterate, only left that broken corner of east London for jail. In 1956 Mr Green might have gone the same way. “I got lucky,” he says. “The award scheme was the start of a wonderful new life.” Two years later, dressed in his brother’s suit, he became one of the first teenagers to collect a gold badge from the Duke of Edinburgh at Buckingham Palace. Mr Green, now 86, went on to run a flower business that paid for his children to attend the best schools in London. “It gave me such confidence. I owe it all to the award.”

Seven decades after its inception boys and girls are signing up for the Duke of Edinburgh’s (DofE) award in record numbers. Last year 570,000 Britons aged 14 to 24 took part in the bronze, silver and gold levels, for which participants must volunteer, complete an expedition and practise a skill and a sport. How is it that in the age of social media and screen time something old and vaguely royal still appeals?

One reason is that the scheme has moved with the times. Participants can pick activities which interest them. Popular skills in the 1960s included car maintenance, dressmaking and rifle-shooting. Today e-sports and podcasting are in favour (cooking and music lessons are common too). They can also log their progress on an app, rather than in paper booklets.

The scheme’s basic structure has not changed, however. Participants must do each section for a certain number of months, depending on the award level. The expeditions are still analogue: teams read maps, erect tents and cook outside without recourse to a mobile phone. “You spend time together rather than on your phone,” says Wajihah Begum, an 18-year-old from Newport.

Accessibility helps, too. Rich teenagers might take flying lessons and do their expedition on Mount Kilimanjaro. But those who instead pick creative writing and trudge around Dartmoor in the rain (arguably just as challenging) earn the same badge. And they receive the same invite to a royal ceremony if they complete the gold level. Bursaries from the DofE make it cheaper for hard-up families. Last year 94,000 participants came from ethnic-minority backgrounds. The scheme has spread to more than 130 countries.

The organisation calculates that in Britain improvements in life satisfaction create an average social value of £4,400 ($5,900) per participant, and estimates that the 5m hours they spent volunteering last year were worth £33m to local communities. The badges can help youngsters hone talents. Freddie Jones, from Hereford, started at the bronze level sorting second-hand clothes in a charity shop. Today he runs his own vintage-clothing company in collaboration with Superdry and has the retailer’s founder as a business mentor. Beyond the career benefits, says the 21-year-old, the DofE is fun. “I’m still in touch with the friends I made on the award. And you feel so independent doing it.”

The award’s long success is a tribute to young people. Kids are perennially underestimated, argues Sarah Kenny, a cultural historian at the University of Birmingham. Prince Philip, then the eponymous duke, set up his award amid concerns about a post-war generation made soft by cinemas and the welfare state.

Anxiety about youngsters persists. Local spending on youth services in Britain has dropped by more than 70% since 2010; more than 1,000 youth clubs have closed in the same period. Schools’ focus on academic success has devalued work experience and the arts.

The award, says Ruth Marvel, CEO of the DofE, hones the kinds of skills you cannot learn from a textbook. Yet obtaining a badge demands time, discipline and, often, encouragement at home. Selling the award to teenagers who might sneer at its earnest outdoorsiness, or who have never heard of the scheme—in short, those who stand to gain the most from it—remains a challenge. For thousands of young people the programme is rewarding. For many more it could be a lifeline. ■