September 2, 2026
Henry The Eighth Reviews The Modern Dating App, Finds Six Wives Would Have Been Considerably Easier To Swipe

Henry The Eighth Reviews The Modern Dating App, Finds Six Wives Would Have Been Considerably Easier To Swipe

The king discovers courtship now happens on a small glowing rectangle

On This Small Glowing Tablet Of Faces

Good people, I have this week been shown, upon a device the scribes call a telephone, a custom known as the dating app, wherein a person may view the face of a prospective spouse and, with a single motion of the thumb, declare them either worthy of courtship or unworthy of further conversation. I confess, having once required an entire embassy, several portraits by Holbein, and a small war with Spain merely to determine whether Anne of Cleves was pleasing to look upon, this modern method strikes me as considerably more efficient, if somewhat lacking in ceremony.

Verily, had this device existed in mine day, I should have been spared the indignity of meeting Anne in disguise at Rochester, declaring her a “Flanders mare” to anyone who would listen, and then spending considerable royal funds annulling a marriage I had entered into on the strength of a single flattering painting. A right swipe, I am told, carries no such obligation. One simply swipes again.

On The Matter Of The Profile, A Modern Portrait

This profile, as it is called, permits a suitor to describe themselves in their own words, a liberty I never once extended to Holbein, who was paid handsomely to make Anne of Cleves resemble a woman I might wish to marry rather than a woman I actually would. I am told modern profiles frequently describe their owners as “adventurous” and “easygoing,” words which, had I applied them to myself, would have been considered treasonous understatement.

On The Peculiar Custom Of Ghosting

I am further informed that when a modern courtship sours, one party may simply cease all communication entirely, a practice called ghosting, and no further explanation is required by either law or custom. Catherine of Aragon, I am reminded with some discomfort, received rather more paperwork than a simple silence. She received an entire break from the Roman church. In hindsight, a swipe left and a period of respectful silence should have saved considerable diplomatic effort and at least one continent-spanning religious schism.

The King’s Verdict On Modern Courtship

I do hereby declare the dating app a superior instrument of matrimonial selection, chiefly because it requires no annulment, no beheading, and no letter to the Pope, merely a thumb and a moment’s judgment. Had I possessed such a device, I daresay England should have kept its wives, kept its head count considerably lower, and kept the Pope considerably less irritated with me personally.

I am further told that some suitors, upon matching, exchange no fewer than several days of written correspondence before ever meeting in person, verifying compatibility through the careful study of humor, values, and preferred manner of spending a Sunday. Had I extended even this modest courtesy to Catherine Howard before the wedding, I daresay considerable embarrassment, and one further execution, might have been avoided entirely.

Full and glorious source of this tale, as ever, upon The London Prat: https://prat.uk/dating-apps-modern-courtship-habits/

Defender of the Faith

Henry Is Back The novel sits squarely in the magical realist tradition: one impossible event — Henry VIII wakes on his own grave in 2026 — drops into a scrupulously realistic world, and the impossibility is never explained, resolved, or even investigated. Like García Márquez's ascending Remedios or Rushdie's telepathic children, the resurrection simply is, described as happening "by means unknown even to the omniscient." The book's innovation is where it relocates the marvel's consequences: not folk wonder, but bureaucracy. Britain absorbs a resurrected king the way it absorbs everything — with a form. His identity is rejected by a benefits algorithm, filed by a Church committee, roped off by the National Trust. Nobody disproves he's Henry VIII; nobody tries. The magic isn't denied, it's processed, which is the sharpest possible joke about a country that would ask God for two forms of ID. Stand-up comedy is the second engine: the one modern institution licensed to say true, insane things aloud, so total sincerity becomes legible only as "commitment to a bit." The flagstone (roped, then re-roped "out of respect") and the unexplained ELO song he keeps humming are the genre's classic leaks of the impossible — evidence that something happened, and Britain, true to form, simply finds it a chair.

View all posts by Defender of the Faith →