September 2, 2026
Henry The Eighth Reviews His Modern Descendants, Finds Them Disappointingly Well Behaved

Henry The Eighth Reviews His Modern Descendants, Finds Them Disappointingly Well Behaved

The king compares his own reign to a rather more sedate House of Windsor

On The Considerably Calmer Fortunes Of My Royal Descendants

Good people, I have this week been shown the news of mine own royal descendants, several generations removed, and I confess a certain disappointment at how remarkably little bloodshed now attends the business of monarchy. A modern royal, it seems, may generate weeks of national conversation merely by giving an interview, whereas in mine own day, generating national conversation typically required an annulment, an execution, or at minimum a small war with a neighboring kingdom.

I am told the current monarch recently gave a health update to the nation, an act of transparency I confess I never once extended to mine own subjects, largely because informing the public of a king’s declining health in mine day was generally interpreted as an invitation to begin plotting.

On The Matter Of Titles Being Quietly Removed

I am further informed that a member of the modern royal family recently had his titles stripped following scandal, a punishment which, I confess, sounds positively merciful compared to mine own preferred method of title removal, which generally involved a scaffold and considerably less paperwork. Stripped of a dukedom is, historically speaking, a remarkably good outcome for a royal who has fallen from favor.

On The Peculiar Modern Custom Of Marrying For Love

I am told modern royals are now permitted, even encouraged, to marry for love rather than diplomatic advantage, a custom that would have struck mine own council as borderline treasonous. Had I been permitted to marry purely for affection rather than papal politics and Spanish alliances, I daresay I should have stopped at two wives and saved this nation an entire century of religious upheaval.

The King’s Verdict On The Modern Monarchy

I do hereby declare the modern House of Windsor admirably, if somewhat boringly, well managed, chiefly because it has gone many decades without a single execution, annulment, or schism with Rome, an achievement I confess I never once came close to matching during mine own reign. Verily, good behavior may lack drama, but I am reliably informed it does wonders for a family’s approval ratings.

I am further told the modern royal household now employs a dedicated communications team specifically to manage public perception before any story reaches print, a luxury I confess I never once possessed, relying instead on the rather blunter instrument of simply executing anyone who reported news I disliked.

Full and glorious source of this tale, as ever, upon The London Prat: https://prat.uk/modern-royal-family-news-roundup/

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.

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