by Henry VIII: Live at the Tiltyard — A Stand-Up Monologue on the State of Britain, 2026
London Prat Comedy Desk — transcribed, mostly accurately, from a gig that definitely happened
[Lights up. A very large man in a doublet ambles to the microphone, cracks his neck, surveys the room like it owes him money.]
Good eventide, good eventide! Sit down, sit down, nobody’s getting executed tonight. Probably. New rule I’ve made for myself — one axe joke per set, maximum, and I already used it in the green room, so you’re safe.
Now look — I’ve been dead four hundred and seventy-nine years, they wake me up, and the first thing they tell me is “Your Majesty, England’s in a drought.” A drought. I dissolved every monastery in the land inside four years, I confiscated more gold than the entire Spanish treasury, and even I never managed to dry the place out this fast. Half of England, officially in drought. Hosepipe bans everywhere. Forsooth — that means “no way,” by the way, I’ll translate as we go, keep up — forsooth, in my day the only water restriction was “don’t drink from the moat, Cromwell’s men have been in there.”
On the NHS and This “Palantir” Business
They tell me the National Health people are handing everybody’s medical records to a company called Palantir, and when Parliament complained, some software chap called them a “noisy minority.” A noisy minority. I dissolved eight hundred abbeys and took the church’s money and I still had the courtesy to call it a Reformation. This fellow can’t even be bothered with the theology, he’s just going “nah, you’re being loud, shush.” At least when I confiscated things, I gave it a proper name. “Palantir” — sounds like something out of a wizard’s tower. Trust me, nothing good in English history has ever come out of a tower.
On Mr. Burnham and This Assisted Dying Debate
There’s a fellow called Andy Burnham, and apparently everybody wants him to discuss the assisted dying bill, and he keeps saying “now isn’t the time.” Now isn’t the time. My brother, I invented the phrase “now isn’t the time” — I said it to the Pope in 1533 and then just started my own church instead of finishing the conversation. If you don’t want to answer a difficult question, you don’t dodge it for six months, you found an entire branch of Christianity and move on. Commit to the bit, Andrew.
[Image brief: Henry VIII holding a microphone in one hand and a rolled-up Act of Supremacy in the other, mid-punchline, crowd mid-laugh.]
On Mr. Tice and the Standards Watchdog
Richard Tice, apparently, has been referred to Parliament’s standards watchdog over an undeclared sum of money from one of Mr. Farage’s people. Undeclared money near a monarch, or a politician, is not new, good people. I married for undeclared reasons six times and called each one “true love” right up until the axe came out. At least be honest about it — say “I took the money, I liked it, sue me.” That’s basically my entire foreign policy from 1520 onward.
On Farage vs. A Man Dressed As A Bin
Now — and I want you to sit with this one — Mr. Farage has resigned his seat to “let the people decide,” and one of the people standing against him is, and I checked this twice because I assumed it was a translation error, a man dressed as a bin. Count Binface. In my day, if a man showed up to challenge you for power dressed as household rubbish, you had him quietly removed by Tuesday. Nowadays you let him run a full campaign. Truly, this is a more democratic age than mine, and also a considerably stranger one.
On the “Gravity Reactor” and Police Chasing “Spontaneous” Protests
Apparently some clever people in California have invented something called a Gravity Reactor, which — as far as I can tell — is meant to pull energy directly out of gravity itself. Marvellous. Meanwhile back here, your police chief says she’s baffled by a wave of “spontaneous” protests that all somehow arrive carrying the exact same placards. Verily, nothing in this kingdom has ever been spontaneous — not a protest, not a marriage, not a war with France. Everything is planned six months in advance and blamed on the weather afterward. Some things, good people, never change, four centuries or no.
[Image brief: A weather-worn Tudor throne with a modern smartphone balanced on the armrest, endlessly refreshing a news app.]
Closing Bit
Look — I’ll be honest with you. I ruled this country for thirty-eight years, I broke with Rome, I invented my own church, I had two wives beheaded, and not once — not once — did anybody refer to me as a “noisy minority.” Say what you like about me. At least I was the loud majority.
Right, that’s my time. Go home, hug your families, don’t marry six of them, and for the love of all that’s holy — someone go and check on that bin man’s polling numbers. Good night, England. You’re a strange, wonderful, slightly drought-stricken place, and I love you for it.
For the rest of our royally unhinged take on the week’s news, check our companion coverage over at Bohiney.com.
This piece is a work of British satire and satirical journalism, offered as UK satirical news for entertainment purposes only. No Tudor monarchs were actually resurrected in the making of this monologue, and any resemblance to current politicians’ actual policy positions is, as ever, the entire point.
Auf Wiedersehen, amigo!
https://prat.uk/henry-viii-returns-to-britain/
