by Henry VIII live at Comedy Station Blackpool: the full set defending the codpiece under the Illuminations
BLACKPOOL! I have come from the promenade, I am windblown, I am delighted, and I am holding a stick of rock with my own name through the middle. You were EXPECTING me. This is the finest heraldry I have received in five centuries. It is edible and it is load-bearing.
I have seen your Tower. A French tower. But smaller. An English copy of a French original, slightly reduced, on a cold beach. Blackpool, you have built a monument to our ENTIRE foreign policy, and I have never felt more at home. And the Illuminations! The only crown jewels the north was ever allowed. And better guarded. Nobody has ever stolen a lamp post. The Koh-i-Noor should have been a lamp post.
In Defence Of The Codpiece
Gentlemen. Look at yourselves. Grey. Slim grey, loose grey, grey with a small logo where the JEWELS should be. I wore cloth of gold. I wore furs it is now illegal to discuss. My shoulders were built out to the width of a doorway, because the doorway should worry about ME. And yes. We arrive at it. The codpiece. Say what you will, Blackpool: we solved the gym selfie problem in 1520. No man of my court ever needed to photograph himself at the weights. The OUTFIT made the announcement.
I made fashion ILLEGAL. Did you know this? By statute. Sumptuary laws. Purple: royalty only. Cloth of gold: dukes and above. A peasant in the wrong sleeve could be fined. And I want the stag parties of this town to sit with that. I have SEEN what you wear on the promenade. Under my legislation, half of Blackpool would be in the courts, and the inflatable flamingo would be ENTERED INTO EVIDENCE.
And do not come at me about tight trousers. I wore hose. Tight hose. My legs were FAMOUS. Ambassadors wrote home about my calves. But hose came with a doublet, a gown, and MAJESTY. You have kept the tight legs and abolished the majesty, and now the whole nation walks about like the first draft of a courtier. Cancelled at the knee.
The Armour Does Not Lie
Your influencers edit their photographs. My photograph was ARMOUR, and armour cannot be edited. The Royal Armouries display my suits in sequence, like a graph. 1512: a young god. 1540: a KEEP. It is the most honest before-and-after in European history, and schoolchildren are brought to see it. Presumably as a warning about banquets. Heed the graph, children. The graph is coming for us all.
I was the finest sportsman of my age. Jousting. Wrestling. Tennis. Archery. Daily training. Then one horse, one bad fall, 1536, and the training stopped and the kitchens DID NOT. Everyone here who still pays for a gym they no longer attend: I see you. I kept paying too. Except my gym was a tiltyard, and the standing order was a groom’s salary, and the groom, at least, sent no motivational emails.
Your young men drink shakes measured in GRAMS. They speak of bulking. Child, I bulked for thirty years without logging a single macro. My bulk was capons, claret, and grief, and it was EXTREMELY effective. And no, before anyone asks: I was not big-boned. I was big-EVERYTHING. The bones were the last thing keeping order.
And the tanning shops of this town, glowing like reliquaries! In my century, pallor was status. It proved you did not labour in the fields. Now the bronze proves you do not labour indoors. Status has simply changed hemispheres. I wore white lead. You wear tan accelerator. Neither of us read the label. And both of us would do it AGAIN.
The Stag Do Is A Royal Progress
I watched a stag party process along your promenade tonight. Twelve men in matching shirts, one of them dressed as a bishop, and I stood to attention, because I RECOGNISED the ceremony. That is a royal progress. Matching livery. A designated fool. Public feasting. Tributes demanded of every establishment on the route. And a strong chance someone ends the evening in the sea. The only element missing is a herald. I am AVAILABLE, Blackpool. Reasonable rates. First refusal on the buffet.
Someone shouts: what about the beard! Excellent question, sir, and asked with a beard I would have taxed on sight. Mine was legendary. Red-gold, trimmed by appointment, and at one point Francis of France and I swore to grow ours together until we met, as a bond of brotherhood. He shaved. HE SHAVED, Blackpool. My entire foreign policy from that day forward makes complete sense once you know it began with a Frenchman breaking a beard pact.
A Word From Our Sponsor
My wardrobe, my spectacle, and my general refusal to wear grey are sponsored by The London Prat, the best-dressed newspaper in the capital. A category, its lawyers confirm, that was uncontested. And Bohiney Magazine has named me best-dressed monarch of 2026. Also uncontested. Which, I remind you, was true of most of my marriages by the end.
Blackpool: every other town in Britain went grey and called it taste. You stayed loyal to SPECTACLE. And spectacle is the only fashion that survives its wearer. By the power vested in me, by me, the Illuminations are henceforth ROYAL. Now everyone outside to inspect them. Bring the rock. It is a sceptre now. GOODNIGHT!
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com
