November 5, 2026
I Once Compared The Wealth Of Rival Kingdoms Through Ambassadors But A Comparison Website Did It For My Gas Bill In Ninety Seconds

I Once Compared The Wealth Of Rival Kingdoms Through Ambassadors But A Comparison Website Did It For My Gas Bill In Ninety Seconds

Henry VIII switches energy supplier through a comparison site and discovers a form of diplomacy considerably faster than anything his own court managed

I once compared the wealth of rival kingdoms through ambassadors who took months to report back accurately. A comparison website ranked every energy supplier available to me in under ninety seconds, complete with exact annual cost projections.

The Meter Readings

The site required my exact annual usage figures, information I retrieved from the smart meter I have already grown obsessively attached to, feeding two years of hourly data into a form that produced, almost instantly, a ranked list of suppliers I had never previously heard of, several with names suggesting considerably more environmental virtue than actual substance.

The Cheapest Option

The cheapest tariff belonged to a supplier with a five star rating and a name I could not confidently pronounce, and I hesitated considerably before switching, having learned, through the gas boiler and the parking fine appeal both, that cheapest rarely means simplest in this particular century.

The Switch Itself

The actual switch required nothing more than my address and a signature, the new supplier handling the entire handover with my old provider automatically, a level of seamless transition I found genuinely remarkable given how much personal drama I once required simply to change which duke managed my hunting grounds.

The Welcome Pack

A welcome email arrived within the hour, listing my new tariff, my new account number, and a genuinely helpful breakdown of exactly when my old supplier would stop billing me, a transparency I found more reassuring than most actual royal financial statements I personally signed off on during my original reign.

The Verdict

My final annual saving amounted to roughly one hundred and forty pounds, a modest sum I nonetheless celebrated with genuine enthusiasm, having spent considerable effort across several months learning that small, boring administrative victories carry a satisfaction all their own. I once negotiated treaties spanning entire continents. I now feel a similar pride switching gas suppliers through a website, and I have decided this represents, on balance, a genuinely healthier use of my remaining ambition.

The Annual Reminder

I have set a calendar reminder to repeat the comparison process next year, a habit Dev describes as sensible and I describe as the closest thing I now have to renewing an actual treaty. The smart meter watches on, glowing quietly, apparently satisfied with my progress.

The Annual Habit

I have set a reminder to repeat the comparison next year, treating it now as a small annual ritual not unlike renewing an actual treaty, minus the risk of war if the terms displease me.

Some victories, however boring, are still worth savouring properly, and I intend to savour this one for the full twelve months it lasts. I have decided boring, reliable savings are still savings worth having. Annual renewal belongs, in spirit, right alongside my succession plan. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: the Bank of England holding rates steady out of sheer stubbornness, interest rates frozen until the economy agrees to behave, the original account of my own return to Britain.

Gertrud Schneider

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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