September 2, 2026
I Once Travelled By Royal Carriage At No Personal Cost Whatsoever But Uber Charged Me Surge Pricing For Leaving A Gig At Closing Time

I Once Travelled By Royal Carriage At No Personal Cost Whatsoever But Uber Charged Me Surge Pricing For Leaving A Gig At Closing Time

Henry VIII orders a ride home after a late gig and discovers that demand, unlike royal decree, sets its own price entirely

I once travelled by royal carriage at no personal cost whatsoever, horses provided, driver silent and entirely at my disposal. Uber charged me two and a half times the standard fare for leaving a gig at exactly the moment every other venue in the area also emptied out simultaneously.

The Surge Notice

The application displayed a clear warning before I confirmed the booking, informing me that prices were currently higher than usual due to demand, an honesty I found genuinely admirable even as I watched the fare climb before my own eyes, a transparency considerably greater than most taxation I ever personally levied without warning.

The Black Cab Comparison

A black cab idled nearby, and I asked the driver, a genuinely patient man named Terry, whether his fare might prove cheaper under the circumstances, and Terry explained his metered rate stayed entirely fixed regardless of demand, a stability I found genuinely reassuring after months of surprise fees and syrup pump surcharges appearing without warning at every other turn.

The Knowledge

Terry mentioned, with real and justified pride, that his considerable knowledge of London’s streets, acquired over several years of rigorous training, meant he rarely needed satellite navigation at all, a skill I found more impressive than most actual military intelligence I once personally relied upon during genuine campaigns.

The Fare Comparison

Terry’s fare, once calculated, came in almost exactly level with Uber’s surge-adjusted price, a coincidence that genuinely surprised me given how thoroughly I had assumed the black cab would prove considerably more expensive by default, a assumption Terry corrected with the quiet satisfaction of a man who has clearly had this exact conversation many times before.

The Journey Home

I chose Terry’s cab in the end, purely for the pleasure of his company and his running commentary on London’s history, delivered with a confidence and accuracy that genuinely rivalled several of my own court historians, several of whom, in fairness, were considerably less reliable than Terry proved to be.

The Verdict

I arrived home having learned more about actual London history in twenty minutes than several formal lessons managed, and I have resolved to seek out Terry specifically whenever I next require a ride, surge pricing or otherwise. I once travelled by royal carriage, silent and impersonal. I now travel, when I can, by black cab, considerably chattier and considerably more educational, and I find I prefer it enormously.

The Return Journey

I arrived home having learned more London history in twenty minutes than several formal lessons managed, and I have resolved to seek out Terry specifically whenever I next need a ride. I once travelled by silent royal carriage. I now travel, when I can, by considerably chattier black cab, and prefer it enormously.

Terry’s history lesson continues properly over in the chapters. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: British Airways asking Burnham directly to make flights cheaper, the original account of my own return to Britain, the proper London pub where history finally sat down for a pint.

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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