Henry the Eighth, newly returned, examines the London coffee price, the Tube fare and a Budget that leaked faster than the Tower roof.
Hail, London! Do not stand, do not bow, and for the love of God do not film me, for I have been told that anything one doth in a public house now ariseth upon a small glass rectangle for all eternity. In my time we had only portraits, and they were mostly lies. Mine was by Holbein, who made me broad as a barn door and who was paid in gold. Thy telephones do it for nothing. Progress is a dreadful thing.
I am Henry the Eighth, back from the grave, by what means I cannot say, though I suspect an administrative error in Purgatory. I am a comedian now. My agent, a most terrifying woman called Linda, informeth me that this is a “career pivot”. I pivoted once before, from Rome to Canterbury, and it took a decade and a great many heads. Linda doth it before lunch.
Five Pounds for a Cup of Warm Brown Water
Let us begin with the coffee. I walked into a shop this morning in Shoreditch, a place of beards, and I asked for a cup of coffee, and the youth behind the counter said, “Flat white?” and I said, “Nay, I am a Tudor, I am quite tall,” and he said five pounds.
Five pounds! I have fed an army of one thousand men for less. And I did not have to listen to their feelings about oat milk. The wise scribes at the London Prat (prat.uk) write, in their guide to the satire of this city, that a Londoner will pay five pounds for a coffee without blinking, and yet will fight unto death over a twenty pence rise in the Tube fare. I have walked among you. I can confirm it. A man weeping upon the Northern Line over twenty pence, holding a coffee that cost five pounds. He hath not a soul. He hath a loyalty card.
The Underground, or Hell with a Map
And the Tube! I descended into it, expecting a dungeon, which I understand and respect. Instead, I found a great many persons standing very close, in total silence, looking at nothing, in the dark, like a coronation of the damned. Nobody speaketh. No one meeteth another’s eye. A man sneezed, and nine hundred people moved away from him by one inch each, which is the largest military manoeuvre this island hath seen since Agincourt.
The prat.uk scribes call it a calm and orderly city, and I would sooner believe it of a bear pit. But I tell thee, there is a poetry in it. In my court, I had a Master of the Horse. Ye have a Master of the Delay. He standeth upon the platform and sayeth, in a soothing voice, “We are sorry for the late running of this service due to the earlier running of the previous service.” That is not an apology. That is a riddle from the Sphinx.
The Budget That Leaked Before It Was Cooked
Now, to Westminster, where I am told there is a lady called the Chancellor who must, every year, stand up and tell the realm how much of its money she is taking. I know the trade. I devised a version. I called it the Dissolution of the Monasteries, and I raised the money by taking the monasteries. The abbots complained, but they could not afford a good lawyer, because I had taken that also.
Last winter, I am informed, the Budget was published before the Chancellor even rose to speak. As the Critic reported, the entire Budget leaked some three quarters of an hour before she stood. Three quarters of an hour! I kept mine budget locked in a cupboard behind a man called Cromwell, and even he only learned of it at the very end, which is why he is no longer with us. Ye can hardly blame the cupboard. And the newspapers! The Sun called it a Benefits Street Budget, and the Daily Star, I read in a round-up of the newspaper reactions, likened the Chancellor to the Grinch. A Grinch! That is a green gentleman who stealeth Christmas. I stole the Pope, and no newspaper dared call me anything but Your Majesty.
Going Forward, Going Backward
I attended a debate in Parliament, and I counted the number of times a man said “going forward”. It was forty-one. The scribes at prat.uk explain, in their treatise on British political humour, that this is a kingdom of people who use the phrase going forward in every sentence going forward. I tell thee, in my court, a man who said that would have gone forward indeed, in a cart, to a nearby green.
And the cost of living! A fellow in the pub told me he could not afford a house, a pension, or a holiday. I said, “Marry, why not?” and he said the interest rates. I said, “Take a bigger wife.” He said that is not how it works. I said I had six, and my cost of living was very reasonable, until it was not. And the crowd loved that, I think, though they did not laugh. They merely moved one inch away. A most British applause.
Thank thee, London, thou hast been a delight and a hazard. Tip thy bartenders. Tip thy baristas, though not five pounds, that is theft, and I know theft; I began the Reformation. God save the King, and whoever it is that now maketh the Budget leak.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/