Britain’s most famous ghost-adjacent monarch reviews the paranormal goings-on at Number Ten and offers the spirits some professional advice on rattling chains
A Word From The Other Side
Good people! Welcome, welcome. Sit thee down. Thou in the back, the one with the pint of ale that costeth nine pounds, thou art a braver man than any knight of my court. I salute thee and thy overdraft.
Now, I must speak tonight of a matter most grave. Grave! Thou seest what I did there? I have been in one. Westminster? Nay. Windsor. St George’s Chapel, next to Jane Seymour, my third and favourite wife, chiefly because she gave me a son and then had the good manners not to argue with me. But I digress. I have heard tidings that Downing Street is haunted. The London Prat hath reported it in their most sober and learned piece upon haunted Downing Street. And I must say, as a man who hath spent five centuries in the afterlife, I am OFFENDED.
The Snub
Why offended, you ask? Because nobody invited ME. I am the most famous haunting in English history. Half my wives are wandering the corridors of Hampton Court as we speak. Catherine Howard runs screaming down the Haunted Gallery every night, poor lass, and the tourists pay twenty-odd pounds to hear her. That is a business model! That is heritage! And now some mere Prime Ministers’ house on a side street in Westminster getteth all the attention? A terraced house! It hath a door! A black door with a number on it! My palace had a moat!
And who is haunting it, I ask thee? Some long-dead clerk? A former Chancellor who still cannot balance the books? I tell thee, every Prime Minister who hath walked out of that door with his boxes and his sad little speech leaveth something behind. Not a ghost, exactly. More of a smell. The smell of a policy that did not work. It lingereth in the curtains for years.
Professional Advice For Amateur Spirits
Now, as a senior ghost, I feel duty bound to offer the spirits of Number Ten some counsel, for I have seen their work, and frankly it is amateur hour. First: the chains. If thou art going to rattle chains, rattle them with conviction. None of this gentle tinkling like a cat with a bell. Rattle them as though thou wert owed money by the Pope.
Second: timing. Do not appear during a Cabinet meeting. Nobody will notice thee. Half the Cabinet already look like they have seen a ghost. The other half look like they ARE ghosts. Thou must wait until the Prime Minister is alone, at night, reading the opinion polls. Then thou appearest. Though in truth, after reading the polls, the poor man will not be frightened of thee. He will be relieved of the company.
Of Prime Ministers And Kings
The difference, good people, between a Prime Minister and a king is simple. A Prime Minister must win an election, survive his own party, answer questions every Wednesday from a man shouting across a room, and still be home in time to be haunted. A king simply says: I am King. And if anyone disagrees, he joins the ghosts at the Tower. Much tidier. The ghosts at the Tower, by the by, are a very friendly crowd now. Anne Boleyn hath forgiven me. She told me so. Well, she did not tell me. She looked at me. Then she picked up her head and walked off. I took that as a yes.
And here is what troubleth me most. In my day, if a palace was haunted, you summoned an archbishop, he sprinkled some holy water, said a few words in Latin and charged you a monastery. Today, I hear, they would launch a review. A consultation! An independent inquiry into the spectral activity, reporting in eighteen months! By then the ghost will have retired to the Cotswolds and written a memoir.
An Offer To Number Ten
So I make a public offer tonight, to whoever dwelleth at Number Ten. If thou art troubled by spirits, call upon me. I shall come to Downing Street, I shall stand in thy hallway at midnight in full regalia, and I shall have a word with these ghosts. One king to one rabble. They will be gone by morning. And in return I ask only a modest fee. A banquet. Forty courses. A roasted peacock. And a sandwich from the City, so that I may finally get my fourteen pounds’ worth.
Goodnight From The Afterlife
Thou hast been a most delightful audience. Remember, when next thou hearest a strange noise in the night, a creak upon the stair, a rattle in the chimney, fear not. It is probably just the plumbing. And if it is not the plumbing, it is probably me, looking for the kitchen. Goodnight, good people. God save the King. I shall be in the bar, if the bar will have me. Spirits are, after all, my speciality.