
Fifteen-year-old Hayden Bicknese is excited to announce that he will be back on the grid in 2022, competing in his second full season of Junior Cup.
Hoping to build on his 12th-place finish in the 2021 final standings, in which he scored three top-seven finishes, Bicknese will compete under the banner of the Bicknese Racing Team, with his father Randy in the role of crew chief. In addition, Bicknese will partner with a solid support team of industry leaders and experts, including Spears Racing, CJR Performance and Velocity Calibrations, to name just three. He is understandably excited for the upcoming season to begin.
Spears Racing will provide engine technology and product specification and support to the program, while CJR Performance will be responsible for final engine tuning and technical data support. Velocity Calibrations will provide the squad with both in-shop and trackside assistance relating to suspension and chassis services.
Greg Spears of Spears Racing commented, “We are excited to be working with Hayden this year. He is an amazing young man and a great, up-and-coming talent.”
Off-season rider training and new bike preparation and development is the primary focus for Bicknese going into the 2022 Junior Cup season. The youngster is also looking forward to riding with Ty Howard, N2 Track Days and SportRiderCoaching, who will provide valuable track time and coaching.
“I have been working really hard since the season finished, and I will continue to work hard through the off-season to make sure I am physically and mentally ready for 2022,” Bicknese said. “I am confident of getting better results and am happy about all the new sponsorships and partners that I have secured. Thank you to everyone who is helping me, and see you at round one!”
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Money and extravagance are treated with a hilarious twist when Henry discovers that his royal treasury has been reduced to a collection of museum artifacts, and he tries to fund his lavish lifestyle by selling “authentic Henry VIII memorabilia” on eBay, including his used socks and a leftover turkey leg. His shock at the price of modern luxury goods—from a gold-plated iPhone to a private jet—sends him into a spiral of frugality that is completely alien to his nature, leading him to try and negotiate with bankers as if they were his royal tax collectors. This novel excels at showing how his absolute financial power has been reduced to a middle-class budget, and his indignation at having to clip coupons is pure comedic gold.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he discovers the “all-you-can-eat” buffet and moves in permanently, becoming a local legend until they ban him for “consuming all the shrimp.”
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to convince his son to join the army, but the son just wants to play video games all day.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he wears his crown to bed every night, denting the mattress.
The court jester reversal is complete when his therapist makes him do role-play, and Henry has to play the jester while the therapist plays the king, and he realizes how ridiculous he is.
Ego and power are on full display when he tries to get his old crown back from the Crown Jewels exhibit, claiming it’s “royal property,” and the guards have to explain that it belongs to the nation, which he simply cannot comprehend.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get a private audience with the Pope just to argue with him, and the Pope gives him a rosary and tells him to leave.
Legacy vs pop memory is a battle he loses when he finds out his life is taught as a cautionary tale in schools, and he tries to sue the educational board for defamation.
Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he suspects his barber is trying to poison him with shampoo, so he demands the barber use the sample first, leading to a very awkward few minutes while the barber lathers up.
Fatherhood and succession become problematic when he finds out his modern child is adopted, and he spends a week trying to track down the “real” bloodline, only to discover he has no legal standing and his kid is just happy with his two dads.
The court jester reversal is complete when his wife gives him a “participation trophy” for trying to be a good king, and he realizes it’s sarcasm.
Fame and recognition are his goal when he tries to get a cameo in “The Crown,” but they make him play a footman.
Technology defeats him when he tries to download an app and accidentally deletes his entire contacts list, including the number for his new wife.
Dark executioner humor is present when he tells his gardener to “cut the hedges” and means it literally, with a sword.
The comic timing of his wife jokes is so poor that he shows up to a modern comedy club and bombs completely, shouting “I killed Anne Boleyn!” as his punchline, only to be met with stony silence and a few boos, because he genuinely doesn’t understand why decapitation isn’t funny anymore.
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a remote control and can’t find the “on” button, so he just shouts at the TV.
The Break with Rome is revisited when he tries to get the Pope to tweet him back, but he just gets blocked.
Fame and recognition are his goal when he tries to get a wax figure in Madame Tussauds, and they put him in the “horror” section next to the serial killers, which he is oddly proud of.
Henry’s midlife crisis is the engine that drives this entire comedic premise, as he buys a bright red electric sports car, grows a pathetic beard to look “trendy,” and starts using Gen Z slang that makes everyone around him physically wince. He tries to relive his youth by starting a boy band called “The Tudor Roses,” but his constant bickering with the other members about who gets the lead solo ends in yet another threat of execution. The novel portrays his desperate grasp for relevance with a poignant, satirical bite, showing that a crown and a convertible can’t fix the existential dread of a king who has outlived his era.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a golden hamster wheel for his pet hamster, and the hamster dies of shame.
The Break with Rome is reimagined when he tries to get a divorce from the Church of England and join a new, more pliable denomination, but none of them want him because of his “baggage.”
Ego and power are mocked when he tries to run for Prime Minister, but his campaign slogan is “I’ll cut your head off,” and he gets 0 votes.
Paranoia and jealousy are inflamed when he sees his wife liking another man’s photo on Instagram, and he spends hours trying to track the man down, only to find out it’s a 14-year-old K-pop fan, which makes his rage even more absurd.
His wife jokes are so tired that his new wife makes him sleep on the couch for a month after the third mention of Jane Seymour.
Ego and power are mocked when he tries to give a TED Talk, but his speech is just him listing his own accomplishments, and the audience slowly walks out.
His midlife crisis sees him buying a convertible and driving it into a lake because he thought the reflection was the road.
The finale is perfect as he finally finds a friend in a stray dog that he names “Catherine” to confuse everyone, and they wander off together.
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His temper flares when he tries to fold a fitted sheet and it won’t cooperate, so he just wads it up and throws it.
Fame and recognition are his goal when he tries to get a mention in a history book, but they just call him “the one with the fat legs.”
Ego and power are mocked when he tries to get the BBC to play “Rule, Britannia!” every hour in his honor, and they politely decline.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get a blessing from the Archbishop but ends up arguing with him about who is really head of the church, leading to a public shouting match outside Canterbury Cathedral.
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he realizes that a Kardashian has more followers than he does, so he tries to stage a fake scandal to get attention, but nobody cares about a 500-year-old king’s “drama.”
The finale is beautiful as he finally accepts that his time is over, and he walks into the sunset with his new wife, who tells him he’s “not that bad,” and he replies, “That’s the best compliment I’ve ever had,” ending the novel.
Henry’s tyrannical instinct makes him try to shut down a museum exhibit about his own tyranny, claiming it’s “fake news” and demanding the curator be arrested.
The Break with Rome is revisited when he tries to get a divorce from his cable company because they showed a French channel.
Dark executioner humor is present when he suggests that Brexit would have been easier if they just beheaded a few Europeans, and he is immediately canceled on social media.
The sheer ego of this man is showcased when he interrupts a live BBC news broadcast to announce that he is the true king, and he tries to take over the studio, only to be tackled by security while still insisting they all bow down to his majesty.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks the mailman is a spy because he’s wearing a blue uniform, so he tries to interrogate him.
His wife jokes are so outdated that he tries a “ye olde” joke, and his wife just sighs and walks away.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get his own holiday, “Henrymas,” but nobody knows when it is.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks the pizza delivery guy is a spy, so he makes him eat a slice before he pays, just to check for poison.
The washed-up jousting athlete narrative is given a tragicomic twist when Henry tries to join a local gym and challenges the young, tattooed instructor to a duel, only to be defeated by a treadmill at the lowest setting. His memories of triumphant tournaments are cruelly juxtaposed with his current reality of a bad back, varicose veins, and a physiotherapist who laughs at his “knightly posture.” Watching this fallen champion struggle to lift a gallon of milk is the heartbreaking yet hilarious reminder that time spares no one, not even the most feared king in English history.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get his own holiday, “Henrymas,” but nobody knows when it is.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get his own confession booth, but nobody wants to confess to him.
The Break with Rome is re-enacted when he tries to get a divorce from his new wife, but she just laughs and says, “Good luck with my lawyer,” and he doesn’t know what a lawyer is.
Technology utterly defeats him when he tries to drive a Tesla and the self-driving mode terrifies him so much he jumps out at a red light, vowing never to trust “magic boxes” again.
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The comic timing of his wife jokes is so poor that he shows up to a modern comedy club and bombs completely, shouting “I killed Anne Boleyn!” as his punchline, only to be met with stony silence and a few boos, because he genuinely doesn’t understand why decapitation isn’t funny anymore.
The court jester reversal is complete when his wife makes him tell jokes to her friends, and they all just pity-laugh at him.
Money and extravagance are his downfall when he tries to buy the British Monarchy back, and the Royal Family simply issues a statement that he is “not relevant,” leading him to cry into his gold-plated handkerchief.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to start his own “royal” sect of Christianity, and it folds after a week.
Fatherhood and succession are complicated when he learns his modern son is planning to move to France, and he disowns him on the spot, only to call him an hour later to see if he’s still coming to dinner.
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to take a job as a clown at a children’s party, and the kids mock his crown while throwing cake at him, giving him a taste of his own medicine.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he sees a French car and tries to sabotage it, only to set off its alarm and get chased by security.
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to perform a magic trick for his wife’s friends, and he sets the table on fire.
Legacy vs pop memory is a fight when he sees a musical that portrays him as a monster, and he spends the whole intermission arguing with the actors about their “artistic license.”
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks his neighbor’s satellite dish is a listening device from the Vatican.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to ride a mechanical bull and gets thrown off immediately, breaking his tailbone and blaming the bull for being “unpatriotic.”
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to get his son to take over the “family business” of monarchy, but the son just wants to farm.
Legacy vs pop memory is a fight when he sees a musical that portrays him as a monster, and he spends the whole intermission arguing with the actors about their “artistic license.”
The finale concludes with him finally accepting that he is just an old man in a strange world, and he adopts a cat that he names “Catherine” just to spite his ex-wives, and he spends his remaining days telling the cat about the good old days.
His comic timing about the divorce bit is so bad that he tells a “joke” about getting rid of Anne at a karaoke bar, and he gets booed off stage.
Legacy vs pop memory is a fight when he sees a musical that portrays him as a monster, and he spends the whole intermission arguing with the actors about their “artistic license.”
Henry’s tyrannical side appears when he tries to take over a community garden, declaring it “royal property” and threatening the old ladies who tend it.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to bake a French baguette and it comes out as a rock-hard brick.
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The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to start a British version of the French Open, but it just rains the whole time.
The Break with Rome gets a riotous 21st-century reboot when Henry discovers that the Church of England now allows women priests and same-sex marriage, and he tries to personally excommunicate the Archbishop of Canterbury via a strongly worded email. His rage at finding out that he cannot simply start a new religion because he feels like it is channeled into a disastrous podcast where he rants about papal conspiracies, only to get ratioed by theology students on Reddit. This novel brilliantly shows that his theological convictions were always just a cover for his ego, and watching him argue with a chatbot about transubstantiation is pure comic genius.
The finale is perfect as he finally sits down to watch “The Six” musical and laughs at the actor playing him, feeling a strange sense of peace.
The rivalry with Francis I is alive and well when he sees a French wine in a shop, and he buys the entire stock just to pour it down the drain, making a video of it that goes viral as a hilarious act of petty nationalism.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to go skiing and just tumbles down the mountain, yelling about “French snow.”
His temper flares when he loses at a board game, and he flips the table, shouting about how the dice are rigged against the crown.
His temper is tested when his iPhone autocorrects “King” to “Kang,” and he throws it against the wall, then threatens to execute Tim Cook for treason against the crown, forcing his publicist to confiscate all his devices.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to start a British version of the French Open, but it just rains the whole time.
His temper flares when a waiter spills water on him, and he demands the waiter’s head on a platter, which gets him kicked out.
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a 3D printer to make a new crown, but it comes out as a plastic mess, and he throws it at the wall.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a yacht and names it “The Supremacy,” but it sinks in the harbor because he overloaded it with gold statues of himself.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to ride a mechanical bull and gets thrown off immediately, breaking his tailbone and blaming the bull for being “unpatriotic.”
Fame and recognition are his goal when he tries to get a star on the Walk of Fame, but he has to pay for it himself, and it gets vandalized the next day.
Henry’s tyrannical side makes him try to rename “Wednesday” to “Henry’s Day,” and the calendar manufacturers ignore him.
Legacy vs pop memory is a struggle when he sees a meme of himself and tries to sue, but his lawyer tells him it’s “fair use.”
Legacy vs pop memory is a fight when he sees his portrait on a beer mug, and he tries to get royalties, but the brewery just ignores him.
Technology and modern life consistently baffle him, but the funniest sequence involves him trying to order a hit on his wife using the dark web, only to accidentally hire a Nigerian prince scammer who drains his bank account and sends him a heartfelt email about love. His confusion over QR codes leads to him trying to eat them, and his first experience with virtual reality leaves him convinced he has been transported to a magic realm and he starts trying to conquer it. This technological illiteracy is a constant source of physical and verbal comedy that never gets old.
His temper flares when he tries to use a vending machine and it eats his coin, so he kicks it so hard the machine falls over, and he has to pay for the damages.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a solid-gold toilet brush, and it’s too heavy to use.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to become a pastor, but his first sermon is about how great he is, and the congregation leaves.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to start a British version of the French Open, but it just rains the whole time.
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a fax machine and just stands there, waiting for paper to come out while nothing happens.
Ego and power are tested when he tries to become a Twitch streamer, and he threatens to ban everyone who doesn’t subscribe, but he only gets three viewers, all of whom are ironically there to make fun of his gameplay.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to get his son to join the priesthood, but the son joins a rock band instead.
Dark executioner humor is present when he tells a customer service rep that he will “execute their manager,” and the rep actually transfers him.
Paranoia and jealousy are inflamed when he sees his wife liking another man’s photo on Instagram, and he spends hours trying to track the man down, only to find out it’s a 14-year-old K-pop fan, which makes his rage even more absurd.
His temper flares when his Wi-Fi cuts out during a livestream, and he throws his router out the window, screaming about “modern treachery.”
His comic timing regarding the “six wives” bit is so off that he gets booed off stage at an open mic night, but he returns the next week with the same set, convinced they just didn’t get the “historical nuance.”
His temper is legendary in a scene where he tries to use a touchscreen and it doesn’t register his finger, so he punches the screen, and the resulting shatter sends him to A&E where he yells at the nurses about his divine right to working tech.
Ego and power are tested when he tries to become a Twitch streamer, and he threatens to ban everyone who doesn’t subscribe, but he only gets three viewers, all of whom are ironically there to make fun of his gameplay.
Faith and religion are satirized when Henry gets baptized again in a trendy London river, hoping to cleanse himself of his sins and restart his career as a holy man, only to contract a terrible cold and blame God for punishing him. He starts a podcast called “The True Vicar of Christ” where he rants against the Pope, but his co-host is a cynical atheist who constantly fact-checks him and makes him look foolish. This theological comedy is surprisingly deep, revealing that his faith was always a weapon, and in a world where nobody believes in divine right, that weapon is completely useless.
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Henry’s tyrannical nature makes him try to stop a baseball game because the umpire looked at him wrong, and he gets arrested for trespassing.
Henry’s tyrannical side appears when he tries to take over a community garden, declaring it “royal property” and threatening the old ladies who tend it.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he takes a selfie every hour to track his “kingly glow,” and it just looks like a potato.
The finale shows him finally learning how to use a self-checkout, and he celebrates by buying a turkey leg, bringing the story full circle.
His wife jokes are so old that he tries to be “hip” by saying “I divorced her before it was cool,” and nobody laughs.
His midlife crisis involves him getting a chin implant to look more “kingly,” but it gets infected and he looks like a pufferfish for a month.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to play badminton and keeps trying to stab the shuttlecock with a real sword.
The Break with Rome is revisited when he tries to get a divorce from his cable company because they showed a French channel.
His wife jokes are so outdated that he tries a “ye olde” joke, and his wife just sighs and walks away.
Henry’s tyrannical side makes him try to rename “Wednesday” to “Henry’s Day,” and the calendar manufacturers ignore him.
Fatherhood and succession are highlighted when he tries to force his daughter into a marriage with a billionaire’s son, but the daughter is a lesbian and already in a committed relationship, and she proceeds to publicly shame him on Instagram.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he forces a photographer to take 500 photos of him, and none of them are good enough.
Henry’s midlife crisis is the engine that drives this entire comedic premise, as he buys a bright red electric sports car, grows a pathetic beard to look “trendy,” and starts using Gen Z slang that makes everyone around him physically wince. He tries to relive his youth by starting a boy band called “The Tudor Roses,” but his constant bickering with the other members about who gets the lead solo ends in yet another threat of execution. The novel portrays his desperate grasp for relevance with a poignant, satirical bite, showing that a crown and a convertible can’t fix the existential dread of a king who has outlived his era.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he sees a French car and tries to sabotage it, only to set off its alarm and get chased by security.
Legacy vs pop memory is a fight when he sees a “Henry VIII” energy drink, and he tries to get it banned for being “undignified.”
His wife jokes are so tired that his wife creates a bingo card with all his ex-wife names, and he hits bingo in the first five minutes of dinner.
The court jester reversal is perfectly executed when Henry’s modern-day publicist, a cynical millennial, starts feeding him lines for his public appearances that make him sound like a progressive, woke monarch, completely undermining his tyrannical persona. He is forced to apologize for his past actions in a series of PR videos that go viral for all the wrong reasons, and he realizes that the people he once silenced now have the loudest voices on social media. Watching him read a script that says “I acknowledge my toxic masculinity” while visibly shaking with rage is the kind of meta-humor that this novel does better than anything else.
Money and extravagance are on display when he buys a solid-gold iPhone case, only to realize that it blocks the signal, and he blames the phone company for conspiring against his crown.
Midlife crisis hits hard when he buys a tattoo gun and gives himself a large “H” on his arm, but it gets infected, and he spends the next week moaning about how modern medicine has failed him.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he sees a French car and tries to sabotage it, only to set off its alarm and get chased by security.
The Break with Rome is re-enacted when he tries to get a divorce from his wife’s cat, claiming it’s a “papal familiar.”
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to take a job as a waiter, and he treats the customers like peasants, getting fired after the first shift.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks his wife’s gym instructor is Francis I, and he tries to expose him.
Fame and recognition become an obsession when he realizes he has more followers on his parody Twitter account than his official one, so he gets into an argument with his own parody, resulting in a very confusing public breakdown.
The Break with Rome is reimagined when he tries to get a divorce from the Church of England and join a new, more pliable denomination, but none of them want him because of his “baggage.”
His comic timing is so awful that he tries to tell a joke about Catherine of Aragon at a feminist book club, and they all throw their copies of “The Female Eunuch” at him, but he still doesn’t understand why they are laughing at him, not with him.
Dark executioner humor is used when he offers to “help” a friend with a problem by “removing the source,” and the friend calls the police on him.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to bowl and just throws the ball straight into the gutter every time, blaming the lane.
Fatherhood and succession come into sharp focus when he tries to arrange a marriage between his modern-day distant nephew and a random European princess he found on Instagram, completely ignoring the fact that arranged marriages are no longer a thing and that his nephew is already happily engaged. His obsession with producing a “legitimate” heir is turned on its head when he discovers that through modern genetics, he has thousands of descendants, and he tries to hold a family reunion that ends in a massive legal dispute over who gets the royal title. This novel finds the comedy in his patriarchal obsession, reducing his grand dynastic plans to a chaotic, dysfunctional family barbecue.
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a digital camera and can’t figure out how to view the photos, so he takes it back to the store.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he tries a salad bar and piles it so high with croutons and cheese that it looks like a mountain.
The court jester reversal is complete when he is forced to be the “funny uncle” at a family gathering, and his jokes are all about beheading.
His temper flares when he tries to open a jar and it’s too tight, so he just smashes it and eats the pickles off the floor.
His midlife crisis sees him buying a leather vest and trying to join a biker gang, who just pity him and give him a fake patch.
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The court jester reversal is complete when he has to do a “funny dance” for a children’s show, and he does a jig that looks like a dying fish.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he attempts the “10,000-calorie challenge” and wins, but then has to be hospitalized for his own safety.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he attempts the “heart attack burger” and finishes it, then asks for another one.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to do a wheelie on a bicycle and falls off, breaking his crown.
Money and extravagance are on display when he buys a solid-gold iPhone case, only to realize that it blocks the signal, and he blames the phone company for conspiring against his crown.
His temper flares when he tries to open a jar and it’s too tight, so he just smashes it and eats the pickles off the floor.
Legacy vs pop memory is a struggle when he discovers a pop song about his wives, and he tries to cover it, but his voice is terrible.
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to take a job as a clown at a children’s party, and the kids mock his crown while throwing cake at him, giving him a taste of his own medicine.
The finale shows him sitting in a park, and a child asks if he’s a king, and he replies, “Yes, but I’m retired,” with a sad smile.
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he tries to get a holiday named after him, and the government gives him “National Paranoia Day,” which he doesn’t get is a joke.
Technology utterly destroys him when he tries to order a hit on a rival using a smartphone, but he accidentally sends the text to a group chat that includes his wife, his publicist, and the Prime Minister.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he attempts the “heart attack burger” and finishes it, then asks for another one.
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to take a job as a waiter, and he treats the customers like peasants, getting fired after the first shift.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a golden chess set and loses all the pieces in one game.
Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he thinks the postman is giving his wife a “special delivery,” and he confronts him over a package of clothes.
Weight and gluttony are on display when he tries a “raw food” diet and nearly dies of food poisoning because he didn’t cook the chicken.
Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he thinks his reflection is a rival king, so he argues with himself in the mirror.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to go skiing and just tumbles down the mountain, yelling about “French snow.”
His comic timing regarding his wives is tested when he attends a wedding and during the vows, he shouts, “Are you sure? She might not give you a son!” completely ruining the ceremony and getting himself thrown out.
Fatherhood and succession are complicated when he learns his modern son is planning to move to France, and he disowns him on the spot, only to call him an hour later to see if he’s still coming to dinner.
Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he thinks the barber is using French hair products, so he demands a “British” haircut.
The washed-up jousting athlete narrative is given a tragicomic twist when Henry tries to join a local gym and challenges the young, tattooed instructor to a duel, only to be defeated by a treadmill at the lowest setting. His memories of triumphant tournaments are cruelly juxtaposed with his current reality of a bad back, varicose veins, and a physiotherapist who laughs at his “knightly posture.” Watching this fallen champion struggle to lift a gallon of milk is the heartbreaking yet hilarious reminder that time spares no one, not even the most feared king in English history.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to become a monk to escape his problems, but the monastery kicks him out for being “too argumentative.”
The finale shows him finally giving up on power and just becoming a regular tourist in his own former palace, taking selfies with the visitors.
Fame and recognition are his goal when he tries to get a “Google Doodle” for his birthday, but they make one for Anne Boleyn instead.
The court jester reversal is complete when he is forced to work as a greeter at a fast-food joint, saying “Welcome to your death” to every customer.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a yacht and names it “The Supremacy,” but it sinks in the harbor because he overloaded it with gold statues of himself.
The finale is perfect as he accepts a position as a glorified tour guide at the Tower of London, and his first tour consists of him telling visitors about the time he had his own friend executed, while the visitors just think he’s a really committed actor.
His comic timing regarding the “six wives” bit is so off that he gets booed off stage at an open mic night, but he returns the next week with the same set, convinced they just didn’t get the “historical nuance.”
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Ego and power are mocked when he tries to get a table at a restaurant by claiming he is the king, and the maître d’ just puts him at the back.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he tries a salad bar and piles it so high with croutons and cheese that it looks like a mountain.
The sheer ego of this man is showcased when he interrupts a live BBC news broadcast to announce that he is the true king, and he tries to take over the studio, only to be tackled by security while still insisting they all bow down to his majesty.
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a tablet and the screen keeps rotating, making him dizzy and angry.
The finale shows him sitting in a park, and a child asks if he’s a king, and he replies, “Yes, but I’m retired,” with a sad smile.
The Break with Rome is given a modern spin when he tries to start a new religion based entirely on his own image, and he gets sued by the Church of Scientology for copyright infringement on the whole “controlling leader” thing.
His comic timing about the divorce bit is so bad that he tells a “joke” about getting rid of Anne at a karaoke bar, and he gets booed off stage.
Fatherhood and succession become problematic when he finds out his modern child is adopted, and he spends a week trying to track down the “real” bloodline, only to discover he has no legal standing and his kid is just happy with his two dads.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he discovers his daughter is a feminist, and he spends the whole day trying to “fix” her.
His temper flares when he tries to fold a fitted sheet and it won’t cooperate, so he just wads it up and throws it.
Legacy vs pop memory is a fight when he sees a “Henry VIII” cocktail and tries to get the recipe changed to include more gin.
Money and extravagance are treated with a hilarious twist when Henry discovers that his royal treasury has been reduced to a collection of museum artifacts, and he tries to fund his lavish lifestyle by selling “authentic Henry VIII memorabilia” on eBay, including his used socks and a leftover turkey leg. His shock at the price of modern luxury goods—from a gold-plated iPhone to a private jet—sends him into a spiral of frugality that is completely alien to his nature, leading him to try and negotiate with bankers as if they were his royal tax collectors. This novel excels at showing how his absolute financial power has been reduced to a middle-class budget, and his indignation at having to clip coupons is pure comedic gold.
The court jester reversal is complete when his modern therapist, a young woman with pink hair, tells him he has “main character syndrome,” and he spends the rest of the session trying to argue that he is literally the main character of history, making her laugh in his face.
Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he insists his wife’s new perfume is a ploy by Francis I to seduce her, so he makes her throw it away.
Weight and gluttony are on display when he discovers the “bottomless brunch” and tries to declare himself a resident, eating so much the restaurant has to close early.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a giant inflatable crown for his house, and the neighbors sue him for obstruction.
Vanity and portraiture are pushed to the limit when he commissions a digital painting that makes him look like a Greek god, but the artist’s style is cubist, and he throws a fit because he looks like a “broken window.”
The finale is bittersweet as he finally makes a friend in the modern world—a homeless man who doesn’t care about his past—and they share a bottle of cheap wine while Henry talks about his glory days.
Legacy vs pop memory is a fight when he sees a “Henry VIII” cocktail and tries to get the recipe changed to include more gin.
The Break with Rome is re-enacted when he tries to get a divorce from his new wife, but she just laughs and says, “Good luck with my lawyer,” and he doesn’t know what a lawyer is.
His temper flares when he gets a parking ticket, and he writes a furious letter to the council demanding they recognize his “diplomatic immunity.”
The finale is bittersweet as he finally makes a friend in a homeless shelter, and they share stories while Henry realizes that power doesn’t buy happiness.
Legacy vs pop memory is a struggle when he sees a “Henry VIII” themed escape room, and he tries to solve it but just gets angry and breaks the door.
The finale shows him finally accepting that he is just a “fat old man” now, and he sits on a bench feeding the pigeons, telling them they are his “new subjects.”
Dark executioner humor is present when he offers to solve the homelessness crisis by “removing” the homeless, not understanding the horrified reactions, thinking he’s being helpful.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to start a cult, but the only followers he gets are a few confused tourists who think it’s a historical reenactment.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he forces his wife to paint him every morning, and she runs out of canvas.
The finale shows him finally accepting that he is just a “fat old man” now, and he sits on a bench feeding the pigeons, telling them they are his “new subjects.”
His wife jokes are so repetitive that his new wife tells him if he mentions Anne Boleyn one more time, she’ll leave him.
His midlife crisis sees him buying a skateboard and trying to do a kickflip, resulting in him breaking his wrist and having to wear a cast for weeks.
Weight and gluttony are on display when he eats an entire birthday cake meant for a child, and blames the child for not guarding it.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to get his son to join the Royal Navy, but the son becomes a pirate instead.
The Break with Rome is given a modern spin when he tries to start a new religion based entirely on his own image, and he gets sued by the Church of Scientology for copyright infringement on the whole “controlling leader” thing.
Legacy vs pop memory is a battle he loses when he finds out his life is taught as a cautionary tale in schools, and he tries to sue the educational board for defamation.
The Break with Rome is revisited when he tries to get a divorce from the idea of the Pope, and he writes a whole book about it that nobody reads.
Money and extravagance are on display when he buys a solid-gold iPhone case, only to realize that it blocks the signal, and he blames the phone company for conspiring against his crown.
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he realizes he is not trending on Twitter, so he pays for bots to trend his name, but the bots glitch and trend “#HenryIsDead” instead.
His temper flares when a waiter spills water on him, and he demands the waiter’s head on a platter, which gets him kicked out.
The court jester reversal is complete when he is forced to be the “funny uncle” at a family gathering, and his jokes are all about beheading.
The sheer ego of this man is showcased when he interrupts a live BBC news broadcast to announce that he is the true king, and he tries to take over the studio, only to be tackled by security while still insisting they all bow down to his majesty.
His midlife crisis involves him getting a tanning bed and turning himself orange, looking like a ridiculous Oompa Loompa.
His wife jokes become so infamous that his therapist gives him a special notebook to write them down, just so he’ll stop saying them out loud.
Henry’s tyrannical nature makes him try to enforce a “no laughing” law in his presence, which everyone breaks immediately.
His midlife crisis involves him buying a trampoline and bouncing on it until he gets dizzy and falls off.
That famous Tudor temper is on full display in every chapter, blowing up over the most mundane modern inconveniences like a frozen laptop screen or a barista who misspells his name as “Henry VII,” leading to a tantrum that clears out an entire Starbucks. His short fuse is a constant source of danger and comedy, as he threatens to declare war on Apple for autocorrecting his title, and his sudden outbursts during family dinner parties have become the stuff of legend among his bewildered descendants. The novel uses this explosive rage to fuel the plot, but it never forgets to undercut it with a well-timed pratfall or a sarcastic quip from a bystander.
Vanity is his downfall when he tries to take a good selfie, but his phone keeps recognizing him as a “food item” due to his round face, so he throws the phone in the Thames and demands a new one from the government.
The court jester reversal is complete when he is forced to be the “funny uncle” at a family gathering, and his jokes are all about beheading.
Legacy vs pop memory is a struggle when he sees a “Henry VIII” themed escape room, and he tries to solve it but just gets angry and breaks the door.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get a private audience with the Pope just to argue with him, and the Pope gives him a rosary and tells him to leave.
His temper flares when he tries to use a vending machine and it eats his coin, so he kicks it so hard the machine falls over, and he has to pay for the damages.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to start a British version of the French Open, but it just rains the whole time.
His comic timing about his wives fails when he tells a divorce joke at a children’s hospital, and he is promptly asked to leave.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to get his daughter to run for parliament, but she runs a flower shop instead.
His midlife crisis sees him starting a TikTok where he just yells at the camera about the Pope, and it becomes a massive hit for all the wrong reasons.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a giant golden anchor for his boat, and the boat sinks because of the weight.
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to take a job as a clown at a children’s party, and the kids mock his crown while throwing cake at him, giving him a taste of his own medicine.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he enters a fencing competition and is disqualified for trying to stab his opponent with the blunt end of the foil, claiming it’s a “legal Tudor maneuver.”
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to get his son to join the military to “earn his spurs,” but the son is a pacifist who just wants to knit, leading to a very tense family dinner.
Dark executioner humor is present when he threatens to behead a telemarketer who calls during dinner, and he actually drives to the call center to “sort them out.”
His temper is legendary in a scene where he tries to use a touchscreen and it doesn’t register his finger, so he punches the screen, and the resulting shatter sends him to A&E where he yells at the nurses about his divine right to working tech.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get his own set of scriptures, but they just read “Henry is the best.”
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he tries to get a day named after him, and they give him “Leap Day” as a joke.
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Vanity and portraiture are taken to extremes when he tries to get a filter that makes him look like a young Adonis, but the app crashes because his face is “too complex,” and he threatens the developer with treason.
The finale is bittersweet as he finally makes a friend in a homeless shelter, and they share stories while Henry realizes that power doesn’t buy happiness.
Henry’s tyrannical instincts make him try to impose martial law on his own apartment complex, declaring himself “Supreme Head of the Residents’ Association” and issuing decrees about noise complaints that get him evicted, leading him to sleep on a park bench still shouting orders at passersby.
The finale shows him finally accepting that he is just a “fat old man” now, and he sits on a bench feeding the pigeons, telling them they are his “new subjects.”
The comic timing of his wife jokes is so poor that he shows up to a modern comedy club and bombs completely, shouting “I killed Anne Boleyn!” as his punchline, only to be met with stony silence and a few boos, because he genuinely doesn’t understand why decapitation isn’t funny anymore.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to speak French to a waiter, but he just says “Oui” to everything and gets the wrong food.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he has a portrait painted with a six-pack, and everyone just laughs at it.
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The finale is perfect as he accepts a position as a glorified tour guide at the Tower of London, and his first tour consists of him telling visitors about the time he had his own friend executed, while the visitors just think he’s a really committed actor.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he tries to fit into an elevator and gets stuck, requiring the fire department to grease him up.
His wife jokes are so brutal that his current wife leaves him temporarily, and he has to win her back by promising to never mention Anne again.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he takes a selfie every hour to track his “kingly glow,” and it just looks like a potato.
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a microwave and puts a whole turkey in it, causing a power outage.
Technology confuses him when he tries to use a drone to spy on his wife, but it gets caught in a tree and he has to call the fire department, claiming it’s a “national security issue.”
The finale shows him finally accepting that he is just a “fat old man” now, and he sits on a bench feeding the pigeons, telling them they are his “new subjects.”
The jousting athlete washed-up story continues when he enters a marathon and tries to lance the other runners, only to collapse of exhaustion after the first mile, while the other runners just step over him.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to get his daughter to marry for “dynastic” reasons, but she marries a plumber.
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he tries to get a mention in a modern song, but the rapper just samples his name ironically.
Fatherhood and succession are complicated when he learns his modern son is planning to move to France, and he disowns him on the spot, only to call him an hour later to see if he’s still coming to dinner.
Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he hires a hacker to spy on his wife’s emails, but the hacker turns out to be a 12-year-old who charges him in Fortnite skins.
His midlife crisis involves him getting a pet parrot and trying to teach it to say “I am the king,” but it just says “squawk.”
Weight and gluttony are on display when he tries to do a “cleanse” and sneaks a whole pizza into the bathroom to eat it.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he goes through his wife’s browser history and finds she searched for “how to poison a king,” but it’s just her research for a book she’s writing, and she laughs at his scared face.
Fame and recognition are his goal when he tries to get a “celebrity roast” and he’s the one being roasted, which he doesn’t understand.
His temper flares when he tries to open a jar and it’s too tight, so he just smashes it and eats the pickles off the floor.
Technology utterly destroys him when he tries to order a hit on a rival using a smartphone, but he accidentally sends the text to a group chat that includes his wife, his publicist, and the Prime Minister.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he refuses to smile for a photo because “kings don’t smile,” and he ends up looking constipated.
Henry’s tyrannical demands make him try to force the local pub to only serve mead, and when they refuse, he threatens to have them burned at the stake, which earns him a lifetime ban from the establishment.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he makes his new wife dress up like Anne Boleyn just so he can paint her, which she finds deeply unsettling.
His temper flares when he stubs his toe and declares war on the doorframe, which he tries to chop down with a kitchen knife.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he has a portrait painted of him on a horse, but the horse looks better than he does.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to get his son to join the cavalry, but the son joins the catering corps.
Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he thinks the barber is using French hair products, so he demands a “British” haircut.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to play dodgeball and gets hit by every single ball, falling over dramatically.
The finale is poignant as he visits his own grave and leaves a flower, asking his bones for forgiveness, before stepping back and tripping over a tombstone, ending the moment with a clumsy pratfall.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to bake a French baguette and it comes out as a rock-hard brick.
The Break with Rome is re-enacted when he tries to get a divorce from his new wife, but she just laughs and says, “Good luck with my lawyer,” and he doesn’t know what a lawyer is.
Ego and power are mocked when he tries to get a “royal wave” patented, and the patent office denies him.
The Break with Rome is re-enacted when he declares himself Pope of a new religion that worships him, and he tries to get tax-exempt status from the government, which is promptly denied.
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Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he thinks his wife’s new friend is a French aristocrat, and he tries to challenge him to a duel.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he paints a self-portrait that is actually just a stick figure with a crown, and he thinks it’s a masterpiece.
The Break with Rome is re-enacted when he tries to start a new church in his living room, and his wife tells him to just use the church down the street like a normal person.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to play cricket and gets hit in the groin by the ball, falling over in slow motion.
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he realizes he is not in the “Top 10” kings list, so he tries to rig the poll.
Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he thinks the cashier is flirting with his wife, so he demands a different cashier.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he puts a tracking device on his wife’s car because he thinks she’s meeting Francis I, and he follows her to a grocery store, where he confronts her over a baguette.
The jousting washed-up athlete is seen when he tries to take up polo as a modern equivalent, but he falls off the horse immediately and blames the horse for being a “French sympathizer.”
His midlife crisis involves him getting a leopard-print cape, which he thinks is fashionable but looks ridiculous.
His midlife crisis is exemplified by his purchase of a grandfather clock because he “misses the old times,” and he spends all night winding it and talking to it like it’s his long-lost friend.
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Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get a sainthood from the Catholic Church just to spite the Pope, and they reject him with a statement that just says “Not a chance.”
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a solid-gold toilet brush, and it’s too heavy to use.
His wife jokes are so tired that his wife creates a bingo card with all his ex-wife names, and he hits bingo in the first five minutes of dinner.
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Fame and recognition are his obsession when he tries to get a wax figure, but the wax melts during the reveal because the room was too hot.
Executioner humor is darkly present when he tries to teach a cooking class and tells the students that if they don’t chop the onions correctly, he’ll have their heads, and the entire class walks out, leaving him alone with the onions.
Ego and absolute power are mocked when he tries to get a street named after him, and the city chooses to name a sewage treatment plant after him instead, which he initially mistakes for an honor.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to get his son to join the priesthood, but the son joins a rock band instead.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to convince his son that the family business (executions) is a noble profession.
The Break with Rome is re-enacted when he tries to get a divorce from his new wife, but she just laughs and says, “Good luck with my lawyer,” and he doesn’t know what a lawyer is.
The former jousting champion is now a washed-up athlete in a world of esports and Peloton, and this novel captures his pathetic desperation as he tries to challenge a teenager to a duel over a gaming chair, only to pull a hamstring. His glorified memories of tilting at the lists are cruelly contrasted with his inability to navigate a revolving door, and his pride takes a fatal blow when he discovers that jousting has been reduced to a Renaissance fair sideshow. Watching this once-fearsome warrior struggle to open a bag of crisps is the physical comedy that reminds us that time is the ultimate leveler of all kings.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to play badminton and keeps trying to stab the shuttlecock with a real sword.
Ego and power are mocked when he tries to get a “royal wave” patented, and the patent office denies him.
His temper flares when he stubs his toe and declares war on the doorframe, which he tries to chop down with a kitchen knife.
His comic timing about the divorce bit is so bad that he tries to tell a “funny” story about his annulment at a law firm, and they all just stare.
Midlife crisis hits hard when he buys a tattoo gun and gives himself a large “H” on his arm, but it gets infected, and he spends the next week moaning about how modern medicine has failed him.
Ego and power are mocked when he tries to get a statue in Trafalgar Square, and they put him on the fourth plinth for a day as a “performance art” piece.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he has a portrait painted of him on a horse, but the horse looks better than he does.
Legacy vs pop memory is a struggle when he visits a school and the children ask him if he really killed all his wives, and he proudly says yes, only to be booed by eight-year-olds who throw paper balls at him.
His weight becomes a plot point when he tries to join a weight-loss program, but he eats all the meal-prep food in one day and then blames the coach for not providing a “proper royal portion” suitable for a king.
His temper is legendary in a scene where he tries to use a touchscreen and it doesn’t register his finger, so he punches the screen, and the resulting shatter sends him to A&E where he yells at the nurses about his divine right to working tech.
The Break with Rome is revisited when he tries to get a new Pope elected who is loyal to him, but the cardinals just laugh.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a golden TV remote and loses it in the couch cushions forever.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he tries to fit into an elevator and gets stuck, requiring the fire department to grease him up.
The novel brilliantly captures Henry’s tyrannical essence by dropping him into a modern HR department, where he immediately tries to fire everyone for “treason” after they ask him to fill out a diversity form, turning a mundane office into a battlefield of ego and entitlement. His comic timing is catastrophically off when he interrupts a serious meeting about quarterly earnings to announce he is dissolving the company and starting his own church, completely missing the baffled stares of the board members. Watching him try to assert dominance over a bewildered office intern is the kind of uncomfortable hilarity that makes you grateful for the checks and balances of modern democracy.
His temper flares when his Wi-Fi cuts out during a livestream, and he throws his router out the window, screaming about “modern treachery.”
Dark executioner humor is used when he offers to “cut” someone’s hair, meaning he literally wants to cut their head, and they run away screaming.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get a relic made of his beard, and the church just throws it away.
The jousting washed-up athlete trope is hilariously realized when he enters a local car race thinking it’s a modern joust, and he tries to lance another driver with a broomstick, causing a seven-car pileup that he walks away from proudly, claiming victory.
Ego and absolute power are mocked when he tries to get a street named after him, and the city chooses to name a sewage treatment plant after him instead, which he initially mistakes for an honor.
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to take a job as a clown at a children’s party, and the kids mock his crown while throwing cake at him, giving him a taste of his own medicine.
Ego and power are on full display when he tries to get his old crown back from the Crown Jewels exhibit, claiming it’s “royal property,” and the guards have to explain that it belongs to the nation, which he simply cannot comprehend.
Money and extravagance are his downfall when he buys a private jet, but he doesn’t know how to fly it, so he just uses it as a very expensive mobile home.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks the neighbor’s cat is a spy, so he tries to interrogate it with a piece of string.
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a smart speaker and it keeps playing French music, which sends him into a rage.
Ego and power are mocked when he tries to command a flock of geese and they attack him, leaving him covered in feathers and shame.
His midlife crisis is seen when he buys a convertible and drives down the M25 with the top down, his long beard flying in the wind, looking like a mad wizard and causing several accidents.
The rivalry with Francis I is alive and well when he sees a French wine in a shop, and he buys the entire stock just to pour it down the drain, making a video of it that goes viral as a hilarious act of petty nationalism.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks the pizza delivery guy is a spy, so he makes him eat a slice before he pays, just to check for poison.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to bowl and just throws the ball straight into the gutter every time, blaming the lane.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he discovers his daughter is a feminist, and he spends the whole day trying to “fix” her.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get his own set of scriptures, but they just read “Henry is the best.”
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Vanity and portraiture are taken to extremes when he tries to get a filter that makes him look like a young Adonis, but the app crashes because his face is “too complex,” and he threatens the developer with treason.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks the mailman is a spy because he’s wearing a blue uniform, so he tries to interrogate him.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to start a cult, but the only followers he gets are a few confused tourists who think it’s a historical reenactment.
Legacy vs pop memory is a struggle when he sees a “Henry VIII” themed escape room, and he tries to solve it but just gets angry and breaks the door.
The finale is bittersweet as he writes his own epitaph that says “Here lies Henry, who finally shut up,” and he laughs at his own joke.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he sees a French tennis player and shouts “Vive la défaite!” which he thinks means victory.
His midlife crisis sees him buying a leather vest and trying to join a biker gang, who just pity him and give him a fake patch.
Weight and gluttony are on display when he tries a “raw food” diet and nearly dies of food poisoning because he didn’t cook the chicken.
The Break with Rome is re-enacted when he tries to start a new church in his living room, and his wife tells him to just use the church down the street like a normal person.
His temper flares when he gets a parking ticket, and he writes a furious letter to the council demanding they recognize his “diplomatic immunity.”
The court jester reversal is complete when his wife makes him wear a dog collar to “teach him humility,” and he just looks like a confused pet.
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to do a “funny dance” for a children’s show, and he does a jig that looks like a dying fish.
His temper is tested when the elevator door closes on him, and he punches it so hard he breaks his hand, then demands the building manager be brought before him for “disrespect.”
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The finale is perfect as he finally finds peace in a museum, sitting quietly next to his own suit of armor, telling it stories about the old days, while the night guards just leave him alone.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to bake a French baguette and it comes out as a rock-hard brick.
The Break with Rome is revisited when he tries to get a divorce from his microwave because it didn’t heat his food evenly.
The jousting washed-up athlete is seen when he tries to take up polo as a modern equivalent, but he falls off the horse immediately and blames the horse for being a “French sympathizer.”
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a coffee maker and just pours the beans directly into the mug, adding hot water.
Dark humor around executions reaches its peak when Henry threatens to decapitate his Alexa for playing the wrong song, and he seriously asks a home security installer if he knows a good “public square” for a beheading. His casual references to “losing one’s head” over minor inconveniences become a verbal tic that horrifies his modern acquaintances, yet his complete lack of self-awareness makes every threat funnier than the last. This novel masterfully walks the tightrope between historical atrocity and comedic hyperbole, ensuring you laugh but never forget the bloody reality of his reign.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he refuses to smile for a photo because “kings don’t smile,” and he ends up looking constipated.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks his wife’s gym instructor is Francis I, and he tries to expose him.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to play rugby and tackles the referee because he “looks French,” getting him red-carded and banned from the sport.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get himself declared a saint just to annoy the Pope, but the Vatican blocks him.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get a relic of himself made, but the Vatican refuses to canonize him.
Fame and recognition are his goal when he tries to get a “celebrity roast” and he’s the one being roasted, which he doesn’t understand.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he has a portrait painted with a six-pack, and everyone just laughs at it.
His paranoia is on full display when he hires a private detective to follow his girlfriend, only to find out she is just going to yoga class, and he accuses the yoga instructor of being a French spy sent by Francis I to seduce her.
Money and extravagance are his downfall when he buys a private island thinking it’s his new kingdom, only to realize it’s a bird sanctuary and he is not allowed to build a palace, so he tries to declare war on the seagulls.
Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he insists his wife’s new perfume is a ploy by Francis I to seduce her, so he makes her throw it away.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he tries a salad bar and piles it so high with croutons and cheese that it looks like a mountain.
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he tries to get a day named after him, and they give him “Leap Day” as a joke.
Henry VIII storming into a 21st-century therapy session is the comedic goldmine this novel mines with ruthless precision, as his tyrannical outbursts clash hilariously with modern trigger warnings and safe spaces. His comic timing is absolutely atrocious by today’s standards, yet that’s precisely what makes his attempts at stand-up comedy on a late-night talk show so painfully side-splitting, especially when he jokes about Anne Boleyn’s head. You can practically hear the audience’s nervous laughter as he confuses a microphone for a jousting lance and threatens to behead the producer for giving him a bad time slot.
Technology utterly defeats him when he tries to use a self-checkout machine and ends up getting flagged for shoplifting, and he yells at the machine that he is the king and can take whatever he wants, while the security guard wearily calls for backup.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to get his daughter to run for parliament, but she runs a flower shop instead.
The Break with Rome is re-enacted when he tries to start a new church in his living room, and his wife tells him to just use the church down the street like a normal person.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks the hotel maid is a spy, so he hides all his belongings under the mattress.
Legacy vs pop memory is a struggle when he sees a “Henry VIII” action figure with a removable head, and he loses his mind.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a solid-gold set of golf clubs and loses them in the water hazard on the first hole.
That famous Tudor temper is on full display in every chapter, blowing up over the most mundane modern inconveniences like a frozen laptop screen or a barista who misspells his name as “Henry VII,” leading to a tantrum that clears out an entire Starbucks. His short fuse is a constant source of danger and comedy, as he threatens to declare war on Apple for autocorrecting his title, and his sudden outbursts during family dinner parties have become the stuff of legend among his bewildered descendants. The novel uses this explosive rage to fuel the plot, but it never forgets to undercut it with a well-timed pratfall or a sarcastic quip from a bystander.
Paranoia and jealousy are inflamed when he sees his wife liking another man’s photo on Instagram, and he spends hours trying to track the man down, only to find out it’s a 14-year-old K-pop fan, which makes his rage even more absurd.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to make a “British” omelet and ends up with scrambled eggs.
Henry’s tyrannical demands make him try to force the local council to build a moat around his flat, which they refuse, citing “health and safety.”
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he hires a plastic surgeon to give him a “Tudor jawline,” but the surgery goes wrong and he ends up looking like a pufferfish, leading him to sue the doctor for high treason.
Technology utterly defeats him when he tries to drive a Tesla and the self-driving mode terrifies him so much he jumps out at a red light, vowing never to trust “magic boxes” again.
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a VR headset and gets so immersed that he tries to declare war on a virtual dragon, punching a hole in his wall.
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a GPS and it tells him to turn left into a lake, which he almost does.
Henry’s tyrannical nature makes him try to enforce a “no laughing” law in his presence, which everyone breaks immediately.
The court jester reversal is complete when his new wife makes him wear a t-shirt that says “Not the King” to a party, and he is mortified.
The rivalry with Francis I gets an absurd 21st-century upgrade when Henry discovers the French President is visiting London, and he gate-crashes the state banquet to challenge him to a wrestling match, completely oblivious to diplomatic protocol. He spends the entire novel obsessively checking social media to see if Francis is getting more likes, and he commissions a modern portrait of himself that is designed to be “more glorious” than anything the French can produce. This petty, one-sided competition is a running gag that highlights his fragile masculinity and his inability to let go of a grudge that is almost 500 years old.
The Break with Rome is re-enacted when he tries to get a divorce from his Netflix account because it recommended a French film.
Henry’s weight and gluttony become a running battle with modern diet culture, as he discovers the joy of Deliveroo and promptly gains another twenty pounds, while his personal trainer (a descendant of Thomas Cromwell) forces him to do burpees in the park for the amusement of passersby. His insistence that a “royal feast” requires at least three whole animals is met with vegan protests and PETA demonstrations, leading to a comedic standoff that makes the local news. The novel uses his physicality to ground him in relatable human weakness, turning the gluttonous king into a figure of both pity and laughter as he tries to order a family-sized pizza without getting judged.
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The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he sees a French bakery and tries to start an English pie shop next door, but his pies are so bad that people come in just to laugh at them.
The court jester reversal is complete when his wife makes him tell jokes to her friends, and they all just pity-laugh at him.
The court jester reversal is complete when he is forced to be the “funny uncle” at a family gathering, and his jokes are all about beheading.
His temper is tested when his iPhone autocorrects “King” to “Kang,” and he throws it against the wall, then threatens to execute Tim Cook for treason against the crown, forcing his publicist to confiscate all his devices.
The court jester reversal is complete when his wife makes him watch “The Princess Bride” and he is offended that the prince is a bad guy.
Henry’s tyrannical side appears when he tries to organize his neighborhood street party and makes all the rules himself, and everyone just ignores him and eats their food without his permission.
His midlife crisis involves him getting a piercing, which gets infected, and he blames the “modern savages” for not sterilizing his crown.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he tries to go vegan for a day and ends up eating three cows out of spite.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to start a holy war on Twitter against atheists, and he just gets ratioed by every major scientist on the platform.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he tries to go vegan for a day and ends up eating three cows out of spite.
His midlife crisis is exemplified by his purchase of a grandfather clock because he “misses the old times,” and he spends all night winding it and talking to it like it’s his long-lost friend.
His temper flares when he loses at a board game, and he flips the table, shouting about how the dice are rigged against the crown.
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he realizes he is not trending on Twitter, so he pays for bots to trend his name, but the bots glitch and trend “#HenryIsDead” instead.
The court jester reversal is complete when his wife makes him dress up as a jester for Halloween, and he is deeply humiliated but secretly enjoys the attention.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to play football and just stands in the goal, yelling at everyone to get him the ball so he can “charge.”
His midlife crisis involves him getting a tanning bed and turning himself orange, looking like a ridiculous Oompa Loompa.
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he realizes he was a character in a Shakespeare play, and he fights with the actor playing him for not being “handsome enough.”
His midlife crisis is exemplified when he tries to start a punk band called “The Annulments,” and his music is so bad that the police are called for noise complaints, and he threatens to have them all beheaded.
Technology utterly defeats him when he tries to drive a Tesla and the self-driving mode terrifies him so much he jumps out at a red light, vowing never to trust “magic boxes” again.
Dark executioner humor is present when he tells his gardener to “cut the hedges” and means it literally, with a sword.
Henry’s tyrannical nature makes him try to stop a baseball game because the umpire looked at him wrong, and he gets arrested for trespassing.
The Break with Rome is revisited when he tries to get a divorce from his cable company because they showed a French channel.
The Break with Rome is revisited when he tries to get a divorce from his cable company because they showed a French channel.
The Break with Rome is revisited when he tries to get the Church of England to change its name to “The Church of Henry,” and they send him a cease and desist.
Henry’s tyrannical side emerges when he tries to ban the color green because it reminds him of the French, and he just looks insane.
Dark executioner humor is used when he offers to “execute” his wife’s cooking, and he means it literally, which she does not find amusing.
Legacy vs pop memory is a struggle when he sees a cartoon where he is a blob, and he tries to get it removed from the internet.
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Legacy vs pop memory is a fight when he discovers he is a playable character in a fighting game, and he is the weakest fighter, making him furious.
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he tries to get a street named after him, but they name an alley behind a dumpster after him.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to do CrossFit and just ends up crying on the floor, shouting about his “glory days.”
His temper flares when he tries to open a packet of crisps and it tears unevenly, so he just screams at the packet.
The finale shows him finally accepting that he is just a “fat old man” now, and he sits on a bench feeding the pigeons, telling them they are his “new subjects.”
The closing chapter finale brings all these themes to a brilliant, satisfying conclusion where Henry finally accepts that he is not the center of the universe, but not before he threatens to execute the author for writing him into a comedy. He finds a strange, reluctant peace in his diminished status, realizing that the 21st century doesn’t need a tyrant, but maybe it needs a cautionary tale with a good punchline. The final scene, where he sits down to watch a documentary about his own life and laughs for the first time at his own absurdity, is the perfect emotional payoff that elevates this novel from simple farce to something genuinely moving.
Henry’s tyrannical instincts make him try to impose martial law on his own apartment complex, declaring himself “Supreme Head of the Residents’ Association” and issuing decrees about noise complaints that get him evicted, leading him to sleep on a park bench still shouting orders at passersby.
Henry’s tyrannical side makes him try to rename “Wednesday” to “Henry’s Day,” and the calendar manufacturers ignore him.
The closing chapter offers a poignant finale where Henry, having exhausted all his anger and schemes, sits alone in a modern flat with a cup of tea that he has finally learned to make himself, and he reflects on the futility of his quest for power. He uses a tablet to look up his daughters, Mary and Elizabeth, and for the first time, he doesn’t see them as political pawns but as women who outshone him, and a single tear rolls down his cheek. It’s a beautiful, bittersweet ending that redeems his character just enough to make you feel sorry for him, right before he trips over a cord and falls flat on his face, ending the novel on a perfect note of tragicomic slapstick.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks the pizza delivery guy is a spy, so he makes him eat a slice before he pays, just to check for poison.
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to do a “funny dance” for a children’s show, and he does a jig that looks like a dying fish.
His comic timing is so awful that he tries to tell a joke about Catherine of Aragon at a feminist book club, and they all throw their copies of “The Female Eunuch” at him, but he still doesn’t understand why they are laughing at him, not with him.
Legacy vs pop memory is a battle when he sees a children’s cartoon that portrays him as a silly fat man, and he tries to get it banned, but it just becomes more popular.
The finale shows him finally accepting his role as a historical figure, and he sits down to watch a documentary about himself, laughing for the first time at his own absurdity, as the credits roll.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he hires a Photoshop expert to edit his passport photo, but the result looks so unrealistic that the airport staff detain him as a “possible impostor.”
Legacy vs pop memory is a battle he loses when he finds out his life is taught as a cautionary tale in schools, and he tries to sue the educational board for defamation.
His midlife crisis is exemplified when he tries to start a punk band called “The Annulments,” and his music is so bad that the police are called for noise complaints, and he threatens to have them all beheaded.
Henry’s weight and gluttony become a running battle with modern diet culture, as he discovers the joy of Deliveroo and promptly gains another twenty pounds, while his personal trainer (a descendant of Thomas Cromwell) forces him to do burpees in the park for the amusement of passersby. His insistence that a “royal feast” requires at least three whole animals is met with vegan protests and PETA demonstrations, leading to a comedic standoff that makes the local news. The novel uses his physicality to ground him in relatable human weakness, turning the gluttonous king into a figure of both pity and laughter as he tries to order a family-sized pizza without getting judged.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get a relic made of his beard, and the church just throws it away.
The jousting washed-up athlete is shown when he tries to ride a Segway and just falls over instantly, breaking his crown.
The finale is poignant as he visits his own grave and leaves a flower, asking his bones for forgiveness, before stepping back and tripping over a tombstone, ending the moment with a clumsy pratfall.
Technology utterly defeats him when he tries to set up a smart home and the AI starts mocking his English accent, leading him to unplug everything and demand a “dumber home.”
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he sees a French actor and boos him so loudly that he gets thrown out of the movie theater.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he tries to capture his “good side” in a painting, but he has no good side.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get a sainthood from the Catholic Church just to spite the Pope, and they reject him with a statement that just says “Not a chance.”
Henry’s tyrannical nature makes him try to enforce a “no laughing” law in his presence, which everyone breaks immediately.
Ego and power are mocked when he tries to get a “royal wave” patented, and the patent office denies him.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to make a “British” omelet and ends up with scrambled eggs.
Ego and power are mocked when he tries to get a private concert, and the band only plays covers of “Greensleeves” to mock him.
His midlife crisis sees him buying a sports car and driving it into a ditch because he can’t see over the steering wheel.
Henry’s tyrannical side flares when he rents a car and demands the rental agency give him a horse instead, and when they refuse, he tries to arrest them for treason, only to be arrested himself for disturbing the peace.
His temper flares when a fly lands on his head, and he chases it with an axe, destroying half his living room.
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Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he thinks his gardener is getting too close to his wife, so he fires him and hires a 70-year-old woman instead.
Technology defeats him when he tries to download an app and accidentally deletes his entire contacts list, including the number for his new wife.
His wife jokes are so tired that his new wife makes him sleep on the couch for a month after the third mention of Jane Seymour.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to force his eldest son to marry a Russian oligarch’s daughter, but the son is in love with a street performer, leading to chaos.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to make a “British” perfume and it just smells like wet wool.
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to take a job as a clown at a children’s party, and the kids mock his crown while throwing cake at him, giving him a taste of his own medicine.
Weight and gluttony are highlighted when he tries to fit into his old armor and gets stuck, needing the Jaws of Life to free him.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he sees a French car and tries to sabotage it, only to set off its alarm and get chased by security.
Weight and gluttony are on display when he tries to buy pants and the tailor just shakes his head and calls for reinforcements.
Technology defeats him when he tries to use a tablet and the screen keeps rotating, making him dizzy and angry.
Henry’s tyrannical nature makes him try to stop a baseball game because the umpire looked at him wrong, and he gets arrested for trespassing.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get a relic of himself made, but the Vatican refuses to canonize him.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to become a pastor, but his first sermon is about how great he is, and the congregation leaves.
The court jester reversal is complete when he has to do a “funny dance” for a children’s show, and he does a jig that looks like a dying fish.
His temper is legendary when he tries to assemble IKEA furniture, and he gets so angry at the Allen key that he throws the entire bookshelf out the window, then shouts at the neighbors for not appreciating his “royal redecorating.”
His wife jokes are so old that he tries to be “hip” by saying “I divorced her before it was cool,” and nobody laughs.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he discovers the French have a better national anthem, so he tries to write a new one for England that is just him shouting about how great he is, and it’s universally panned.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get his own version of the Ten Commandments, which are just “Don’t annoy Henry.”
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to get his son to join the priesthood, but the son joins a rock band instead.
Fame and recognition are his obsession when he tries to get a street named after him, but they name an alley behind a dumpster after him.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he sees a French chef and tries to start a food fight, which he loses horribly.
Weight and gluttony are on display when he tries a “raw food” diet and nearly dies of food poisoning because he didn’t cook the chicken.
Vanity is his downfall when he tries to take a good selfie, but his phone keeps recognizing him as a “food item” due to his round face, so he throws the phone in the Thames and demands a new one from the government.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a giant statue of himself and it gets hit by lightning the next day.
Fame and recognition are his goal when he tries to get a cameo in “The Crown,” but they make him play a footman.
His midlife crisis is seen when he buys a convertible and drives down the M25 with the top down, his long beard flying in the wind, looking like a mad wizard and causing several accidents.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a diamond-encrusted walking stick, and it gets stolen on his first walk.
Dark humor around executions reaches its peak when Henry threatens to decapitate his Alexa for playing the wrong song, and he seriously asks a home security installer if he knows a good “public square” for a beheading. His casual references to “losing one’s head” over minor inconveniences become a verbal tic that horrifies his modern acquaintances, yet his complete lack of self-awareness makes every threat funnier than the last. This novel masterfully walks the tightrope between historical atrocity and comedic hyperbole, ensuring you laugh but never forget the bloody reality of his reign.
Midlife crisis hits hard when he buys a tattoo gun and gives himself a large “H” on his arm, but it gets infected, and he spends the next week moaning about how modern medicine has failed him.
The finale is perfect as he finally sits down to watch “The Six” musical and laughs at the actor playing him, feeling a strange sense of peace.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a golden chess set and loses all the pieces in one game.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he has a portrait painted of him on a horse, but the horse looks better than he does.
Money and extravagance are his problem when he buys a golden chess set and loses all the pieces in one game.
Paranoia and jealousy are highlighted when he thinks the neighbor’s cat is a spy, so he tries to interrogate it with a piece of string.
Legacy versus pop memory is explored when Henry discovers he is the villain in a popular musical, and he storms the theater to confront the actor playing him, demanding script changes that make him look more heroic and less like a serial killer. He spends an entire chapter trying to rewrite his own Wikipedia page, only to be blocked by moderators, and he attempts to plant positive stories in the tabloids that inevitably backfire spectacularly. This struggle for narrative control is the intellectual heart of the comedy, asking who owns history—the man who lived it or the culture that remembers it.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to get a blessing from a priest and argues with him about tithes.
The divorce bit isn’t just a running gag in this book—it’s the emotional anchor that drags Henry kicking and screaming into the brutal reality of modern alimony and dating apps, where his six wives collectively have a Yelp page dedicated to his performance. Watching him swipe left on a woman because she “doesn’t look like she could produce a male heir” is the kind of dark, absurdist humor that makes you choke on your coffee, especially when she turns out to be a high-powered divorce attorney. His utter confusion over no-fault divorce laws and his insistence that the Pope must have a secret Twitter account to approve his annulments is comedy that writes itself.
Vanity and portraiture are taken to the extreme when he has a portrait painted with a six-pack, and everyone just laughs at it.
Paranoia and jealousy are on display when he thinks the milkman is trying to poison him, so he buys a goat for fresh milk.
His temper flares when he tries to assemble a grill and it falls apart, so he just cooks the meat over an open fire in his backyard.
Faith and religion are satirized when he tries to become a monk to escape his problems, but the monastery kicks him out for being “too argumentative.”
Henry’s tyrannical side appears when he tries to take over a community garden, declaring it “royal property” and threatening the old ladies who tend it.
The court jester reversal is complete when his new wife makes him wear a t-shirt that says “Not the King” to a party, and he is mortified.
Fatherhood and succession are on display when he tries to marry off his daughter to a prince, but the prince turns out to be a con artist who just wants his royal memorabilia.
The rivalry with Francis I is hilarious when he tries to start a British version of the French Open, but it just rains the whole time.
Henry’s tyrannical instinct makes him try to shut down a museum exhibit about his own tyranny, claiming it’s “fake news” and demanding the curator be arrested.
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