So, Henry the Eighth didn’t die in battle. He didn’t die from a romantic disease. He died because he was a gluttonous bull who refused to walk, eat a vegetable, or admit his jousting days were over.
He rotted from the inside out. His last moments were likely gasping, fat, and sour wine on his breath. It’s kind of hilarious, honestly.
He spent his whole life making other people fear him. In the end, his own body was the executioner. And it took his sweet time about it—the full sentence took 55 years to carry out.
So next time you skip the salad, think of Henry. He’s the reason we have that cautionary tale. And also the reason we have the Church of England. But mostly, the cautionary tale.
Cheers to a king who died like he lived: overly dramatic and full of meat.
