It's been two weeks since Showtime's The Tudors ended and I feel a huge sense of loss -- a big gaping hole in my life. I truly miss Henry. Not the factual, tyrannical, fat, red-headed Henry. That one was made up by historians, culled from documents and portraits found from that era. No, I miss the Jonathan Rhys Meyers Henry. The chiseled, six pack ab-ed, dark haired, piercing blue-eyed, troubled Henry, who was CLEARLY misunderstood.
For some reason Henry VIII got stuck with a rep for being a sonofabitch, because a couple of his wives lost their heads. Well you know what? A man that doesn't kill you doesn't care. I think the men of this millennium make us suffer from their indifference. Think about it: The lack of follow through, the Peter Pan syndrome, the sponging off you. Wouldn't you rather get with Henry? I know I'd rather have my head chopped off than get back together with some of the fools I've been courted by.
Recently, I was with a musician who was recording a really important album that would change the course of music history. I know this because he told me repeatedly. What I didn't know is that he was writing about our sex life online. Why didn't I see what he wrote about me? Because he talked about himself so much in person, it just seemed redundant to follow him on Twitter. I eventually found out he was updating his Facebook status before the wet spot had even dried. He even opened it up to comments from his fans. I missed the writing on his wall, literally.
Now Henry did ask his counsel to help him find a way out of his marriage with Catherine of Aragon. But she totally couldn't provide him with a male heir. And she didn't speak very good English, which as we all know is the main language in England. Plus she slept with his brother! OK, she was married to his brother before marrying him, but still! I know that I'd be very willing to keep practicing for a male heir with Jonathan. I mean, Henry. Plus, I speak fluent English. And even some Latin! Not that the bass player would have known this. I never got a word in edgewise.
One of my college boyfriends denounced me in front of our whole acting class. He accused me of seducing him by way of an autobiographical monologue, where, no shit, he produced actual tears.
Homeboy was a frat boy, moonlighting in the theater arts for the credits, but he took a liking to me and decided to date the dark, artsy girl. But apparently I crossed the line when I seduced him. I guess that's why he took me to his fraternity keg parties and to the local dive bar's Long Island Iced Tea forty ouncer night and then pawed the clothes off my semi-conscious body -- to keep me from seducing him. His monologue was pretty impressive, the way he made me out to be a black widow sex fiend who ruined his life and swayed him from the Christian path.
Anne Boleyn and her father may have been portrayed as conniving and power hungry, but Henry had met his match. If there was anyone that was fit to rule with Henry and keep him on his toes, it was Anne. Hell, he even got out from under the Pope and the Catholic Church because of her. Sure, it's because he wanted to screw her, but still. She helped him "actualize." That's what a good woman does! Even if she is a hussy.
When Anne had sex with Henry, she got boxes of jewels and was crowned queen. Respect! When I had sex with Frat Boy, I got Children of the Corn college kids calling me Hester Prynne. Anne Boleyn is lucky. She got her head chopped off in front of a crowd. I had to slowly die of embarrassment in front of one. See? Henry is kinder. He would have showed me mercy with one clean blow.
Once upon a time, I got violently ill and called my then boyfriend and told him I needed to go to the hospital.
"Why are you calling me? I'm working," was his response.
"I'm really sick." I repeated.
"You're being really needy." He sighed, sounding rather annoyed with me.
Yeah. I am needy. I'm a needing to go to the hospital.
See, Henry didn't do that to the love of his life, Jane. He saw to it that a team of midwives and ladies-in-waiting watched over her, as a fever slowly killed her. She had the very best care that the Tudor Health Care System could buy. I'm sure he spared no expense -- he gathered up every leech in the kingdom. And had she wanted a carriage ride somewhere, I'm sure he would have had one of his courtiers arrange it. Henry is a giver.
One guy I went out with once clearly laid out for me that I, under no circumstances, would be as cute or skinny as Jennifer Aniston, and that was my 'cross to bear.' He did mention, several times following that statement, that Aniston was his ideal girl/sex symbol. Just to clarify, he knew I wasn't Jen before the date began, but he complained the whole time anyway. This wasn't even during her cutesy Friends days, but her more recent beef jerky looking phase.
Yet, this was nothing like what poor Henry had to deal with Anne of Cleves. I mean, Holbein, and those tricky Germans, out and out lied to him when they sent her painting. It's like those girls who Photoshop their Facebook photos until they look Kardashiany. What was poor Henry supposed to do? I don't blame him for ignoring her or sending her away. I think he was quite generous to give Cleves her own castle as opposed to a neck shave. I didn't get a fucking castle, just an eating disorder. Henry would never have done that to me. Something makes me think he'd find me way hotter than Aniston. And I wouldn't be paying rent right now.
Henry might have been taken to task for quickly marrying Catherine Howard, a child bride, but I coulda told him age ain't nuthin' but a number. I lived with a guy Henry's age and he wasn't exactly the most mature. He used to get super drunk and puke in random places -- like, say, in a paper Trader Joe's bag in the living room -- and just leave it there for days. I'd ask him to clean it up and he'd refuse on some sort of pretzel logic and we'd have a puke bag stand off. It was just so immature.
Henry couldn't stand immature women. Sure, he wasn't finding hidden bags of vomit all over the house, but he was finding Catherine all over the castle in hidden love trysts. Catherine couldn't control her lust. My man couldn't control his drinking OR his gag reflex. That's so not OK. Off with their heads! I would never be able to cheat on poor Henry. And I know Henry wouldn't leave puke around the house. That's what the serfs are for. Sigh. Relationships were so much simpler back in those days.
One guy trying to woo me got all up in my face about religion and told me that I was denying my faith. Being a product of an interfaith marriage, I consider myself neither religion instead of both. But over one charming dinner, this dude told me that if the Nazis came for me, that I would be taken away and killed. Well, under these rules, I suppose Bloody Mary and the Catholic Church would find my Protestant ass and burn it, hang it and put my head on a spike too. Right? Equal opportunity oppression.
I mean, that's what Henry COULD have done to his sixth wife, Catherine Parr, when she was arrested for heresy, but he totally stood up for her and told Bishop Gardner to fuck right off. He gave his wife freedom of religion, or at least the right to grovel for forgiveness in front of the court.
I didn't even get that privilege before the appetizers came, as I was sentenced to death by Nazi firing squad. That guy was an oppressive ass, compared to Henry. Plus, Henry is HOT. I'd rather get down on my hands and knees in front of steamy Jonathan, I mean Henry, and convert to whatever religion he was following that month, rather than be scolded over a deli fruit plate in harsh lighting.
Henry really got a bad rap. With all the crazy women he had to deal with, plus the stress of running a kingdom, I think he handled himself pretty well. And he looked damn sexy doing it. You didn't see Henry borrowing money from his girlfriends, or forgetting to mention a secret wife and kids, or purposely serving a meal laden with avocado when he knows his lady is deathly allergic. No, the man just wanted a pretty, smart and funny companion with whom he could have constant sex and who would produce a male heir. Is that so hard? I think not.
Jonny/Henry -- call me.