In the year 1757, the battlefield of Plassey resounded with the clash of steel and the roar of cannons. Yet, in this alternate history, fortune favored the Tiger of Mysore. Tipu Sultan, a master strategist and fearless warrior, outmaneuvered the British forces, capturing the ambitious Robert Clive.
Instead of a swift execution, Tipu, a man of refined tastes even in vengeance, chose a more theatrical approach. Clive was imprisoned in a gilded cage within the Sultan’s palace, subjected to daily indignities. Forced to wear a turban, fed only spicy curries that set his stomach ablaze, and made to listen to endless sitar recitals, Clive slowly cracked under the pressure. His stiff upper lip quivered, his cries for a proper cup of tea echoed unanswered, and the once-mighty conqueror of India was reduced to a whimpering mess.
News of Clive’s fate reached London, throwing the East India Company into disarray. Their shares plummeted faster than a poorly packed samosa in hot oil. The British, realizing that their dreams of an Indian empire were crumbling faster than a stale biscuit, packed their bags and fled back to Blighty.
But Tipu was not done. He was not content with merely expelling the British from India; he sought to teach them a lesson they would never forget. With the assistance of some disgruntled French engineers—always eager to undermine the English—he built a formidable armada, unlike anything the Indian Ocean had ever seen. His ships, adorned with fearsome tiger figureheads, set sail for the shores of England.
The British, caught completely off guard, mounted a valiant defense. However, their cannons were no match for Tipu’s superior firepower and the sheer audacity of his attack. He stormed London, took up residence in Buckingham Palace (after a thorough cleaning, of course), and promptly declared himself the new ruler of England.
The royal family, caught in their nightgowns, were given a swift trial—primarily for their terrible fashion sense—and promptly executed. Tipu, after consulting with his astrologers who predicted a future of royal idiocy, decided it was best to nip the problem in the bud.
Thus began Tipu’s reign over England. He declared Hindi the official language, much to the chagrin of the English, who now struggled to order a pint of ale without inadvertently proposing marriage. All English food was banned, replaced with a mandatory samosa starter for every meal. The pubs, once filled with the aroma of roast beef and the sound of drunken singalongs, now served spicy vindaloo and played sitar music.
Tipu’s most audacious reform was in the realm of sports. Horse racing, the cherished pastime of the English elite, was abolished. Horses, deemed too dignified for the fallen English, were replaced with donkeys. The once-grand races at Ascot became comical spectacles of donkeys braying and jockeys clinging on for dear life.
Fox hunting suffered a similar fate. The sight of red-coated aristocrats, perched precariously on donkeys, chasing after bewildered foxes became a source of great amusement. The hounds, confused by the lack of proper mounts, refused to participate, and the foxes, sensing the absurdity of the situation, often paused to watch the spectacle with bemused expressions.
Even show jumping was not spared. Donkeys, notoriously poor jumpers, were forced to navigate miniature obstacles, their braying protests echoing through the streets of London, now aptly nicknamed “Donkey City.”
The pinnacle of this absurdity was the annual Trooping the Colour. The King, now a mere figurehead, was compelled to ride a particularly stubborn donkey, which promptly threw him into a fountain during the ceremony. The Coldstream Guards, their tall bearskin hats bobbing precariously atop their donkey mounts, struggled to maintain any semblance of order. The once-majestic parade devolved into a chaotic donkey derby, much to the delight of the laughing crowds.
And so, Tipu Sultan, the Tiger of Mysore, reigned supreme over a donkey-ridden, samosa-munching, Hindi-speaking England. His rule stood as a constant reminder of the fickle nature of fate.