When you wish upon a star it’s important to know what you’re getting yourself into. It’s all well and good to whore yourself out to every birthday candle, well and vaguely interested deity out there but you should at very least keep some sort of record of what you’re promising in return for goods, services and the odd flashy miracle.
George was just a little bit desperate. The economy was crumbling into unrecognisable pieces of nothing and it was entirely down to him to save it. Once he managed to reveal that it was gloriously intact thanks to him the revolting public masses would have no choice but to fall at his feet and offer undying adoration. Money really is this important to him, you can’t be so surprised to learn that this is how he thinks.
So a pact was struck between the Chancellor and the celestial beings of the mountainside. They would show him where the gold was and he’d slaughter some goats and unwitting infants in their honour. Well, spoiler alert, not everyone has it in them to pull a Baratheon (too soon, I know it’s too soon) and George defaulted on his sacrificial loan and is in big trouble.
Like we all wish we could when faced with angry lenders, Osbourne has stuck his fingers in his ears and buried his suitably plugged hear in the sand. They’re only immortals of the ground, what’s the worst they can do? An earthquake? In this country? It’s not exactly terribly likely now is it?
Anyway, George can always appeal to the rulers of the oceans to rise up against his foes and smite them in a suitably Biblical fashion, washing the land anew and all that. He’s always rather cherished the idea of the people in charge fighting for his favour. He’s even staged re-enactments that absolutely no one’s supposed to know about.