Most loyal subjects of Meritania and the rest of the world, this is my seasonal message to you. It’ll have to be quick because there’s a Christmas do on at Pumpernickel’s and I have to time my entrance to coincide with the optimum number of reporters. I hope you are able to crawl from your hovels and find some way of deriving enjoyment from this time of excess and consumerism, even if it is only to line the streets and wave your grubby mitts in my general direction. I shan’t acknowledge you of course but I have given the coachman especial instructions to refrain from running you down. Because I’m nice like that.
What a year it has been! Hasn’t it, though? The spring saw the publication of that amusing little tome, Someday My Prince by some wannabe jester, Stratford or Splafford or something common like that. Silly little man. He languishes now in the castle dungeons. Let him make up more funny stories in there, if he can. I’m joking of course; we don’t want the likes of him soiling our lovely dungeons. No; we just gave him a damn good hiding and chucked him in the moat. It’s the only language these people understand.
I understand you had a Royal Wedding. A dismal affair by all accounts. In Meritania we do things proper and on the grand scale. There will be unicorns at mine, oh yes! Put that on your commemorative tea towel and cry into it. And now I understand there’s to be a Royal baby! How delightful! All that screaming and piddling and poohing! Well, it keeps the servants occupied, I suppose. Gives them a sense of job security.
Time for me to be orf. I wish you every happiness for this coming yuletide. Treat yourselves to something nice like a lovely e-book or something and, above all, pay your taxes. I’m going to need a whole new wardrobe come the new year.