Christmas is a tricky time to be kingly

Ben Wildsmith

Christmas is a tricky time to be kingly. One has the three kings and the king of kings competing in the same marketplace, so one needs one’s act together.

Start with a song. It’s a road-tested showbiz tactic, and when one has a brand-relevant shoegazer like ‘God Save The King’ at one’s disposal then one might as well get it in early.

For most of the year, one’s monarchical pronouncements tend to be drowned out by the incessant yelping of those whose greatness was very much not thrust upon them. It’s a matter of some confusion as to why one’s subjects are endlessly forgiving of the sharp-elbowed arrivistes who govern them, but who is one to judge?

Contemplation

If the stout yeopeople of the realm are content to have their affairs decided by individuals who have their suits tailored by Italians, that is a matter for them. One must protest, however, at the indecent haste with which these politicians replace each other. No sooner has one memorised a name, admittedly Liz was simple enough, than another is along to irritate the footmen and interrupt one’s contemplation with their vulgar solicitations.

One is unconvinced by the current antipathy towards those arriving in small boats. Having spent many happy afternoons traversing the River Wye in a coracle, one recognises their buccaneering spirit in one’s own questing.

Diplomat

Perched as one is, betwixt the divine and the mundane, one feels an obligation to act as a diplomat between these competing estates. It is my sad duty to relate that followers of the Abrahamic faiths have, once again, lost their way. ‘Divine right’ is an unfashionable concept in the modern world, yet one is confident that the faithful are more inclined to receive a spiritual slap ‘upside their face’ from oneself than they might from James Cleverly. Or Tony Blair. Especially Tony Blair.

So, in this spirit, I invite combatants in the Holy Land to drink deeply of my grave expression this Christmas. I do not issue it lightly.

In conclusion, one wishes you all of the tawdry distractions you desire as we face another year of inexorable decline. One’s own family, as you know, are a trial to us all.

One is holding on to the back of this chair lest one collapses under the weight of their competing ambitions. One offers evidence of one’s own wretchedness as a token of our collective suffering.

Does Phil Mitchell still own the Queen Vic?