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BUCK PAL, London — Oh, for the love of god Camilla, must I do another one of these dreary things?
What do you mean we’re “rolling”? I think I’d be able to tell if I was making some miserable sounding off-the-cuff remark live on television, thank you very much! Right, here goes…
Christmas! Chrimble! Xmas! The big Deccy 2-5! But what even is it?
It’s a time for family, obvz. The thoughtful gift given, the kind word said, the passable meal shared. On this day above all days, we remember and give thanks to those whose immense sacrifices have made our own happiness possible.
For some, such gratitude is shown through less traditional means.
Loved ones may choose to sulk in America like massive posh toddlers. They may choose to imply their family is a bunch of racist dinosaurs on Oprah.
They may even insert the phrase “frostbitten penis” into a frankly over-written autobiography most people didn’t ever bother to finish.
Above all, Christmas is a time to forgive and forget how one upstart little avocado-munching millennial who absolutely needs putting in his place overshadowed all the properly important stuff you’ve been doing like, every day this year without so much as a thanks. Whatevz. “You do you, babe,” as my dear, late mother was oft heard to remark.
Beyond the simple joys of family, on Christmas Day we find strength in something bigger than ourselves: reflecting as we do on the sense of duty to the nation that drives our wise leaders.
I remain, on this day as on all days, above the political fray, unreadable and sphinx-like, an impartial custodian of the perfect, unwritten constitution that governs life on these fair isles.
But let me tell you man, that Rishi guy. Wow. Seriously? Pissing off the Greeks over the Parthenon Marbles? Sending asylum seekers to Rwanda? Seriously dude. Not cool. I mean we’re not talking Liz Truss levels of bad here, but I’m now actually looking forward to talking to Keir Starmer every week, which literally nobody has ever thought.
Oh yeah and turning up for all of eight minutes at COP28? Drilling for new oil and gas? Not like I’ve been banging on about this environment stuff for ooh, I don’t know, 50 years is it? No biggie mate, I’m just the literal king. Don’t sweat it.
Anyhow, I digress, albeit in an impartial and inscrutable way, an unreadable bauble on the Christmas tree of state. I prefer to make my political interventions through subtle gestures, like this fetching ‘Vote Labour immediately’ Christmas jumper I wear inscrutably before you today.
Beyond our shores, we think at Christmas time of those less fortunate than ourselves.
In the United States, so absolutely sure their little “revolution” against unaccountable rich people was a really good idea, they gather today around a warm Truth Social to hear traditional festive tales. “The very weak and ineffective Birdbrain;” “Sleepy Joe’s poor work ethic;” and, the time honored classic, the “degenerate psychopath that truely [sic] hates the USA!”
Still feeling good about your little “war of independence,” lads? Our door is always open, that’s all I’m saying! Merry Chrimbo!
In years gone by, my dear mama would close her Christmas reflections by remarking upon the ordinary acts of kindness, courage and fortitude she had recently drawn strength from. As your king, I am of course no different, and really I am just as good at this human interest stuff, if not a lot better.
And so in 2023, I have been particularly moved and inspired by the tireless efforts of [Camz can you get ChatGPT on this bit before we send, whack in something about the Olympics maybe. Did that happen this year? Was the Dogfighting World Cup a thing? It sounds like a thing oiks would like. If not just make some stuff up but PLEASE double check before we broadcast this time, yeah?]
As I reach this, my contractually obliged word count, I leave you all with one parting thought, handed down from perhaps our greatest living poet, Mariah Carey.
“I just want you for my own /
More than you could ever know /
Make my wish come true /
All I want for Christmas is you /
You, baby.”
Peace out, homies.
Script obtained by Matt Honeycombe-Foster.
