Oh deep bloody joy.
One just cannot wait for this years Christmas festivities. Thanks to the monstrous fuck-up created by the world's bankers (one believes the 'b' should be replaced by a 'w') one will be spending one's yuletide in a Butlins chalet in Clacton.
Oh bugger, one does so hope that the ghastly cut backs don't extend to palace lackey's on standby with several large Port and Lemon's, and if Philip doesn't get his vodka and red bull, he has a face like a smacked arse all day long.
Even though one is on an imposed budget, one must also remember to instruct cook to purchase two turkeys this year - one for the family, and one for Willy's Catherine, who one feels could really do with a right fattening up.
One has seen more fat on a cold chip.
Oh, the life of a monarch is never easy.