'At this time of the year we know it is a special time for you and your families, but this year has been a difficult one for many.
Some will have struggled with managing household bills, some will have had to spend less on heating in their castles, some will have had to cut back on the number of servants they have. Our own family only had eight months' holiday this year, and even our eldest son picked an apple from his hundred acre apple orchard on the fourteenth of September, so we know how stressful things have been.
Banks have failed, though our own one Coutts did rather well by the end of the financial year, and jobs have been lost, though of course the important ones such as waving at people with white gloves on, appearing in tabloid newspapers for no reason, and flying round the world endlessly in luxury jets are thankfully secure. For without such essential jobs, Britain would surely suffer.
As it is Christmas many of you will be saying to one another - 'We are not Christians and know that Jesus wasn't born in December, and even if he was, so what?', and we understand that in the 21st. century such diverse views are commonplace. There are Sikhs, Muslims and Hindus in this nation, and even Roman Catholics too, but fortunately not too many of the latter.
Our husband was in Scotland this week, and he said 'Trust those miserable Smelly Socks to moan on about Christmas as usual! The only bloody day they're not drunk in the entire months of December and January!', and we heartily agree with him as always.
Not that we ourselves are averse to a little swig or two from Mummy's secret gin stash in the cellars of Buck House! But given that almost the entire population of Scotland and Wales dislike Christmas intensely, as do millions more of our multicultural subjects of many faiths, we shall quickly move on to the next paragraph.
There has been much talk about our politicians this year, and talk about their claims for many items, such as duck palaces. So our thoughts of sympathy are with these politicians, as how they can survive with only one palace each and such a small one must be a great hardship.
We weren't sure which of our own ones - well, your ones - we should spend Christmas Day in. Philip said 'I'm not spending Christmas in Scotland this year, would be like a particularly depressing funeral there!' Charles said 'Well, um, you know, Mater, um ... why not, um, spend it at Highgrove, don't you know?'
'Remember the fun last year when Camilla came in, um, dressed as Santa Claus, and started doing a striptease in the living room?' Anne gives her regards, saying 'Bloody Christmas is for kids! We're off to the Maldives again!', and Andrew says 'Bugger off, who cares'.
We know our brave soldiers are being very brave, illegally trying to occupy two countries that are unoccupiable, countries that are absolutely no threat to or have any connection with Great Britain, and our thoughts are with those soldiers. As head of the armed forces we considered changing the name of the British Army to the Texas Rangers, but that might give the wrong impression that they will go to whichever oil-rich country the USA next decides to invade.
Christmas is a time for celebration - well it is for ourselves, as we're loaded, never do any work, and never do anything at all really. And as for the thousands of our relatives on the Royal List, we don't even know most of them, never mind why they get money from the British taxpayer. I mean, what do our own sons do?
'Bugger all', Philip says, 'bunch of layabout parasites! Send 'em down the coal mines!', which is a tad brusque, but does have some merit in 1809. We mean 2009, as if nothing much had changed for our family in 200 years, except for ourselves spending five minutes on television and getting paid £10 million pounds for it!
That may seem a lot to be paid for one television appearance, but it takes us 364 days to learn our lines, and keeping Mum off the gin and Andrew off the sherry was frankly a full-time job in itself for years, and worth every million.
Our dorgs still have four legs and one tail each, our horses still eat grass and hay, our eldest son still waffles pish all day long, and that ghastly Camilla woman is still intensely annoying.
We had planned to visit a family in Glasgow this week, as we did a few years ago, to show we are in touch with the common people of the United Kingdom, but were concerned that Philip might have started weeks of violent rioting there with one of his amusing little comments.
Like when he was at East Kilbride driving school, and said he was surprised the locals could stay sober long enough to pass their tests. We know how the British greatly like humour, which is why we never crack any jokes in this broadcast, our German side showing, of course. And speaking of Germans, Princess Michael of Kent wishes you all a Merry Blitzkrieg and a Happy New Order.
And so, people of Great Britain, as you all sit down to celebrate the birthday of the pagan god Mithra, who in legend was born on the 25th. of December and rose from the dead, both celebrated long before Jesus even existed, and sit down to celebrate the Winter Solstice, as has been done for thousands of years,
let us remember that, no matter how much they try and con you, if you read a few books you find out that the 25th. of December has absolutely nothing to do with Jesus at all. But that won't stop the Pope and that frightful oik the Archbishop of Canterbury bleating away about peace and some such drivel on that day.
Never mind those two bloody eejits, it's me you all want to hear on Christmas Day! So let's crack open the champers and get the roast swan and taters on the table, and then it's orf for a session with the Bombay Sapphire and Cadbury's Milk Tray in front of Corrie. Well, it's what Crimbo's all about! Byeeeeeeeeee!'