Katja Storkholm, Crown Prince Frederik's true love

Dead Queen Ingrid invites Cece and Hester to tea

Setting: Ingrid's heavenly parlour, sunlight flatteringly reflecting the all-white décor, in stark contrast to the leaden beige interior of her former home, Kancellihuset

Time: One week after grandson Nikolaos’s wedding in Greece

Scene: Dead Queen Ingrid pours tea.

Cece, Hester - one lump or two? We are very anglicised, you know. Daisy – I gave her the same nickname as my darling British mother - and Joachim speak perfect English with no Danish accent whatsoever. It did surprise me when your compatriot Mary adopted such a sing-song way with her own language. She seems to be a bit of a unique bard of her own persuasion, I must say. But do draw closer, my dears. We royals love a bit of gossip with our confidantes, provided the subject is not one of us.

Girls, you must have wondered why I have invited you here. I am about to deliver you a homily and near-rant, rather than indulge us in tea-time chit-chat, I am afraid. I must unburden, as I have had to steer my family away from a crisis and a threat to its very future. Believe me, observing my darling grandson’s Greek wedding - where the "real" royals jolly up the pretenders - redoubled my intention to relieve my royal family of its egregious interloper. And I'm sorry not to exchange witticisms and bon mots with you lately, my dears. But there is an important Matter of State at hand, and I am limited in my communication vehicles these days.

You two have at times been mouthpieces for my Daisy - something I have heartily approved. Now I will make royal use of you. You have both been virtual courtesans in my own Kur for some years, and your service has been both noticed and appreciated. I have been watching events unfold over the last ten years and resisted the urge to influence my descendents. It's not the done thing to interfere with matters once you've carked it, dears. One waits until one’s dead. That we all end up sitting in a large parlour in the sky is a myth. It's more like Sartre's "Huis Clos". I have some tedious companions ... it's all awfully egalitarian here. Of course, I wanted to pass time with the working class, they do have a certain nobility in their boring routine. But there's this hideous lower order I have become acquainted with - and I think it is the wellspring of that Mary. If I have a regret, girls, it is nothing of my own making - it's circumstantial.

My dying just as Mary was getting her claws into poor little Fred was inauspicious and of great inconvenience to my dynasty. You know I am all pragmatist - otherwise my darling Daisy would not be on the throne! But that Mary has me non-plussed. What an extraordinary mix of vulgarity and hauteur! Is that what "middle-class" is? My darling Anne-Marie has always been intrigued by such ordinary living, but I never worried too much about it. As my French son-in-law says, "le sang royal ne saurait pas mentir!" She may enjoy an incognito visit to the supermarket every now and again, but her eldest son married a monied and impeccably aspirant arriviste, and her daughter’s marriage has her living on a remote island with a husband who is marked by the exciting risk of involvement in light, local scandals. What could be more royal!

I would not have thought this to be the middle class. I know scientists and money counters and historians and mathematicians up here, and none of them have been anything like that strange girl from Taroona with her ridiculous mannerisms and Tourette's tics, and hairtossing and lip-pursing - alternated with cutesie-poo, shortie-pyjama, showgirl tricks. Mae West and Pamela Harriman have been invaluable consultants. When you two informed me that Mary’s milieu had been the red-light district of Sydney, it all became a little clearer. Too late, of course, for my Frederik's better judgment. Fred is a puzzle to me, now. He started with such strong beginnings: a Scottish nanny, lukewarm porridge breakfasts and a dashing, stern father - and his brother has turned out simply brilliant! He could easily be an administrator, potentially a field marshal if, God forbid, we should ever go to war. Joachim has a poet's soul, a philosopher's tongue, and the mien and carriage of a king. Fred has the comport of a dwarf who lives on starch, lard and aniseed liquor.

So, girls, I wanted to let you know I have been relying on your missives for light relief, as Crown Prince Frederik treads his path to ruin with that hussy! And light relief has been much needed. In the normal course of events, an unfortunate infiltration of bad blood from the likes of this Professor John Donaldson, are absorbed into the guts of the dynasty and chewed like tobacco and spit out as if by a rodeo cowboy, leaving behind a strange ooze on our path to dynastical glory and a nasty bout of indigestion. The inadequate member is put on the outer, and simply incubates a generation. I have been so pleased that Dr. Yehudi Geldstein's astonishing genetic advances have allowed us to divert our brood away from the malicious Donaldson genes. Sadly, I am observing that Frederik's "outlier" gene profile - as Yehudi describes it - simply does not stand up to the behavioural problems that Mary has brought with her. I do blame drugs rather than anything intrinsic - though, as I mentioned, Frederik's unfortunate stature was a surprise.

I have had this problem for some ten years, and even when you have no body to pickle in cortisol, I assure you that the stress symptoms are the same. To cut this long, sad tale short, I decided to become exercised in this little war of attrition, because it has been taking too long. Denmark is celebrating my centenary, and a decade since my death, in order to restore some pre-Mary common sense to Daisy's reign. The Danes' Mary love has been a massive episode of a form of ergot poisoning - like a Middle Ages peasantry developing a folie à milliards together on a dose of Toxic Donaldson. Well, Danes, christen yourselves Rip Van Winkle, or Sleeping Beauty - whatever your era of sleep, it simply must come to a close. Frederik came within a whisker of liberation from Mary, but being shrewd, she had arranged the "Paula Yates" drug and had her insurance policy in her pouch. Henrik was apoplectic at the news.

Cece, Hester, seeing my poor family on the steps at Gråsten in a state of gloom was a sorrowful moment for me. Mary ran from Fred's side and interpolated herself on the Joachim and Marie side of the steps, drunk on her perceived new power. We royals, though, bide our time. Polite in company, with honed blades down our trouser legs. What finished Mary for Frederik was when she had a bitchfight with Henrik on a balcony, in front of the nation that Henrik always feels on tenterhooks with. Embarrassing Henrik - you know from his recent "bullying" comments to Henrik’s biographer that Frederik will always side with his Papa - finished Mary in Henrik and Frederik's eyes. It took Mary's infamous lap-dance and tonsils inspection in front of Princess Maxima and the rest of the world - at a formal, royal gala event! - to finish Mary in Daisy's eyes. She is walking the plank as we speak.

As I said, blades down the trousers, cutlass at the ready - and scrupulously polite words at all times, with our hands, like Crown Prince Haakon's on Spetses, behind our backs. Mary is redolent of a doomed Morgana, an Anne Boleyn type. Fate moves in mysterious ways. Prince Christian is an odd bird, and who knows where his tendencies will take him. Observing him, I have the same reaction as I did with my darling husband’s brother Knud – and I knew then that the throne just had to be taken from him. For me, Ingrid, the choice is clear! I will leave my concerns with the youngest generation to another day (knowing the Schackenborg boys made a wonderful foil to Fred’s kids), and make it my business to ensure that, soon, Crown Prince Frederik - my beloved grandson, despite his shortcomings - resumes the warm influence of Katja Storkholm and makes her his Queen. But, Frederik knows, I am bred tough. If he remains under Mary's spell, I will turn my efforts to ensuring that Prince Joachim and Princess Marie prevail, with the support of my people.

Hester: Thank you so much for your time, Your Majesty. We will do our very best to help you however we can in your noble endeavors.

Cece: You have any more of those delicious cream cakes?

Dead Countess Ruth: get out of my way!

6 August 2010
Pink Flattery Wing, Kancellihuset

Dear Diary,

Take that, dead Countess Ruth! That's for not wanting me to join the Danish Royal Family. I'm getting back at you for dying on the day I was going to announce my latest, strategic pregnancy. I waited until the gorgeous, normal Norwegian royal family had arrived in MY (well, my husband’s) country to go to your lousy funeral and then – bing! – I got publicist Lene (with Max Markson and Nina Fudala's help) to announce the news to the entire press. Queen Margrethe mumbled some mention about bad timing for an announcement during family mourning, but who cares about some old wrinkly kicking it. How can the press possibly care about someone who looked like a prune!

Mind you, there has been a PR hiccup. I pay Max Markson and Nina to second-guess these things. Of course all the photos coming out of Ruth's funeral have everyone looking sad and wearing black instead of celebrating my assured presence in their family for a further 10+ years! I actually didn't think of that. Max Markson should have thought of it and warned me. He could have jazzed up the suits, got them to do what a modern funeral does - wear bright colours, and celebrate the dear departed with a few sherberts and some drunken passes, like my family did for our Granny. Mind you, there was some debate there, all those years ago. John Stuart Donaldson, my disloyal brother, actually cried. He'd better be celebrating my pregnancy when the WA press ask him, or else! Tell you what, he sure knows not to set foot on Danish soil. This is no democracy, Stuey. I have dungeons!

I’ve been following Royal Dish’s collective headache at my wonderful news. Ha! Can you believe those ridiculous slags never put two and two together? Hello! EVERY time I come back from the United States, I’m pregnant. EVERY time Fred gets too depressed to shave - I'm just back from the lab. Dr. Yehudi Geldstein owed me in a very big way after switching out the Boganson genes in Isabella for royal ones from Victoria and Lilibet. I mean, look at Isabella – she already resembles the Queen Mum at age 80! So I got him to give me a two-fer. I really need for these two bubs to be identical, but Yehudi couldn’t guarantee it. And they really should be boys, so that if, er, push comes to shove for my first-born in the glacial northern parts one day ... ...

I almost feel sorry for my little martian-gosling Frederik. He didn’t see this coming, although anyone could have if they’ve been following me. I took Amber’s advice for once and consulted with a magician at the circus I have to take the kids to. He taught me about sleight of hand tricks and the hand being quicker than the eye, yadda yadda. At Margrethe’s private birthday dinner, I had a tiny plastic cup handy when I went up to Fred to tongue him after his Mor-and-me-against-the-world speech to the old biddy.

Ha! That tongue-kiss at Queen Margrethe's gala fest was a triumph! There's my legacy in the annals of great romantic moments. Not too many icons get to record their passion for posterity in view of a phalanx of jealous cameramen!

Well, tongues in automatically mean zizis up for the old boy, and while everyone was concentrating on our moment of “genuine marital passion”, I had him unzipped and squeezed downstairs like a cow’s teat getting milked. I’ve been doing one-handed, one-eyed snake wrangling since junior high school, so I knew this would be a cinch. Fred comes quickly, luckily (the drugs and alcohol help with thatty), and - boom! – we were done. After releasing the vacuum lock on his lips, I quickly slipped the cup into the folds of my dress and I’m pretty sure no one saw. Princess Maxima may have had an inkling - but she was in such a state of shock I doubt whether her analytical skills were foremost for that moment.

So I retired early from the gala that evening (everyone thinks I'm delicate princess material) and went back to my pink-lit suite at Kancellihuset. I stood on my head while I made the nannies pour the golden baby syrup into my snatch. Gawd, they can be so difficult. So SLOW. What’s to protest? You see the hole, your pour into the hole. It’s conveniently at eye level for you. It's actually a privilege, geddit? At Versailles it was a privilege to hold the Sun King's chamber pot. Joizuz. Well, the nannies were shaking so much, they ended up getting most of the jiz to run down my torso instead of into my baby maker, so I had to call up Yehudi to meet me in New York just after my Jackie Kennedy moment in Washington, DC. Stupid Americans. No one seemed to care! Those pasty white, fat rednecks standing under the podium from me at Arlington didn't even turn around. They were actually pointing their cameras at the grave of a dead person, and not at a real princess! So now you understand why I really, really hate dead people. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I sent Fred back to Copenhagen and flew up to New York to meet Amber Petty. She went along to my appointment with Yehudi to threaten him if he wasn't compliant with my double-revenge-baby plans.

With hindsight, though, I'm getting a sneaking suspicion that Queen Margrethe (I refuse to call her Daisy at the moment) had been in Yehudi's ear already, and Fred is getting hell because I don't trust what's growing inside me. Yehudi could have organised any sort of genetic cocktail, and none of me in it whatsoever. Yeah. I'm angry. And because these bubs could be genetically Marie, or Jokke, or Vickan, or even Caroline Heering for all I know. Come to think of it, what if they are Katja/Fred babies that Yehudi planted inside me? I bet they are!

That could scotch my plans to move the nursery rooms into his wing. I thought Katja would have had no choice but to move out. But if these twins are actually Fred and Katja's, and I'm just an incubator ... ... ...

OK. Revenge. I’ll need at least 6 more nannies. And Fred may need 4 more himself! I've already started calling the little foetuses Fizzle and Fuzzle.

Well, as Amber says, accentuate the spiritual. I’m loving how all of the attention once again is on ME. It's actually really really good for my soul. That's how it should be all along.

Double babies, double welfare. I am set for life. A smooth brow forever! That's spiritual wellbeing in MY church! There is no way that they will be making me hit the streets without my Louboutins and without a toothbrush - in other words, as empty handed and unPhotoshopped as I came in. Yeah, so, I didn't have a toothbrush. But they can't ruin the mother of four children! They'd be seen as ogres, cold, uncaring. See how I did that? Turned it all upside down so that I'm the one who looks warm and caring? You cannot mess with fiesty Scottish fisherman blood and not get fish guts all over you!

Those Schackenborg boys of Prince Joachim's can just start figuring out which trade school they're going to attend because there is NO WAY that they will be inheriting the throne now that there will be TWO understudies for Christian when he is, er, retired exceptionally early. Say, age 10. My kids may have potato heads, but they were born to Old Smokey's oldest son and that makes all the diff.

Four children. Just like Ma. Just like the Queen of England...

No one will be making fun of me at the upcoming Greek wedding about chest rubbing princes at the Slip Inn as long as I have double babies on the way! Mary, you've got it, babe. You are one righteous lady. Now, I just have to figure out how to handle the Greek sun with full kabuki makeup. Maybe I should call up ol' Ruth's embalmer for tips?

Anyway, of course, there's more than a little spiritual schadenfreude, that I'm rubbing ole Amber's face in it one more time. Mary: 4, Amber: nil. My spiritual take on life is that it is a preschool playground in Mt Druitt, doncha know. Bongs, booze and hard-hitting women. My sister-in-law Marie was lording it over me with her beautiful baby; sorry, Amber, you have to suffer my bitchslaps in turn. Get used to it.

An imaginary diary

Dear Diary

I had to go and see Mor after my bath. First time in a fortnight.

I have been going to Junior Starmakers sessions. Mor was very cross with me. I applied myself to my lessons too diligently, she said.

Let me explain. My first lesson was to learn how to stare really really hard with my eyes open and not blink, like Mor does to the cameras.

Now she is saying I have to change how I stare because I'm staring like Princess Michael's dad in Germany when he was young & about to order an unfortunate off to have a medical experiment. Like, hello, how can I control my irises? They are little points because I'm pissed off with the world. How can I frigging well dilate them when Lille Pige is right in front of me? Not to mention my cousins over on the right annoying Mor just by looking aristo - so we'll all cop it later at home. Regency-fop-in-waiting Niko gets my goat.

Speaking of goats, Mor has been complaining that her favourite website, Royal Dish, has nicknamed me "Busy Bubble" or something like that. She sits and swears at the computer. I keep saying, get off the frigging machine, Mor, if you don't like it, and let me at a few grown-up sites. But she's addicted. She's on that site all the time. It must be a homage to her or she wouldn't bother.

So, I have pale blue eyes with pinpoint irises. Since when has that been unusual in Danish royal circles? Mor had another whinge when her website called me Ceausescu. Family friend, Mor! That's a compliment.

Anyway back to Starmakers. I'm not cut out for it. My nannies keep telling Mor, I'll never be a Nik. And in any case, she'd have to spare some of her wardrobe money so I can wear little suits like Niko. The freebies for Mor from the fashion houses have dried up lately, something to do with her public profile - except, she reckons they are trying to get stuff onto Auntie Marie. Marie doesn't care about brands though. She just wears what she likes. Anyway, if Mor's "cranky, turned away" profile is what is worrying them, it's fine with me. If staring at Mor's cranky face keeps Pa on the scotch and oot da waugh in the northern wing, that's just fine with all of us.

Mor and Pa have had a couple of encounters in the corridor lately. Why they can't just take different routes around the house is beyond me. But Mor keeps sneaking around hunting for Auntie Katya. Katya's kinda nice. She let me look at great-grand-mor's real ruby parure last Sunday! Papa Fred has the real one now and Mor has a fake - granny had a replica made because they found a miniature pick thing in Mor's bedside drawer, and a whole pile of the rubies in a matchbox. They tested the parure and Mor had swapped heaps of them over for glass ones. Great-auntie Benedikte said she couldn't believe Mor did it on her own, because she has such big clumsy hands.

So, I went to see Mor, she checked out my stare, told me to stop telling the nannies I love them, and followed me upstairs just so she could take the reindeer hide out of my bed AGAIN and put it on the floor. She said if I want a comforter I can have an old teddy bear. It's OK though. The nannies put it back in my bed as soon as Mor had closed the door. They know they have to do exactly what I want or they're in trouble.

WELL that little encounter with Mor threw me and I can't remember whether I'm having supper with Pa or with Mor or with the nannies this evening. Mor forgets half the time anyway, which is handy. I used to hate it when it was Pa day in case he got all maudlin and emotional on me. But now that he's living with Katya in his quarters, he's perfectly normal.

I overheard the nannies the other day and they said I might turn out fine. Like I care! I turn out how I turn out, and f*ck the lot of youse. That's what Auntie Amber taught me to say. Katya doesn't like it when I swear at Mor and Isabella and the servants and the nannies and Ziggy. But she still gives me a big hug and doesn't worry about anything. I love Auntie Katya x x x x x x x she is a real woman.

XXXian

Avatars

The Press Council writes to the Queen

TO: margrethe@drf.dk

FROM: Pressenævnet (Danish Press Council)

Deres Majestæt Dronning Margrethe,

Firstly, Happy Bastille Day to you and your consort. We hope that this is not too insensitive given the parallels between France in 1789 and Denmark in 2010. We only mean to acknowledge the French heritage of your husband and progeny.

You requested holiday photographs of your children and grandchildren and some of the results have not been to your satisfaction.

We must apologise, but wish to provide some explanation.

1. Obtaining fabulous, positive photos of Joachim, Marie, Nikolai, Felix and Henrik was of course easy. No nannies in sight, and besides being photogenic, they are bursting with joy and contentment and take pride in dressing the children well.

2. The press attended on Crown Princess Mary's visit to the circus, as suggested, and they had no control over the situation. She chose to wear black, and the reporters and photographers certainly didn't spray chili in the air to produce tears in both children. Nor did they Photoshop a bruise onto Isabella's arm.

3. It was impossible to convince Frederik to go out in public alone with the Princess without fulfilling an entirely inappropriate payment request, not in the form of alcohol (which we would have happily acceded to) but a more serious item, so we attempted a substitute opportunity for the Prince at a sports event with other people's children. That would have worked fine, except that the Prince forgot he is a grownup when in the company of so many kinder. Again, we had no control over the expressions on his face or the clowning around.

4. We had no control over Katja's decision to be photographed on the same day looking beautiful and wearing royal purple. How she obtained Queen Ingrid's ruby tiara to wear, we can only posit that Crown Prince Frederik facilitated the occasion. Whether that was to fulfill a deeplyfelt wish, or to annoy his wife, we cannot theorise.

5. Contrary to the Princess's advisor's assertions, we did not tip the Prince off with the fact that Katja would be in the same location overnight, and Apple were unable to block communication between Frederik's iPhone (he clearly is not in possession of the iPhone 4) and Katja, as they follow international protocols and as Denmark's royals being above the law didn't apply to the company.

We wish to respectfully submit that if the Crown Prince Couple wish to have positive coverage in the media, they consult the web advice forum Royal Dish, where the Princess will find advice on what to wear, how to behave, whom to avoid in terms of drug addicts and hangers-on, and upon whom to model her behaviour.

Please convey to Prince Joachim and his family, our delight at the news that a cousin for Princess Isabella may be on the way, and we wish to submit a request for a photo opportunity on one of Isabella's regular solo visits to Joachim's family.

The most positive coverage for the Danish Royal Family currently, would be if Prince Frederik, Katja and Isabella were photographed on an outing with Joachim and his family.

Yours truly,

Pressenævnet

14 July 2010

Princess Isabella writes to Daniel Westling

30 April 2010
Kancellihuset nursery

Käre Daniel,

Today I write to you in sheer distress and pleading for your assistance in calming my fragile heart. Oh, my darling, presque-cousin, it is almost too much to bear to watch my dear Fjolle-Far, Frederik, reach such depths of sadness and misery.

Life seems to be harder for Far every day. You realise this all started with Cousin Madeleine breaking off her engagement with that Cousin Felipe look-a-like she was with for so long? It’s just so sad and pathetic what Jonas did. After hearing of such skanky behaviour on his part, Dr. Geldstein was alerted to look in his files only to discover that Jonas and my mother are actually very closely related. His maternal ancestors were also from Port Seton and cousins to my "professor" grandfather. Proves that an ancestral fishy smell is damned hard to wash off!

To make matters worse, the news is out that the entire family had been involved with helping Madde reach this decision over the past several months. It’s as if hearing that royal family unity on top of breaking up with a skank can happen, put Far over the edge of reason. "Why don’t I get that support? What can I do?" I hear him in his room every night after More, or Her Royal Highness the Countess of Monpezat (as I am more and more required to refer to her, as we grow further apart), leaves Far’s little den and calls for a maid to flick the lightswitch in the halls onto "flattering pink light" as she proceeds, so she can return to the penthouse. (The maid is, of course, to flick the light back to "fluorescent green tinge" every time Fred appears, to ensure that his self-esteem is kept low when he glimpses himself in any of the 5,000 mirrors Mor has installed).

Far comes often once my soi-disant mama has departed, to talk to me about his troubles … he always wanted me to be named for your adorable bride Victoria. He knows we are all made of the same royal stuff. Sorry, DanDan, but there are just some things that we get that you outliers don’t, even though we love most of you all the same. (It takes quite some outlier to test our capacity for love of the people!) More often makes me jump out of my skin when her Hoganson habits surface. A whore AND a bogan!

Sometimes when he has been reassuring himself with a few sherberts after a particularly Hoganson-influenced family dinner (Mama is partial to Chiko Rolls and ABC Soup), Far reminds me that my honorary uncle, Dr. Yehudi Geldstein, was given orders by my darling Farmor Daisy to make sure that, after the sheer genetic disaster that is my brother Christian, that all Hoganson genes were to be excluded from my genetic makeup. He thanks the Heavens (he is rediscovering the Lutheran church, you’ll be pleased to know!) that all the royal cousins gave DNA samples for him to clone and use on lucky me - including Auntie Lilibet in England! She’s really my cousin, but I love calling her Auntie since she’s so much more cuddly than my Daisy. (Less smoky, too.) No wonder Far gets confused on his relationship to her!

Poor dear DanDan, all of this royal parentage and intertwined family tree business must be so confusing for you! Did you know that it’s More who is related to Vlad the Impaler and the ghost of Anne Boleyn, and not Far? Funny! More is also related to Maggie Kirkpatrick and Myra Hindley! They and Vlad are where my horrid brother gets his murderous tendencies from. By the way, Daniel, if you get offered a White Elephant, it’s safe to accept it. Nikolae Ceausescu’s one is the one they gave More. I think that was Daisy being cute and perspicacious.

Anyway, let me elaborate a little. Far has never really come around to you coming between him and sweet Victoria, but he seemed to accept the relationship as one not unlike his own: a real royal getting her street ya-yas out with a regular Joe. Then came the engagement. And while we were truly very happy for you both, Far went deeper into the realisation that he may never have Victoria for himself. Nothing personal, Dansie, it’s just that he has always seen her as his ideal partner. Naturally, marriage to More never changed that. My darling Daisy made him take one for the team on thatty.

Anyway, I can’t hardly take it anymore with the crying and the moaning and the poor me’s and all that feeling sorry for himself business. My inheritance is already being depleted by More’s shopping sprees, and her inquiries into suitable South American surgeons, and now Fardy-Far-Far is drowning us in invoices for mass orders of Kleenex, rollmops and scotch.

Seriously, that bizarre Hoganson genetic material is contagious – and that worries me. I am still made of different stuff, but I do stress. I was terrified the other day when my poor little left foot showed the beginnings of a bunion just like More’s. I hope I can put it down to her attempts at surreptitiously footbinding me with two-year-old shoes, and not some hideous and spontaneous Hoganson invasion of my person. More’s Munchausen’s Syndrome by Proxy was finally diagnosed by my teachers - they have me in proper orthopaedic footwear during school hours to try and reverse the club foot affect from the supportless, designer ballet slippers and jodhpur booties More has me wear for photoshoots. But they have to restore my "at home" footwear each afternoon. My nannies cry, but dry their tears by the time we get home, because More gets a kick out of seeing any of the servants cry.

I assure you I was getting to the point where Farfar Henrik throwing me off the balcony of Amalienborg into the crowds – symbolically on Daisy’s birthday – was a loving gesture and sweet surprise. He seemed to be saying, take her, any of you, she will have a better life! Then who comes out of the shadows to "rescue" me but More! I fought valiantly to enable my beloved Farfar to aid my rescue, but thanks to diet pills and steroids, More could wrestle even my most resistant form from any pair of man’s arms. Plus, she employs the presque-zizi as a lever. Now that’s simply beyond the pale, as anyone would agree, and a significant aggravation of abuse.

Oy! Hehe, I got that from Dr. Geldstein! As well as a distinct and constant craving for a sesame bagel with a schmear and the New York Times crosswords every morning. Funny. More knows all about Yehudi – she found out long after the fact, having been convinced that he was a beauty therapist and the saint who was blending up lamb foetus poultices for her complexion. No plastic surgeon could have fixed the expression on her face when she found out. We all cowered under the single fluoro light in the palace that wasn’t tunable to soft pink. She wouldn’t go near us – it was like having a bunch of garlic held over us!

So here’s the long and short of it: I’m on the prowl for a job transfer and since Uncle Yehudi told me about you and Cousin Vics not being able to have your own boganson babies, I’d like to apply for the job. The wonderful news is that genetically I have more of Vickie in me than More anyway! It’s perfect!

I feel obligated to inform you that since I would already be the first born in our new family, that I would also be the future Queen of Sweden. Trust me, the war on Denmark and my brother King Xian Amin Mugabe Ceausescu will be like no other in the long history of our two countries over territory and liquor taxes. You think there are a lot of drunken Swedes passed out along Nyhavn today? You ain’t seen nothing yet – you’ll need stilts to walk amongst the passed out along Strøget! And how would you and my darling new mother like a country home in the south of Sweden, near the border with Germany? I think you get what I am saying about expanding territory.

Mind you, while Xian is really, really thick, he is quite frightening, and we should all take comfort in the knowledge that historical "nemesis" Norway is completely on board with this idea, too. Ah, sweet Cousin Haakon and his darling wife and children! Have you seen Haakon’s face when he is within a bargepole of Mary? She never sees it – he is clearly in fear of turning into stone. Poor Denmark. A bit of nostalgia for what could have been will surely make me feel bittersweet over the eventual union of Norway and Greater Sweden as we watch royal Denmark swirl down the drain of history as if a soup of spit, hair and toothpaste, replete with a mad gurgle of expletives from bamboozled (and boozed) Bogansons and scraggled armies of Freckled Gargoyles before they ever reach the Rosenborg jewel vaults.

So back home I’ve had my spies send out feelers to the rest of the family, and my darling Uncle Joachim and his beautiful brood are naturally supportive of my transfer. They know. Oof, do they! I will miss speaking French with them on a regular basis (that really gets More’s cornichon). Let me tell you a secret – Marie is utterly fluent in English, and so is Jokke, and so is Daisy, and so is Fred – but they simply refuse to enable More’s monolingualism and are still far from recognizing that a woman so well endowed with native cunning could be so slow!

They take comfort in knowing that we will all be united at grand family occasions. I will happily help broker some deals between the female heirs of the Netherlands, Spain and Belgium so that the wonderful Schackenborg line can begin its glorious reign over all of royal Europe. Perhaps Auntie Marie will have another beautiful boy for darling Ingrid-Alexandra in Norway. I’m not sure yet who I shall choose for myself. Adorable Sverre Magnus is too closely related, but those Belgian boys are cute. Or perhaps I should revive an illustrious young archduke or anonymous German prince. Believe me, Dan, with a mother like mine, I’m afraid I won’t be risking marrying "outside".

Remember, too, that as the Freckled Gargoyle cousins from Down Under reach marriageable age, More will be bribing the minor aristocracy with rubies prised from Ingrid’s parure. (Don’t worry, I’m keeping watch on the jewels and I check her bedside table nightly for jeweller’s pliers, under the guise of a goodnight kiss. She has always had a carat testing kit. She tests all the jewels Far gives her since Daisy passed off a gold plated brooch on her after Christian’s birth.)

Dan-Dan, I needn’t labour on account of my cause. My claims of gender discrimination by my own mother will soon be filed with the Swedish Royal Ministry of Human Rights as soon as all of these other details of my new name, official transfer papers, visa, etc. have been processed through the Ministry of Immigration. Oh, I’m going to make such a wonderful and enthusiastic Swede!

Here’s the catch, though, dear Daniel. I shouldn’t really give a true account of More. I should rather be emphasizing her best points. You, my noble friend, will have to run off with More so that Far can have his darling Vickan. Can you do it for us all? I can work with Daisy – Henrik will be able to swing anything with Daisy in the next six months, she is high on the sexually explicit statue he bought her for her birthday. She thinks it is heterosexual! I can guarantee that the payout would be substantial. Far would put his country into debt to build you a gym empire anywhere in the world outside the Scandinavian countries.

The only part missing from my thesis and plan is attempting to convince myself that you and Mary could possibly hit it off – even with More as a beard. Every man has his price, though, Daniel. Please just name it! You would make a great Australian. You look like Jemaine from the Conchords – and they are so jealous of New Zealand having those two! You also look just like their favourite senator, John Faulkner, the Mr. Darcy of Australian politics. If you have a thirst for rock star or political power and influence, Australia is your best bet! They can even arrange a McMansion in a seaside suburb called Manly for you. More just loves it there!

Now, if you insist on having Victoria, you would best be tolerant of a side affair between her and my Far. You have to understand, Dansie, this is how the royals have been doing it for centuries! We can play it either way, depending on your preference, but do give us notice if you’d like to stay on as Victoria’s public husband. My main focus is refuge for myself – I know, that sounds selfish and unroyal, and it’s a further plea for my case. I must remove myself from her sphere of influence!

Much love,

Izzy
Soon to be Princess Ingrid-Victoria Benedikte Marie