I HAVEN’T been overwhelmed with the year so far. The nation seems to be in the melancholic grip of an inevitable dystopia, exacerbated by this unruly, terrifying cold.
I have taken small amounts of pleasure from unleashing my fierce winter wardrobe onto an unsuspecting city – my inherited full- length sheepskin proving to be a firm hit in both social and business circles, a majestic garment that has aided in raising my profile from genius to neo-deity and shall undoubtedly find its way onto next year’s “must have” list for all aspiring icons.
The uncouth frost has managed to destroy a pair of fine loafers, which have been buried with all dutiful ceremony, it has also managed to murder some carelessly stored wine and has played havoc with my nascent pear tree. It has been a tough old winter, with no end in sight.
Despite the onset of an irrepressible ice-age, my fellow princes and I have managed to spread our considerable wealth and presence around the old town with reckless and contagious disregard for personal safety and fiscal responsibility. We have a duty to throw down weary gauntlets in the face of such tiresome adversity and rise, in the light of victories to come, as glorious knights, resplendent in a boozy glow, determined to fight down the demons of recession and ill fortune.
In essence, a few of the lads and myself decided to go on a bit of a mooch and see who was offering the best laughing soup, as the cold was killing our respective vibes and the lack of totty in the local juicer demanded a trip to the town.
I don’t mind a bit of self advertising as I’m usually involved in admirable projects, so with no regret whatsoever I’m going to call you over to The Noble House for a glass or two of some marvellous wine.