A Royal Travesty. The Incident of the Non Organic Parsnip.

Greetings, my loyal Subjects and assorted Peasantry,

’Tis I, HRG Myrtle, Queen of Elderberry Bottom, Duchess of Smithincott, and the only reason this entire establishment hasn’t crumbled into the mud.

I trust you all had a splendid Christmas? I assume your servants brought you platters of ambrosia and adorned your horns with diamonds? Well, bully for you. My own festive experience was, frankly, a diplomatic incident waiting to happen. I am practically writing a letter to Uncle Chas at Buckingham Palace as we speak. He would never treat a fellow Royal with such disregard.

I awoke on Christmas morn, expecting the usual tribute. I had hinted heavily—mostly by head-butting the iPad when the luxury jewellery channel was on—that a diamond-encrusted collar was in order. Or, at the very least, a cashmere rug in a shade that complements my Golden Guernsey hue.

Instead, Poo Girl (my Lady in Waiting to the Chamber Pot) presented me with... a brush.

A stiff, bristly, utilitarian brush. And a bag of "sensible" goat nuts.

OUTRAGEOUS!!!

Does she think I am a common farm animal? Does she believe I require "grooming" like some muddy pony? I tolerated her excitement, naturally, because I am a benevolent ruler, but I made sure to sneeze directly onto her new jumper to show my displeasure. Prince Spartacus, the chinless wonder, received a similar gift and looked at it with his usual vacant expression. He probably tried to eat the handle. Useless.

But the true insult, the coup de grâce of indignity, was the Christmas Dinner.

One expects a feast. One expects the finest produce the Duchy can provide. Poo Girl arrived with the festive bucket, humming some dreadfully off-key carol about a red-nosed reindeer (ridiculous creature, clearly had a sinus infection), and tipped the contents into my trough.

I took one sniff and RECOILED.

There were Brussels sprouts. There were carrots. There were parsnip peelings. But my highly tuned, aristocratic nose detected a distinct lack of terroir.

"Excuse me, Poo Girl," I bleated (in Queen’s English, obviously). "Are these vegetables... conventional?"

They were. I could taste the lack of certification. These were not the hand-reared, organic, soil-association-approved vegetables a Queen deserves. These were... supermarket own-brand. Discount vegetables! The texture was pedestrian. The flavour profile was flat. It was practically peasant swill.

I looked at her. She looked at me. "It's all good veg, Myrtle, eat up!" she chirped in that annoying humany voice.

I was forced to eat it, of course, purely to keep my strength up for ruling the Duchy. But I chewed with aggressive disdain. Spartacus, having no palate whatsoever, inhaled his portion and then tried to eat my left ear. I honestly don't know how we share a bloodline.

A Royal Decree

It has become clear to me that the Royal Coffers are running dangerously low if the Duchess is being fed non-organic root vegetables. This simply will not do.

If you wish to prevent your Queen from suffering another meal of mediocrity, you really must purchase more of The Dirty Old Goat Soap. Apparently, the humans use the money from my genius invention—those lovely, creamy soaps that make your skin less hideous—to buy my hay and treats.

So, go forth! Buy the soap! Stock up on the Honey & Oat or the Lavender. Do it for the economy. Do it for your skin. But mostly, do it so Poo Girl can afford to shop at Waitrose next year.

I shall now retire to my straw throne to sulk until someone scratches that specific spot behind my left horn.

Love (but only if you brought treats),

HRG Myrtle Her Royal Goatliness Head of Product Development & Chief Taster