From my vantage point I’ve had the chance to peruse the history books. And I must say, the press I’ve received is simply dreadful. Mad Christian they called me, and The Insane Monarch. So little imagination! So dreadfully blunt. One prefers to think of myself as… unconventional.
It all began, as these things do, with a childhood. My dear mamma, a British princess through and through (which explains my fondness for a decent cup of tea), did her best.
But there’s only so much one can do with a child whose primary interests include climbing curtains, holding conversations with busts of Roman emperors and developing a sudden, inexplicable passion for cobbling. They tried to teach me statecraft. I found it a bore. They attempted to instill in me a sense of gravitas. I found it chaffed. I was a prince, you see, not an accountant. The whole point of being royalty is to avoid such tedious nonsense.
Then came marriage. A splendid way of securing alliances and my dear Queen Caroline Mathilde, was a lovely girl. Rather serious for my tastes, given to a furrowed brow and an alarming interest in philosophy. I did try to engage with her, I truly did. I’d regale her with my latest theories on why sparrows conspire to steal one’s left shoe, but she always seemed preoccupied. A shame.
The real star of my reign, of course, was a chap by the name of Johann Friedrich Struensee. My physician. A terribly ambitious man who meant to be looking after my humours, which, I grant you, were in a state of perpetual disarray. But he got a taste for power, the old boy. He looked at the machinery of the state, then looked at me who was probably trying to teach the court dog to sing sea shanties at the time, and thought, Right. I can do this.
And do it, he did.
Looking back, one has to admire the sheer audacity. Struensee, with the quiet collusion of my dear wife simply took over. He issued decrees, reformed the government, abolished torture, and gave the press entirely too much freedom. All while signing off with, By order of the King.
I was aware of all this obviously. It’s just… why bother? Struensee was far better at it. He enjoyed it, bless him. Why get my hands dirty with budget cuts and agricultural reforms when you can dedicate your time perfecting the art of entering a state banquet by sliding down the banister?
While other monarchs were poring over maps, I was curating a collection of hats so magnificent it would make a peacock weep. While they were debating trade tariffs, I was perfecting my Royal wave.
My later years were, frankly, a relief. After the dramatic fall of Dr. Struensee (a rather messy business involving a drawing and quartering that quite spoiled my appetite), my stepson and various others decided I’d had quite enough fun. I became a figurehead. A magnificent, be-wigged ornament. And it was glorious. Finally, peace and quiet. All the prestige, none of the paperwork. I could spend my days in Rösseldorf castle, happily engaged in shouting at the statues in the garden and demanding my horses be fed chocolate.
My death, when it came, was terribly anticlimactic. A stroke, they said. One moment, I was correcting a footman on the proper polishing method for my snuffbox, and the next… poof. The great curtain call. Rude of the body to give up so suddenly, I thought, but there you have it.
