"I’m just like you, broke", says Grand Duke in an open letter
According to this piece of investigative fiction, I possess a fortune of €4 billion. But, dear reader, wealth is complicated. Allow me to set the record straight.
Dear People Who Read Newspapers (All Twelve of You),
I feel compelled to clear up a recent article in the media OoohAaaarTL in which a journalist claims that I, the Grand Duke of Luxembourg, am rich.
According to this piece of investigative fiction, I possess a fortune of €4 billion. But, dear reader, wealth is complicated. You don’t know the half of it. Allow me to set the record straight.
Yes, I am a Grand Duke. Yes, I am impeccably dressed, a walking masterpiece of Barbour jackets and Gucci loafers. But do not be fooled. Beneath this well-tailored exterior lurks a man of modest means. Why, just last week, I ate a hamburger like a common peasant—though admittedly only because the chef was on leave and Maria Teresa was busy binge-watching White Lotus.
Consider Château Berg. Perhaps you have seen photos of its grand halls, its lavish banquets, its gilded ceilings. Well, newsflash: it’s not mine. It just happens to be where I live, rent-free, like some aristocratic squatter. The only thing I truly own inside its vast stone walls is my wife’s unwavering disappointment in me. And even then, she insists I don’t own enough of it.
Sure, we have staff. Sure, we have a private postal worker who delivers our letters through an underground tunnel because the concept of a normal letterbox is simply too pedestrian. But does that make me rich? Or just... uniquely inconvenienced?
And let’s talk about maintenance. Yes, the state covers the costs. But do you know how much it takes to heat a castle? A bloody fortune! It’s a listed building, which means we can’t even install double-glazing. The drafts alone could freeze a lesser noble to death. And then there are the ghosts. Oh, the ghosts. Every night I go to bed serenaded by the wails of long-dead Habsburgs. But will the State pay for an exorcism? They will not.
Frankly, I’ll be relieved to be rid of the place when my son, Guillaume, takes over in October. Good luck, son. The woodworm have unionised, and the moths have developed a taste for cashmere.
Maria Teresa and I will be moving to my father’s old bungalow in Fischbach. A mere 14 bedrooms, half a dozen servants, and a touch of mildew to keep things exciting. I know what you’re thinking: “How will you survive?” I’m asking myself the same question. I’d get a job at the checkout at Cactus, but my language skills aren’t up to it. Looks like I’ll have to embrace the twilight years like any respectable grandfather: shouting at the television, writing indignant letters to newspaper editors, and complaining about the youth.
Which brings me to my next venture. If print newspapers don’t survive, I shall adapt. Maria Teresa will set me up with some fake online accounts, and we shall dedicate our golden years to trolling the younger generations. Because that, dear readers, is the sacred duty of any Grand Duke with time on his hands. And let us not forget: a retired Grand Duke is still a Grand Duke.
Must dash—Maria Teresa is looking for the candles again. The State has apparently forgotten to pay the electricity bill.
You’ll be hearing from me soon.
Your, soon-to-be-ex Grand Duke.