Royal scribe seeks concubines for, um, wenchly duties.

Attention, ladies: I’m using this blog posting to conduct a poll.

Please tell me which of the following titles makes you go all weak in the knees and want to swoon in my presence:

a) Sir John

b) Baron John

c) Lord John

d) Your Grace

d) The Most Majestic Ruler of Many Fiefdoms

Personally, I’m going for e) King John. Because, let’s face it, we all know it’s good to be king. Plus there’s that whole concubine thing that’s always fascinated me.

What’s put the shine on my armor these days, you might well be asking.

It’s simple really, at least to me. I’m not so sure about you lowly peasants and dung-speckled country folk.

You see, I’ve recently enjoyed a close encounter of the royalty kind. Not that I like to drop names or anything, but let’s just say the fellow’s initials were Prince Edward and the brush with the blue of blood came during his visit to B.C. earlier this month.

Actually, I didn’t personally have the close encounter — it was one of my stories that was so honored.

In 2004, I met a First Nations carver named George Van Meer and proceeded to write about this very talented man for a magazine called Sounder Profiles.

Skip ahead five years and George was chosen to present one of his carvings to the prince. The carving was accompanied by a framed copy of my story.

And, yes, if you want to go all picky on me, that pesky frame will most likely prevent the royal fingers from actually caressing my words. But we don’t let trivial matters such as details poop the party here on Planet Man. Which would explain why I’m now pretty much famous and expect to be treated as befits my new station in life.

And before you turn your heads — thou foul knaves! Thou cottars and husbandmen! — and snicker into your poncy sleeves, ask yourself who among you coarse commonors has their words stored in the Royal Gift Closet, between the mummified kangaroo and the witch doctor’s amulet from Botswana.

No? Just as I surmised. Hah and double-hah!

I’m reasonably positive an accolade of this magnitude gives me permission to drive through town, honking the horn while waving at all the loyal subjects of the Commonwealth. Some of them actually wave back. Although, considering most of them are using but one finger, I’m not sure they understand the true grandness of my accomplishment.

The problem obviously stems from the fact New Zealand — thanks to a decree by the newly elected government — has reinstated the granting of knighthoods. In their haste to make up for the old government’s obvious narrow-mindedness, Kiwis are now creating Sirs and Dames out of practically everyone who makes the effort to put their hand up.

C’mon, I mean, really, being honored for playing cricket? Hell, everyone who manages to merely stay awake during a game should automatically be made a corgi.

If New Zealand is passing out the royal treatment like so many lollies on Halloween, then it only seems fair for me to step up, point out my byline to Eddie (as we who dwell in ivory towers like to call him) and then take my rightful place at the big persons’ table for afternoon tea. Pass the cucumber sammies, would you, old dear.

Having said that, I will admit adapting to my new status has produced its own set of challenges at home.

For instance, my demand of Viking Woman to drop to her knees whenever I enter the room brought, not instant obedience but, rather, the promise to punch me in the crown jewels when I’m least expecting it.

Which is why, upon reflection, I’ve decided to leave the whole being famous thing to the Windsor Family after all. Before it becomes, you know, too much of a royal pain.