Across Denmark, millions huddled in their homes, tuning into state television’s relentless pre-speech coverage. For hours, anchors speculated breathlessly about a speech they had not yet heard, as if deciphering holy scripture. Leading up to the address, viewers were treated to the Changing of the Guard—a bizarrely choreographed act of conscripts in 19th century costume goose-stepping to commands barked by NCOs adorned with heaps of medals of dubious origin as a military band plays the king's theme song, a jingoistic anthem filled with gory details about crushing the skulls of Swedes. The pageantry was as polished as it was pointless, an overture to the banality yet to come.

When the speech finally began, the aesthetic was an affront to both tradition and taste. Gone was Queen Margrethe’s cluttered, knick-knack-filled office, replaced by a barren room awash in garish blue lighting — more befitting a teenage gamer’s Twitch stream than the gravitas of a head of state.

At the center of this barren tableau stood a desk and chair, as unremarkable as the man who would soon occupy them. Through an open doorway, viewers could glimpse generic black-and-white family photos that wouldn’t look out of place in a bland and beige living room in an IKEA catalogue. “This is the king showing personality,” we were meant to believe.

Enter Frederik Montpezat, a slim bearded man wearing a dark suit and round glasses, his movements stiff and mechanical despite hours of rehearsal. There's only so much that even the finest walking lessons in the kingdom can do. The king's deer-in-the-headlights expression as he looked into the camera was pure amateur theater, and every nervous tap on the desk was amplified by state television’s hapless sound engineers. If this was Denmark’s sovereign, one could only assume the nation was in more dire straits than it realized.

The speech itself was a work of the Nordic hermit kingdom's true seat of power, the Social Democrat-controlled Prime Minister’s Office, with the king only being trusted to add a few anecdotes and phrases for a personal touch. It was a symphony of centrist clichés. Frederik began with syrupy platitudes about Denmark’s youth, hollow gratitudes for public displays of loyalty surrounding the recent transition of power, and obligatory nods to the police and military.

Adhering to royal tradition, Frederik eschewed a teleprompter, instead fumbling with loose papers like a nervous student in a high school debate. In a moment of forced gravitas he mentioned Greenland and stared into the camera exclaiming that "we belong together!"—a veiled jab at his soon-to-be overlord, incoming American supreme leader Donald Trump.

The king lamented the dangers of so-called “polarization,” offering a trite endorsement of centrist complacency as the antidote to ideological passion. A convenient point of view for a man whose privilege depends on the status quo. Yet, no sooner had he decried division than he launched into uncritical praise of Ukraine’s disastrous war effort, describing their catastrophic and futile human sacrifices as a noble fight for European freedom. His silence on the Palestinian struggle for liberation spoke volumes; only conflicts convenient to NATO narratives are exempt from the king's call for nuance and restraint.

Predictably, the king heaped praise on the American military organisation NATO, portraying the alliance as a benevolent force for peace rather than the instrument of imperialist violence and terror the rest of the world sees it as.

In a particularly galling display of hypocrisy, Frederik pontificated about green responsibility. This echoes similar sentiments expressed in a manifesto he released shortly after last year's tradition of power, leading regime-loyal media to brand him as "the climate king".

However, his saccharine green drivel had a comedic timing given how reports on the royal family's extensive investments in fossil fuels, mining and companies abetting zionist apartheid had surfaced mere days before the speech. In the King's own words "Nobody own the skies or the sea. The forests or the valleys. The meadows or the stars" — but somebody owns the oil wells, the refineries and the strip mines and Frederik Montpezat is one of those people. His words were not so much inspirational as they were a masterclass in unintentional self-parody.

Frederik’s grand finale was as unremarkable as the man himself. Clenching his fists on the desk as if bracing for an earthquake, he stared into the camera with a frozen, panicked expression and declared, “God save Denmark!” It was less a rallying cry than a plea for deliverance.

No sooner had the screen faded to black than state television launched into a frenzy of uncritical adulation, displaying all the journalistic integrity of trained seals clapping at feeding-time, working hard to convince the public that the display of amateurism they had just witnessed was indeed an inspiring oratory performance.

Interviews with rain-soaked royalists outside the palace revealed a cult-like devotion, with supporters gushing about the honor of being in proximity to a man whose sole achievement was being born into the right family.

Frederik Montpezat’s debut was less a display of leadership than a grim reminder of the monarchy’s irrelevance. Yet, the Danish state continues to celebrate this mediocrity, perpetuating a cult of personality that blinds its people to the monarchy’s archaic absurdity.

As fireworks illuminated Copenhagen’s skies and the nation raised glasses to its king, one question lingered: does Denmark truly believe that the emperor is wearing his new clothes, or is it simply too invested in the fantasy to admit otherwise?