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As King, it's very important for me stay in peak physical condition. This not only allows me to react with the speed and deadly efficiency of a cobra if attacked by an anti-Royalist ninja, but also guarantees that I maintain a lovely set of calf muscles - thus attracting the attention of the ladies and keeping Catherine on her toes.

(Coincidentally - it's when I'm on my toes that my own calves - or shin bums as I like to call them - are at their most pronounced. They're a bloody lady magnet, let me tell you.)

My preferred method of keeping fit is to chuck myself - limbs whirling - into some kind of sporting activity, but it is absolutely crucial that one selects the right sport.

Although my footballing skills are world renowned - I once managed 58 keepy-uppys at the same time as eating a whole swan drumstick - the last couple of weeks have proven beyond doubt that football is a rubbish game played by cash-blinded yobos and completely unworthy of a king.

It just proves what I always say - never give money to a peasant. He'll just get far too used to the idea of having food in his belly and become totally useless for important tasks like kneeling down in the mud so you can get on your horse, running around in a blindfold as a mobile archery target, or lying next to the front door to keep out draughts (and rats).

So I for one won't be watching the quarter finals. Brazil vs Holland? Nothing but a painful reminder of the time I tried going all Brazilian in MY nether lands after finding some of Catherine's waxing strips in the bathroom. (If you thought Gazza could turn on the waterworks, you should've seen me then...)

Tennis - in stark contrast to football - is a noble sport played by gentlemen and ladies of standing and substance. And I am exceptionally good at tennis.

My serve is so powerful that it has caused the loss of innumerable tennis balls. Once, down to my very last ball, I attached it to the neck of a royal servant with a long string of catgut to stop it flying off into the next county after one of my big boofs. I'm still owed millions in unpaid royalties (or Royalties) by the so-called "inventor" of Swingball.

So I'll be watching Murray and Nadal very closely today to make sure neither of them tries to copy one of my signature moves without my royal consent.

There's the Royal Rocket - an almost vertical BOOF! that's all but impossible to see against the sun. There's the Tudor Torpedo - which goes UNDER the net and bounces up to hit the other player right in the goolies. And of course, there's the Henry Humdinger - where the racket "accidentally" slips out of your hand and hits your opponent full in the face. Usually just as they were about to win an important point.

Right, I'm off to practice my backhand. And once I've finished slapping peasants, I might play a little bit of tennis...

Henry VIII was (sorry, is) king of England. The second series of his online show, Henry 8.0, has now started on the ´óÏó´«Ã½ Comedy website - a new episode will be published next week. In the meantime, catch up on Henry's previous blog rants. You can also !