Context is queen m'guests.
I'd retroactively swagger into this village as a wealthy philanthropist among mere poppers. Draped in an old Londoner garb. Brown suspenders, crisp collard shirt, black top hat, burgundy cape, chrome cane, gray guncheck trousers, pointy toe box boots. With just my grin dames'd invite themselves to sin. A rah tah tah skippity dee. Yeaaas. My first order of business would be to bribe the head inspector. *about face toward the pinkerton's* Ahem, excuse me sir?! One greased palm later I'm off with his blessing. Off to plan verrry merrrry festivities. I'd walk up to everyone, *high pitched posh accent* "Here ye ... here ye ... tis I. Lord Abernathy Bumpypants of Cheshire!". And with a flamboyant swooping of my cape, "Listen up. Come come... I've'a pronounce for our coorporate festivities. Todaaaay, betwixt the hours of rise 'till setting. Ahem *c'mere gesture* you, chatty kathy's ova there, listen! As I was saying. The price of party favuhs or confetti is of no object! Nor will I skimp on ale or wine. For I shall charge it all to my royal account!"
If you feel obliged to bring guests. Be sUurrre to notify my ex-cu-tive scRRRibe, Beardsley Cumblebaums, for he shall assign seating arrangements n saCH. Good day.