Something About Nutmeg

The King of Spain is annoyed at me. I have offered to marry his daughter but I cannot thread a needle, a pre-requisite to marriage in his family, so I am told. I have tried it many times but I can simply never get it right. I feel a total fool.

My proposed wife sits in the corner of the room whilst the King marches up and down the bare room, staring at me sternly. He could be doing something useful like ordering beheadings or starting up a Crusade or something. Anything, really.

Eventually I give up - not because I cannot be bothered trying any more, but because I have just realise that his daughter has a face like a warthog. I tell the King to forget it (etc.) and he gets very pleased indeed. We return to his throne room and I am given a reasonably friendly farewell. His daughter doesn't seem particularly sad to see me go either, for that matter. I stand up, bow to them all, turn to the big oak doors and open them...

...onto a crowded, stroboscopic, hot, loud, brash discotheque. I stand, stuffed for a second.

I look behind me and see the King and his family waving. He is smiling nicely. I turn again to see the disco. I turn back to see the King in his throne room again, this time smiling broadly at me. I turn again to see the disco. I turn back one more time to see the King laughing pleasantly.

What I do not understand is this - why is the King becoming more friendly towards me?