Everyone is banging on about the imminent arrival of the royal baby.
I am exhausted and enervated already, and bog all has actually happened as yet.
I am thinking of retreating to a hermitage with a flask of tea and a book until it is all over and I can turn on the television/radio again without being bombarded with a tide of speculative crap, spoken in hushed and reverent tones:
‘Well, I would suggest, that as it is a royal baby it may well be either a boy…or a girl.’
‘Really Rupert? Is that your considered opinion as Royal Correspondent?’
‘Why yes, Tarquin. It is.’
‘I believe they have decided to give the baby a name, rather than branding it with a number and popping it in the royal kennels. What’s your take on this?’
‘Well Tarquin, I have contacted the Royal Household on this matter, and they say at this point, they are not prepared to comment.’
Cuts away to a piece of archive footage of the Queen, wearing a headscarf, shoving a corgi into a wooden box.
‘But should they go for the kennel option, this is what we can expect life for the royal baby to be like.’
Regular readers will know how I feel about the whole Royal palaver. Can’t live with them, can’t shoot ’em any more. They look great on a tea towel, all hail the commemorative mugs and props to the tourist industry etc, but my, my are they boring.
It was so much more fun when they used to explode (William the Conqueror), create bonkers palaces (George IV), potentially be Jack the Ripper (Prince Albert ‘Eddy’) and be called things like Ethelred the Unready. Nowadays they are just dull, dull, dull. If you want spectacle you have to go to Monaco for princesses who run off with lion tamers and stuff.
And they’re sort of French, so they don’t count, because we all know foreigners are troubling and a bit weird, so they can get away with more.
The closest we get to excitement here in the UK is when the Queen takes off one of her shocking hats and dons a hair net to go and inspect a biscuit factory, and Philip says something rude about foreigners as he passes. As he’s not well at the moment, he’s unlikely to be saying anything saucy for some time to come.
I do like to write about these occasions, if only to balance out the ‘God love you Ma’am, and all who sail in you, brigade.’ I feel that I can provide the ballast that stops us all sliding into a sickly welter of pointless sycophancy and general twee syrupiness.
It’s just a baby for goodness sakes. Everyone’s banging on and on as if she was about to produce the next messiah, fully grown, playing a harpsichord, out of her royal lady garden.
Which would definitely be worth writing about.
I do feel sorry for Kate. Really I do.
No matter how beautiful you are, labouring at shoving a baby out of your nether regions, even with the help of hand crafted, artisan made doctors with Swarovski crystal encrusted forceps, is not a relaxing business. It does not allow you to look your best. Especially in this heat.
No matter how many hat pins you shove in your fascinator, you’re going to end up looking like crap and swearing like a navvy at some point.
It must be very off putting, particularly with the world and his wife looking on in rapt attention, camera phones at the ready, just in case they get the exclusive footage of you screaming:
‘William! You’re never coming near me again with that thing, no matter how divinely consecrated you are. You can just fuck right off…
No. I am not totes amazeballs. I am bloody, sodding furious…
Why did nobody tell me it was like pushing a washing machine through a cat flap? Why?
I bloody hate the lot of you. Bastards!’
And that’s before we get to the relentless days of crying, crying, crying, and leaking, leaking, leaking, and the whole ‘have I spawned an alien? thing.
If I were her, I’d quite like to run away, for ooooh, about twenty years, until all the fuss has died down.
As it is, she will be looking for designer pieces that don’t show up baby sick, and wearing enough corsetry to span the Clyde, all in the name of remaining fabulous whilst in charge of a feral animal, who despite the fact that it will be able to shoot crap into its hair line at record speeds, and emit sounds keener than Concorde breaking the sound barrier, will one day rule this country.
Like I say: