A Royal Babyshambles

Is it safe to come out yet?  I hope so, I’ve stayed away from the newspapers for long enough now, the drama is over, and to no surprise it turned out be a baby after all that. Jolly good show.

I’m not a big fan of the Royals. Though to be fair, I’d have to say I’m a not a big fan of Pete Doherty either; each to their own, eh? My time spent as what you might call a royalist, is quite brief, in fact it amounted to a wet afternoon colouring in-between the lines of a union flag in preparation for the visit of Prince Charles to our small town.

We didn’t get off to a great start. His Royal Highness Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales, KG, KT, GCB, OM, AK, QSO, PC, ADC, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland was late for our meeting.  I was bored and I imagine my father’s shoulders, upon which I was sat were begging to sag.

By the time he eventually arrived and climbed from his limousine, double-parked outside Woolworths, my enthusiasm had wilted in much the same way my paper flag had in the drizzle. Despite the crowd roaring, and despite the frantic flag waving I was inconsolable.

He didn’t look anything like the photograph of the ‘Prince’ that had sat on the wall of our classroom all week; the photograph that had inspired me to perform great feats of highly concentrated colouring in. Where was his magnificent white steed, where was his splendid crimson uniform? Not a medal or razor sharp sabres to be seen, just some dull bloke in a suit.

I happened to have a rather splendid spot from which to observe this disappointing view, at just over six foot two my father’s shoulders made a grand platform from which to sit miserably drooping my flag.

The dull gentlemen stopped in front of us and spoke to me:

“You’ve got a jolly good view”

Unfortunately the thick fur of my parka hood muffled this into:

“What’s the matter with you?”

I forget my response if indeed there was one, I probably gurned at him, however from the look on my face he seemed a little confused at this wretched unusual creature that didn’t seem enamoured to meet him, and swiftly moved on to some handshaking and the sycophantic idolatry he was more used to.

Of course in hindsight I would have said:

(“I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me. I’m piss wet through and pissed off! Call yourself a Prince? You look like a second-hand car salesman. Due to the fact that because of some dodgy battles, some decidedly brutal murders, a good few arranged marriages leading to a fairly limited gene pool based on a serious program of inbreeding; you are officially looked upon not only by the people around me but by God himself as better qualified to be standing there in front of me; rather than through a recognised system of merit or a democratic system of choice. I am nought but a mud eating peasant in your company; and I only sympathise with your position in that to progress any further in life from the lofty heights or highness to which you have been born into is a curse that requires your mother to die (or abdicate which, come on is never going to happen) and that is not something to wish upon any one. Your Royal Highness”)

Still he’s just become a Granddad, as many men his age do. Congratulations. Now the next big news we all need to know, when is little His Royal highness Prince George Alexander Louis, Prince of Cambridge, going to get his foreskin whopped off (as strangely they tend to do in that family)?

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