So the #RoyalBaby, to give him his hashtag full title, is finally here. I spent last night laughing my head off at a.) the hapless hordes of media who firstly were kept in the dark for over four hours after the birth to give Wills and Kate time to bond with their bambino, and then only had the fact that it was a boy, and that it weighed 8lb 6oz, to talk about, and b.) the hundreds of fools adorned in Union Jack regalia gathered outside the Palace (although, as I admitted on Facebook, if I had been in London last night I would have down there with them, gurning behind Kay Burley, trying to wave to Mother Goose on Sky News.)
The poor kid is already undergoing a backlash of sorts – I noticed lots of people whinging about how it was going to be yet another Royal family member us plebs would be lining the pockets of. However, I think it is lovely news – like the Royal Wedding, it’s put a smile on the majority of peoples’ faces, and to be fair to the lil prince he cannot help the fact that he has been born into such privilege.
I did feel a tad sorry for Kate when it was announced that it was a little cherub of the blue variety that had been bestowed upon her, solely because if it had been a pink one, she would have had someone to share the limelight in the Daily Mail’s Sidebar of Shame in the coming years. As it stands, poor Kate is left to soldier on in solitude as the Daily Fail endlessly discuss just exactly what garments she’s “pouring her post-pregnancy curves” into. She will not be allowed to slob about in vomit-splattered Primark pyjamas, and she will not be allowed to go out and make a show of herself on her first night out since getting pregnant. For these reasons, I truly pity her.
Now we just need to find out what they’ve called it. I’m still holding out for Rylan.