WELL, I don’t know about you but I think we should have a royal baby every week. It’s been marvellous.
I’m not sure which has been my favourite bit of the whole festival but Kay Burley, the indefatigable Sky News anchor, asking a Clarence House spokesman how wide Kate’s cervix got is definitely up there. The spokesman - not getting into the spirit of things - demurred to answer.
It’s all been great, though, hasn’t it?
You can say what you like about us Brits but when it comes to the important stuff we’re one big happy family, aren’t we? Like during a World Cup or when Baby P was killed and we all took to the streets burning stakes. Good times.
Oh yes, we got behind Kate alright, cheering her on and urging her push, and wondering what great gran made of another usurper to her crown; us boys all thankful we don’t have to expel something eight pounds from our bodies unless we’ve had a curry; you girls recounting your own war stories of waters breaking, ignoring pleas that that’s TOO MUCH INFORMATION. And all of us wondering what the little lad would be called. At least we had 24 hour news to answer the big questions. “Can we speculate,” Alastair Stewart asked one ITV reporter, “if the baby will be asleep or awake when he’s brought out?”
Would you believe, reader, said reporter was unsure. “It might be awake,” he ruefully concluded after 90 seconds heroic filler. It wasn’t.
Marvellous, though. Marvellous.
I sat watching a hospital door for 40 minutes on Tuesday waiting for this bundle of blue blood to be brought out. Forty minutes. What was I thinking? Mainly ‘Well, it’s better than The One Show at least’.
And then...the door opened, and they came out. And sure enough this baby who will be king looked a bit like, well, any other baby. And 90 seconds later they were off again. And the BBC anchor asked royal reporter Nicholas Witchell to analyse William’s words. “I didn’t hear them,” he said.
And then - wait wait! - they were coming out again. And they were driving off to Kensington Palace where this little lad will start his life of undiluted privilege and eye-watering excess; a living, breathing symbol of the inexcusable immorality at the ideological heart of a system where one person requires not talent or endeavour to rule 75 million people but simply needs to stick his head out the right uterus.
But he’s such a cutie. So that’s alright then.