Firstly, may we congratulate you on what we presume was a graceful, regal, birth. When we close our eyes and really think about it, we imagine that you emerged into the world with a very precise side-parting, to be greeted by a humble, bowing doctor, and a room full of curtseying midwives.
Is that what happened?
Was there a string quartet playing soothing music? Did anyone faint? Did the Queen cut the umbilical cord with a sword?
We bet your dad, Prince William, lit up a massive cigar and poured himself an expensive glass of scotch.
Oh listen to us! We’re just so happy you’re here, and now we get to see you plastered all over the papers. To get you up to speed, we thought we’d outline a few simple facts for you, in the form of bullet points, so here goes:
– You’ve already got a brother and sister, he’s called George, she’s called Mary or something. We can’t actually remember. In fact, is he even called George? We THINK he’s called George.
– Anyway, unless you poison them, or they decide to marry a hot sassy American, you won’t ever be king.
– You’re still going to have a great time though. Have you seen Prince Andrew? He’s your great uncle, and he just golfs at a very unprofessional level. His whole life, golfing.
– His ex-wife used to suck people’s toes.
– You might have to join the army for a bit. In fact, we’re pretty sure it’s written into your contract that you have to be in the marines.
– War is bad, but this is a good look for you, it tells “the people” (don’t worry, you’ll hear all about them) that you’re mucking in and doing your bit. For Queen and country. Or King. Who, by the way, might be YOUR DAD.
– You won’t ever need an actual job job.
– You won’t need a paper round when you’re twelve to support a fag smoking habit.
– You won’t need bus fare, which means you won’t smell the astonishing cocktail of body odour available on the 322 from Crystal Palace
– Essentially, my lord, you’re on an open road full of green lights.
– Metaphorically, and actually.
– You will almost definitely never have to queue anywhere.
Basically, the point is that life is going to be pretty groovy, and for now the limelight is upon thee. Everyone will know your name, people will obsess over what you’re wearing, how rosy and apple-like your cheeks are, what pram you’re being transported in, how much of an imprint you’ve left on your mummy’s figure.
But as the whirlwind spins, and your coming-into-being sends the public into a gigantic feeding frenzy, let’s not forget that, for now, you’re just a baby. A clean slate with no sense of entitlement. You haven’t got a voice so posh it’s just one big slurring noise (YET!). You’re as cute and innocent as the day is long.
You’ve probably done a little royal shit in your silken nappy.
Anyway, all the best, enjoy learning to stride confidently around your country. We look forward to seeing you work it for the cameras on every single cover of Hello magazine for the next 12 months.