I must be living in a parallel universe when I hear David Cameron pouring on the smarm on breakfast TV this morning. Cameron describes the news that Kate Windsor is in the early stages of labour as “very exciting” and goes on to burble on about how he knows the hospital well, referring yet again to his late son who was treated there, and suggesting himself as the go to man if Kate and her husband Bill fancy a meal in a local restaurant. Well, that’s likely isn’t it? The royal couple are bound to fancy some haute cuisine, always assuming they can get through the phalanx of photographers and “well-wishers” and that she isn’t full of stitches, having split her difference. There’s a thought you won’t read in the Daily Mail.
Now I am not an “ill-wisher”, if there is any such thing, and I genuinely wish Kate and Bill well – Kate mainly – as she struggles to push out the royal sprog.
It’s at times like these when I do wonder if it’s just me. I was out at a birthday party last night and whilst my conversations were mainly with like-minded people, there was not a single discussion that I could hear about Kate Windsor. There were a lot of people there, mind you, so it is possible that groups of people really were holding detailed debates about how much the baby would weigh, the sex it would be and of course it’s name. “I think it’s going to a girl, weighing 13lbs and they’re going to call her Diana. I put a tenner on at Ladbrokes this morning.”
I might be a bit more interested if the baby was called Diana, especially if it was a boy, because it would be one of those unexpected “Cor blimey!” moments. Now that would get people talking down the local, in between ordering their foaming pints of Boston’s Old Thumper and crunching through a pack of Pork Scratchings. “They’ve got some neck!” They won’t though. Imagine what Bill’s dad would say. “You’re just taking the piss, son.”
I am guessing the rest of the day, quite possibly the rest of the year, will be taken up with the latest non news and BBC Radio Five Live will be “leaving our live coverage of Liverpool v QPR to go to the Lindo Wing of St Mary’s Hospital where we have some news on the royal baby” whereupon an overexcited reporter will tell us that precisely nothing has happened. “But let’s talk to Mr and Mrs Wayne Scoggis from Neasden who have been sleeping rough outside the hospital for eight months waiting for this very special day.”
You would think childbirth is somehow glamorous from the media coverage when in fact it is the exact opposite. I remember someone telling me that when a woman goes into labour, she hands in her dignity at the front desk of the hospital and only collects it when she leaves. “Oh doesn’t she look beautiful?” everyone will say when she leaves and waves to the photographers, before getting into the back of a limousine the size of a small tank. “She’ll need some rest now” the reporter will say. Well, yes: from you.
Prince Charles, if he is not otherwise engaged shooting animals or campaigning for vegetarianism, will be “delighted”. He can’t say he’s really disappointed, can he? I don’t blame him for what will inevitably be a standard reply, but what do they expect him to say?
And then news studios will reverberate to the sound of “royal experts” mapping out little Diana’s future. She’ll go to a private school, then university and spend the rest of her being rushed from place to place to shake hands with people and going on holiday. Gawd bless her!
No, I am not excited by the thought of someone I don’t know having a baby. It happens all the time. It probably is just me because there will be a huge spike in sales of the red top newspapers and eight page “souvenir editions” which will inevitably end up in the same recycling bag as everything else.
Good luck, Kate. I’ll be thinking of you as they cut the umbilical cord and pass to you the screaming royal sprog. Or more probably I’ll hibernate for a while.
