Vivat Vagina!

Congratulations, Unnamed Royal Fry George Alexander Louis!

You’ve emerged from a pool of bodily fluids, released during a wall-banging night of steaming hot blue-blood sex, to become one of the planet’s 7 billion or so resident humans, and the “Great British” public’s new favourite goldfish.

On some battlefield hundreds of years ago, your ancestors and their friends proved they were bigger and stronger than everyone else’s ancestors. After generations of men being able to find the right hole, executions by disembowelment, murders, religious genocide, extreme domestic violence, civil wars, genetic illnesses – and other less pleasant things – here you are.

Although you’ll be the most important person in the world to your parents and family – the only people who should matter to you – because of whom the uterus your collection of genes resided in for nine months belonged to, lots other people think you’re important as well.

As the television people are just discovering (and broadcasting to us non-stop), “Isn’t it remarkable how far a royal muff can stretch?” It almost makes your mother seem….“human”…. doesn’t it? Rather than an ornament. I suppose she’s done her job now.

All this is because some people are trying to fill a commemorative plate shaped hole in their lives.

Your job, as you’ve probably figured out, was decided for you the moment your father – going balls-deep, his balding head caked in sweat – roared to Thor as he cream-pied the inside of your mother’s baby clown car.

If all goes as planned, one day you’ll not only become a head of state and run the country, but a head of a church too.

Actually, “run the country” is a bit of a fib.

You were, apparently, chosen to do so not because you might be any good at it – unlike most of us, unfortunately – but because centuries ago, people really believed that your ancestors were chosen by magical sky people to do the terrible things to them that they did.

You’ll never become a doctor, accountant, estate agent or train driver. Your job will consist of waving, shaking hands, looking slightly up whilst pointing at things and using scissors until you die or get bored. It’s also a good idea to get used to the smell of fresh, wet paint as soon as you can.

Forget retirement or running away and hiding, you won’t have that opportunity. If any of your children turn out to be a disappointment, or a bit strange, you’ll probably hang on until you’re well into your 80s or 90s!

Some people are going to hate your guts because you exist. A handful of loons will probably go so far as to try to kill you or/and your parents. Another handful of loons will remain convinced you’re a lizard until the day they die. Some will go so far as to literally worship the ground you walk on. It’s probably best to ignore the lot, but most of us are alright.

If we don’t care, or if we see you as what you are – just another kid – we’re probably one of those “alright” people.

You’ll eventually come to deal with some of the most unpleasant specimens of humanity. We call them “Prime Ministers”. You’ll have to listen to them moan on and on, whilst resisting the urge to do what your seventeen-times great uncle did and have their heads cut off.

Don’t worry about Carwyn – who’ll probably still be in the job when you come to the throne. You can just contact him via his telepathy implant, as his brain stampedes across Wales in its mech-warrior suit, terrorising the natives with questions, like something out of a Stephen King inspired game show.

You should expect yourself, or your mother, to be compared to your dead grandmother at every opportunity by tabloid newspapers. If they stoop really low, they’ll try and think up of scenarios of “what it would’ve been like” if she were still alive.

Your parents will have every right to get annoyed at that. And yet, they’ll be expected to smile through it, even if what they want is for the world to leave you all in peace. You would best get used to it too, and pretty quickly I’d imagine.

Because….“tradition”….or something.