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Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
Hello, finest people of the British Empire, ‘tis Prince William here!
No doubt you’re all aware of the hullaballoo surrounding the expulsion of the Royal Foetus from within one’s wife’s womb. After all, pappa tells me that it’s been all over the BBC channels and it seems that even those ghastly perverts over on that Channel 4 thing are talking about it as well! Spiffo, I say! The Royal Bedding that took place nine months ago was a jolly frantic couple of minutes, and I’m awfully pleased that the entire country is as excited about it as I am – I simply cannot wait for the next one!
In the aftermath of all this frivolity, a frantic debate has arisen about who’s going to have the placenta. Now, although I have no doubt that it would make a splendid souvenir to remember the occasion by, I’ve decided not to place my hat into the ring – after all, I’ll be allowed to hold the baby on birthdays and during outings to Windsor Legoland, so there’s no point in being greedy whilst there’s still plenty to go round.
After a fair amount of consultation with the family, it’s been agreed that Grandmama’s little corgi dogs are the frontrunners in this race for ownership of the afterbirth. And why not? They put in a jolly good performance during their time in the maternity ward; whilst the doctors and nurses were running around like headless chickens, the good little doggies were as calm as a button as they played dead and rolled over on my command. You should have seen the look on Kate’s face when they started lapping up the mess she had left on the bed! Priceless!
I’m going to leave the decision for naming the baby down to Harry. He’s a real wag when it comes to things like that, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed for Gertrude or Biff.