Susan Morrison: Boy, isn’t the navy relieved!

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Dear royal couple. Huge congratulations on the new arrival. Must admit, I’m not really a royal fan, but it’s always a cause for happiness when a new baby is safely delivered and mum is doing well.

Just one wee thing, though, William. The next time you introduce your offspring to the world, I think we expect a bit more than you wandering about with a car seat and looking sheepish. Although, to be fair, that is the standard facial expression of every new dad, somewhere between panicked and stunned.

No, no, I was thinking more along the lines of you in full armour – you’ve got the shoulders for it – striding out before a mob of assembled knights, horses, earls, barons, thanes and that sort of thing, hoisting the baby over your head on a shield – carefully strapped in, of course – Mothercare probably do something – whilst bellowing “Behold our prince!”

Cue mighty crash of a thousand armoured knees hitting the deck, whilst somewhere stage left, his Uncle Harry gnashes his teeth at being bumped down the succession list and starts plotting with disaffected dukes to rise in revolt and seize the crown for himself.

I mean, don’t you watch Game of Thrones?

In a strange way, I always feel sorry for royal arrivals and their mums, especially these days.

Oh, I know that Kate and William are going back to a fully staffed mini-hospital wing back at the palace, with hot and cold running staff the order of the day, but poor Kate is never going to have the chance to shlep about in trackie bottoms, grumpily eating digestive biscuits and lying on the couch with the baby sleeping on her stained T-shirt while she watches daytime TV. I think you’ll find that’s an insight into the early baby days of my son, there.

No, no, Kate will be expected to snap right back into those designer duds within weeks. Those glossy celeb magazines, so adoring to her when she was pregnant, will start sniping about that baby fat.

Even little George now has his whole life mapped out in front of him, barring wars or revolutions. Not for this wee boy the chance to turn around and say “When I grow up I want to be a train driver”. Nope, laddie, you’re going to be a king and like it.

What a relief, though, that it was a boy, eh? Especially for the crew of HMS Kent, who spelled the word “BOY” out on their open deck. The way they’ve been cutting back the armed forces, they probably didn’t have enough crew members to spell out the word “GIRL”.

By George, it’s a long name

GEE whizz, though, that’s a name and a half, and no mistake. George Alexander Louis, or His Royal Highness Prince George of Cambridge for short. Let’s be honest, there’s no way he’s going to find that full moniker on a mug in a National Trust gift shop, or Kate’s going to get that printed on the front of a baby-gro.

There’s just not enough room.

Fame costs and now we start paying

IT was the first flyer of the year, pressed into my hands this week. Yup, the Fringe is coming right at us.

A second telltale sign is the increase in cheerful Australians on the bus, not to mention the American students who wonder why we the natives get grumpy when they insist on using the pavements either as photographic opportunities with the Castle as a backdrop, or worse, an impromptu stage.

Hint, stage school from LA, the outdoor song and dance sequence in Fame is great on the big screen, but if you try to re-enact it on Leith Street during rush-hour, it’s a pain in the bahookie and more than a wee bit annoying. It will certainly lead me to look you up in the Fringe programme, just so I can make absolutely sure I avoid you.

Perfect moniker for a playmate

Still, at least with all those posh names, a woman called Katie Hopkins will not be offended. Ms Hopkins managed to annoy Holly Walsh and most of the audience for This Morning a few weeks ago by saying that children called things like Tyler, Charmaine, or Chantelle were just so obviously chavs – it’s the English term for schemie, by the way.

Her own delicate little girl, called, errrr . . . India, incidentally, would never be allowed on a playdate – it’s a new term for playing together, that one’s from America, keep up here – with such clearly working class oiks.

You know what? I rather suspect that if Kate and Wills had had a bit of firestorm to the brain and called the new prince Tyler Mason Ashley Keiron, or His Royal Highness Prince Tyler of Streatham for short, then Katie would forget her class assumptions and whoosh that girl to any playdate going with a royal no matter how oiky that name sounded.