Kate and Wills have been very generous with the global media, always smiling graciously for the cameras at a multitude of formal and informal events, and only launching a single lawsuit despite multiple invasions of privacy. We’ve seen a lot more of them than we expected over the past year or so. However, I doubt that this leniency will extend into the events in the delivery room this July, which is why I’ve outlined my personal expectations for the royal birth.
6pm. Kate arrives at the St Mary’s hospital’s maternity ward with sister Pippa and mother Carole, walking unaided and citing “mild tummy pains – please don’t make a fuss.” The nurses whisk her out of her nude LK Bennet Sledge heels and into a bespoke Alexander McQueen hospital gown, her personal hairdressers tease her mane into a ‘birthing chic’ bun, and she is guided ceremoniously into the royal birthing suite, complete with warm fluffy towels, a selection of post-birth outfits and a new set of hair brushes.
7pm. As the royal contractions begin to gather momentum, Prince Philip arrives on scene, hands Kate a small white glove embroidered with the letter ‘Q’, and apologises that the Queen cannot make the birth as one of the corgis has had an incident involving its tail and a careless footman. While the footman is being tortured and executed the Queen will be thinking of Kate and “can’t wait to meet the new heir. God speed”. Sweating slightly, her uterus contracting rather inconveniently every few minutes, Kate keeps up a bright patter of polite enquiries after Prince Philip’s health, until he gradually becomes bored and wanders off to find a nurse to sexually harass.
8pm. The contractions have reached full-swing now, and Kate is managing splendidly, only snapping once at Pippa to “Close your bloody Macbook and stop blogging about my contractions. Waitrose readers aren’t wild about your recipes, they’re not going to want to hear about my chuffing cervix.” She is wrong – the attention of the entire UK is fixed on her cervix right now – but no-one in the room corrects her as they don’t wish to receive a royal duffing up.
9pm. Kate is starting to look rather pink and is frequently asking the nurses for more drugs. Mother Carole is at her side, knitting a gender-neutral yellow baby-gro with a crown and a question mark on it. Charles and Camilla make an appearance and tell Kate that Wills is on his way in the helicopter; could Kate possibly hold the heir in for a while? Kate lets out a stream of unladylike expletives and Charles and Camilla wander off to find a new hospital ward to open.
10pm. Harry saunters into the suite with his jeans on back to front and a blonde Sloane on his arm. He grabs two plastic chairs, slides down next to the bed with his giggling companion, and says, “Sorry I’m late, I did try to call but the nurse thought I was a radio DJ and put the phone down on me. How’s it going old sport?” Kate responds with a polite snarl, and through gritted teeth forces the question: “Where. Is. Your. Sodding. Brother?” Harry gives a sudden start then looks almost thoughtful for a second but it soon becomes apparent that his blonde girlfriend is feeling him up under the bed. Kate resumes her contractions and tries to ignore the blatant foreplay now occurring by her bedside.
11pm. Wills’ helicopter lands on the roof of the hospital where a group of savvy photographers has gathered in anticipation. Wills strides politely through their flashing lightbulbs, privately wishing immediate painful death on them and all their families, and makes his way towards the Royal maternity ward. En route he encounters Prince Philip flirting with a pretty Thai nurse he has cornered. Wills rescues the nurse and steers his grandfather towards the suspiciously quiet royal birthing suite.
11:10pm. The baby is breech, Kate has passed out from trying not to make a fuss, and the doctors are urgently performing a royal Caesarian. Wills strides over to the bed, glares at Harry who is now noisily fornicating behind the curtains, and takes his wife’s hand. Carole has put down her knitting. Pippa has closed her Macbook. The room waits with bated breath, and the occasional giggle from behind the curtains.
12am. On the stroke of midnight the third-in-line to the throne is born. Kate is awake, pink and gazing down at her little bundle of joy. She decides to call her baby girl ‘Mary’, after one of her biggest fans. The Queen Skypes from the palace to send her well-wishes, amidst agonised screams and vague grinding noises in the background. Kate inquires politely after the corgi’s health. Carole attempts to curtsey via webcam. Harry has been chucked out of the hospital, but calls to say congratulations; the nurse hangs up on him again.