Imagine there had been a mix-up at the hospital and Kate got the wrong baby. How long before anyone noticed that the third in line to the throne was actually a louche, sexually ambiguous cartoon baby by the name of Stewie Griffin?
Royal nursery. 2.14am. An ornate cot is illuminate by moonlight. The covers begin to move. He is awake…
“What the deuce? Where’s my bloody bottle?”
“I say, hello? Servants! Cater to my every whim! Now!”
Furious, the child clambers out of his cot, muttering. He spots a corgi asleep by the door.
“You there! Dog! Fetch me some milk, this instant!”
The corgi opens one eye and regards the child sleepily. “Keep it down, your holiness. Some of us have a job.”
The baby’s bottom lip begins to quiver. “But I’m privileged! Apparently I’ll never want for anything! I’m third in line to the bloody throne! Obey me!”
The corgi yawned. “Yeah, well, I’ve got news for you, sunshine – you could be in for a long wait. Your granddad is before you and he’s been waiting around for decades to get his crown on. Then your beloved Daddy will want a turn. And, going by the genetic longevity in this place, you could be wearing adult nappies before they get to you. I’d get comfy. Or plan some sort of horrible accident.”
Dumbstruck, the baby climbed back into his cot. He lay staring at the helicopter mobile rotating above his head. His eyes narrowed. “Accident, eh? Hmmmm…”