Forgive my withering cynicism, for believe it or not, I am as clucky as the next person at the sight and smell of a cute newborn, but do we really have to dissect the origins of the name Charlotte from every historical angle for the next two weeks?
I chose my kids names because they sounded nice and because they were the only names the old man would agree to – my choices of Noah and Florence being rejected as ‘ridiculous’ – not because of some upper-class, historical significance or to brownnose my ancestors.
Did it ever occur to anyone that maybe Will and Kate just like the name ‘Charlotte’?
Kurt got his name because I knew this really chilled-out, hot guy at uni who drove an MG; and look how he turned out!
This Royal birth has dominated the media for a year now. We’ve been forced to endure every detail of each new phase of Kate’s pregnancy from the morning sickness that led to her hospitalisation, her lack of weight gain, the confusion over her due date, her labour and now the Russian conspiracy theories about when the birth actually took place.
And as if that wasn’t enough suspense, the Palace decided to torture us further by stretching out the release of the Princess’s name for two painful days.
Quite obviously, NO-ONE could get on with their lives without knowing the name of the Princess.
I am not a Royalist but I am a Brit and understand the deep-seated power of Royalty as status in many parts of the world, and the money Britain makes from associated tourism and merchandise. Even I am not immune to feeling a sense of pride in our culture and history – I should be, having had every important historical date rammed down my throat, rote fashion, for the entirety of my schooling.
And yes, I have been known to feel all soppy inside when I go back and revisit the wonderful sights of our history, like the Tower of London, the palaces, Stamford Bridge, David Beckham’s waxwork and other relics of flamboyant decadence of the Royals – in spite of the advice of their advisors to re-market themselves to be ‘just like one of us.’
While Kate was gestating, lot of other serious shit has been happening in the world – surprisingly, more important shit than the birth of one of a billion new babies, and one who is a mere third-in-line to a throne and so has carte blanche now to become the next fucked up Royal wild child and follow in the footsteps of previous famous fucked up Royals who will never sit on the throne. No doubt she too will lead a life of covered-up debauchery in a regime that bears little relevance to the future of the UK or the world in general.
Which is why I’m also not immune to how fucking amazing Kate looked after the birth of Charlotte – I am a woman after all – and I’m not going to join the critics who have nothing better to do than slam her for getting the stylists onboard pronto to work their magic. That photo of the three of them on the steps of the Lindo Wing is going to be on every mug, plate and teapot until the poor girl drops her third child, so who in their right mind would want to look knackered and puffy or publicly demonstrate their difficult mobility due to stitches that were probably killing her?
Credit where credit is due, that cream dress was a brave call…
But can we please get back to our lives now?