Prince William seems like a decent bloke. Genetically though, he’s been dealt a difficult hand by life, in all her ruthless vagary.

His father, Prince Charles – on the occasion of his painful press conference to mark his engagement to the fragrant, dim-witted, but virginal Lady Diana Spencer – so infamously replied to the question “Are you in love?” with, “Whatever in love means”. Charles is a tragic and slightly comical victim of the last vestiges of the old Royals.

His Royal Highness, who in silhouette does a passable impression of another dying English institution, the FA Cup (“Cor blimey them ears is big!”), was forced into the last arranged marriage of the Windsors’ reign, when he should really have been mounting Camilla and shouting “Tally-Ho” whilst doing so.

Camilla was the love of his life from a tender age, and who by all accounts was a comely wench in her youth whose favours were enjoyed by numerous suitors while Charlie-boy pandered to the whims of the Windsors and the protocol of the Palace of St. James. If Camilla hadn’t behaved like such a brazen hussy, Charles would now be King, and Diana married to the idiot third son of a minor Earl from rural England. Most importantly, that dear sweet girl would still be alive.

William’s mother, God rest her soul, was subjected to the Royal fumblings on her wedding night after a fairly big day at St. Paul’s Cathedral and would doubtless have rather snuggled up in front of the telly watching MTV with a cup of hot chocolate. She loved Charles, of that there could be no doubt, but sadly the love was unrequited. Dutifully, the Prince and Princess of Wales mated and bred, and if anything good came of that inglorious union it was the fruit of the Royal loins, Princes William and Harry.

What with Charles’ goofiness and Diana being charming but slow-witted, it is hardly surprising to be presented with the William with whom we have all suddenly become so familiar. (Where Harry gets his looks, naughtiness, and quick wit one can only speculate.) The most brilliant description of the future King came from Lin Sampson in the Sunday Time’s supplement, where she describes him as appearing “concussed”!

There are suggestions in the press that Woolly William was played beautifully by Commoner Kate, with such conspiratorial ideas as the idea of her deliberately targeting St. Andrew’s as her choice of tertiary enlightenment because of his attendance. Treason!

These candidates for a trip to the Tower of London point to Carole Middleton, the stewardess who snagged the handsome pilot; ambitious climbing up the social and financial ladder, they say, is in the blood. Kate, they point out, while a pupil at the prestigious Marlborough public school, on realizing she was a teenage Plain Jane garnering little attention from the lads, went home for the summer holidays and returned transformed. She and the stewardess had effected a stunning makeover.

All this is, of course, part of the fabric of British society and an inevitable sideshow to what is a welcome fillip for a country that has become a monument to mediocrity, binge drinking, reality television, and weeping deputy Prime Ministers.

So what if William is wet, and Kate (sorry, Catherine) a climber? Their marriage is doomed to middle class longevity, and will last forever, a beacon of boredom in a frantic world. For that we must be thankful. No one else will have William once his hair and youth are gone, and surely even Catherine can’t find a higher rung to ascend?

God Save the future King.