Poor Harry. Every time I left my little work space today, I found myself drawn to the television footage of Prince William and his fresh-faced wife holding the prized baby and smiling for the public before delivering him to his nannies at Nottingham Cottage.
While Capt. Harry is busy qualifying as an Apache Aircraft Commander and generally trying to prove himself useful, the world seems more interested in his nephew, who has done nothing but soil some monogrammed nappies.
Some people just don’t appreciate the value of hard work. I, for one, would make a scandalous addition to any royal family.
“Your majesty, I notice that you signed a royal decree to dismiss a dozen gardeners today. Where might I find a job application? I dare say I’d make a splendid addition to the gardening staff,” I’d ask my own grandmother, with a curtsy.
Appalled, she would order me to practice my royal wave until teatime.
It’s not like Harry needs the money. He could spend his days lounging about the palace, playing Call of Duty with his mates, and nobody would dare tell him to get his royal arse off the couch and find a job. He must be afflicted with the same malady that makes me feel a compulsion to earn my keep, to fill my days with productivity.
Good for you, Harry old chap! The world may love Kate and William, but it needs people like us. Someone has to scrub Her Majesty’s loo. What’s that, Harry? Oh, you don’t do that kind of work. I see. Well then, cheerio!