Remember when Prince William was young and hot and we all considered applying to read Art History at St Andrews so that proximity might make him want to fuck us? It was a very exciting time, when anybody could potentially have fallen pregnant with the illegitimate spawn of an heir to the throne, and been able to live in a palace on state handouts. Well, those days are well and truly over – as evidenced by recent pictures of William and his wife, Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge (I’ve decided to use her full title because, with those hats, the jowly smile and the balding, horsey husband, she’s really grown into it), who have been working tirelessly for our nation, touring Australia with their baby, stroking koala bears.
William is not hot any more. He now sports a comb over – for reasons which remain unclear, but which, I’m certain, are altruistic.
An expensive education and exposure to the fashion and cultural élite will have alerted William to the fact that the comb over is the least attractive of all the hairstyles. Even 1970s footballers abandoned the look eventually, presumably because their sex lives had stalled to the point of non-existence (second wave feminism was in full swing, remember, which means it’s more than likely that the few women who weren’t repelled by ubiquitous, badly covered bald patches, were distracted by political lesbianism, and therefore unavailable for WAG duties).
I move in illustrious circles – I used to know someone who knew William personally, and I sometimes spend New Year’s Eve with a bloke who drinks with Prince Harry, on skiing trips to Verbier. This gives me unprecedented insight into the motivations of the Royal family.
Thus, I have deduced that, being his mother’s son, our future king has adopted his current look in solidarity with us single people – the lepers of the 21st century. He knows what it’s like to be all alone, having read Bridget Jones and also from that period when him and the Duchess were on a break. He can remember how it feels to sit in one’s underwear on a Saturday evening, smoking a dry Marlboro Light one has found at the bottom of the bag one last used at an office Christmas party in late November, listening to Ashanti, with Ant and Dec’s Saturday night Takeaway on mute in the background. He knows that that can be very depressing, especially when one gets zero text messages from friends, or from members of the public one wishes to have sex with.
William is sensitive to the tendency single people have, in such desperate moments, to look at couples and think ‘they have it better’. Like how, this week, I have been excessively YouTube-ing interviews where Yasmin Le Bon, the willowy, toffee skinned supermodel from the 90s, discusses her husband, Simon, of Duran Duran (I am aware that the dated choice of celebrity couple might well be the saddest part of this story).
It is not possible that Yasmin Le Bon has a worse life than me. At 30, she was married to a rock-star, with three children, of model quality. She was tall and gorgeous and heads turned when she walked into the room. Most days, she didn’t leave her bed for less than $10,000.
I am 30 now. I am about to move from a mouldering flat in the least salubrious part of Leeds, to the spare bedroom of my parents house in the least salubrious part of south London. I am five foot two, and my best days are behind me, looks-wise. When I walk into the room, business continues as usual – or else people leave. Some days, I leave my bed to scrabble about the bottom drawer, where I keep burnt out lighters and overdue council tax bills, because I’m pretty sure I saw a pound in there, the last time I looked.
Thank God for William, then. Who wants to remind us that romance is not all Yasmin and Simon Le Bon. Most couples aren’t gorgeous sexy famous people with model-quality children and unlimited funds to spend on exotic holidays.
‘It’s not better’, William is telling us, subliminally, via his haircut, ‘to be in a relationship. Some relationships are shit from the beginning, and even if you get yourself into a half decent one with a partner you find sexy, his hair might start to fall out and he’ll fashion the remaining little wisps of it into a makeshift wig. And that’s not even the worst thing that could happen! He might develop an alcohol problem, or start a half-hearted affair with an old friend who is less attractive than you. Or he might not have an affair with anyone, but then he’ll go off sex altogether. Or decide to vote UKIP.’
And do you know what? When William’s right, he’s right.
I don’t know why I was ever opposed to the monarchy.
*Freedigitalphotos.net didn’t have any stock images of comb overs, unfortunately. It did, however, return multiple pictures of roosters for every ‘comb over’ search I made. This one, by Gualberto107, is my favourite.