Michele Hewitson: Mad about George

There was such an interesting documentary last night on Prime, about a tiny little baby (as opposed to a great big enormous baby), who had come into the world with much fanfare and was presented with gifts from all over said world (including a shawl from New Zealand, although, weirdly, that wasn't mentioned) and who, although having been born to really rather humble and down-to-earth parents, would one day rule over us and bring the world together in love, peace and harmony.

Something like that. I had to turn down the volume on William and Kate: A Royal Arrival for fear that the ra-raaing and gushing would cause me to go deaf. This was an American production, which meant it gawked at the British royals in a wide-eyed, shouty way that, should the Queen ever happen upon it, would no doubt produce one of her looks - in which she makes her mouth go like a cat's bum.

It also meant that Kate and William donning grass skirts (as the Daily Mail put it) and dancing with the nice, friendly natives in Tuvalu somehow had them somewhere in Asia. Oh well, friendly natives are friendly natives, what's a bit of geographical confusion?

And one had to fill in the time somehow, so playing spot the blunder sufficed. Uncle Harry and Aunty Pippa were to be the godparents of baby Jesus, I mean, George. Oh, let's just call him The World's Most Famous Baby. The documentary did. "It's huge!" the gushing narrator provided. He was quite big, for a tiny little baby. But those godparents. Er, no, Uncle Harry and Aunty Pippa are not the godparents. I know this because I read just the other day who the godparents are to be, on the Daily Mail website, of course, and we all know the DM never gets things wrong. Some nobodies are to be godparents. I, for one, feel this is a mistake because, as I learned in this fascinating documentary, Harry and Pips (or Great Fat Arse; Swish, swish, swish; Rear of the Year, as she is known in our house - thank you Bubbles from Ab Fab for that) are top bods. They are also both "successful young adults ... both have got a lot to offer in terms of solid advice". Hear, hear! Harry knows quite a lot about getting naked in Vegas hotel rooms and Pippa knows all that one needs to know, possibly more, about flower arranging. So I do feel that Joseph and Mary, oops, I mean Kate and Wills have made a monumental blunder there.

But were was I? A long way off delivery, as it happened. Forty four minutes in, and still no baby.

One was getting a bit impatient. So was Granny Cat's Bum Mouth. She did wish it would hurry up; she was about to go on her hols. To fill in the time - you may remember the tiny little baby was a bit tardy - we had a celebrity personal trainer tell us how to get your pre-baby body back, which was fascinating. We had celebrity father-of-two, Elton John, tell us how he kept his figure. Oh. Hang on. No. He was there to tell us that babies are all about love, or something as equally fascinating as getting one's pre-baby figure back. Meanwhile, the world's media were "literally" melting in the heat of a most un-British summer while the royal couple, who had "literally" taken the world by storm, were faffing about in their posh maternity suite, not having a baby. Twitter, twitter. This was to be the first royal baby born in a Twittering world. Literally, I suppose that is true. The world was literally waiting to hear what the baby's name was. Not me! I already knew. It was Jesus. Or George. Something like that. I'd gone on my hols by then.