This is an exclusive.
Here at JOE I’ve gotten to interview some incredible people. I’ve been lucky enough to get to speak with Big Ben, Alexis Sánchez’s dogs and even the bowl of shamrock that was presented to President Trump. Suffice to say, it’s been a pretty wild ride. But yesterday, everything changed.
I got a call from Kensington Palace, asking if I wanted to be the first person to interview the Royal Baby. I assumed it was a prank at first, but decided to play along. Fool me once, shame on you, etc.
When I was in a taxi on the way to the Palace, I started to believe that I might actually get to meet the baby, or at the very least, get a decent Instagram story out of the whole situation.
Once I got inside the Palace, I dropped all suspicions. This was actually happening.
I conducted the very first interview with the Royal Baby.
Me: Royal Baby, It’s my absolute pleasure to meet you.
Royal Baby: Thank you. Please, call me RB.
Me: RB, nice. Got it. Well, this is a huge honour. How are you feeling?
RB: I’m great, to be honest. At a youthful nine hours old, I’m doing surprisingly well. I had a quick nap earlier and now I’m right as rain.
Me: Terrific. Happy Birthday, by the way. Do we even celebrate birthdays on our actual birth day? Haha. Who knows!
RB: You know, I’m not actually sure of the protocol on that one. I can ask Mummy later. Anyway, you’re probably wondering why I specifically requested for you to interview me.
Me: Yes, I assume it’s for my stunning journalistic capabilities?
RB: Fuck no. I just needed a moderate platform to air some views I have, if you wouldn’t mind indulging me, I can jump straight in?
Me: Excellent, fire away…
RB: First things first, I think all babies should be allowed to drive. I’ve got a lot of places I want to see and I’ll be damned if I’m waiting on some driver to take me there. I heard that there’s an entire shop filled with toys in town, and something called an office where people go to work?
Me: Driving babies, of course. Makes perfect sense. We already have ‘Baby on board’ signs, why not ‘Baby driver’, like the movie.
RB: Haven’t seen it, I am nine hours old.
Me: It’s a great movie, highly recommend it.
RB: Right can you stop talking now? This is my interview.
Me: Apologies, your highness.
RB: Secondly, I want to be fast-tracked to the throne. I’m not arsed waiting on my brother, sister, father, grandfather and great-grandmother to croak it before I get to have a go. I’ve got big ideas and I want to get them in motion. I’d like to propose a fast pass system like they have in Disneyland, whereby I pay a little extra to skip the queue. Is that something we can look into?
Me: I… I don’t think that’s how it works?
RB: I don’t give a shit. Make it happen. Next, how quickly can we get my face on a stamp? I want to travel, but obviously they’re going to make me wait a while until I can walk or talk, or at least hold down my vomit for longer than four minutes. Being put on a stamp is the quickest way to get some miles under my belt. You’ll have to talk to someone on my behalf, they’ll never understand my babbles.
Me: Aren’t we talking right now?
RB: I was born a few hours ago, you clown. This is mind control.
Me: Of course. Continue…
RB: So if I get on a stamp before George and the girl, I’d have a small level of power over them. Nothing massive, but enough to give them a complex about me. That’s how it starts. I chip away at their self-esteem for many years, eventually culminating in a huge rift being driven between us all. Mummy and Daddy will take my side because I’m just a baby, meaning that George and the girl will be excommunicated from the Monarchy.
Me: Charlotte. Your sister’s name is Charlotte.
RB: And your sister’s name is I Don’t Give A Fuck. Stop talking and keep transcribing. Now, the clothes I’ve seen my family members wearing are utterly repugnant. My father wears chinos to bed, my brother has literally never not worn shorts and I can’t even summon the words or strength to talk about the girl’s 1975 floral curtain pattern obsession. They look a sight and I refuse to conform. I want to exclusively wear Adidas tracksuits and get brand endorsements to do so. Which brings me onto my next request…
Me: Privacy?
RB: Fuck no, the opposite. I want a heavy social media presence. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, YouTube, everything. From today. I want 1m followers on every platform by midnight or I’m going back into Mummy’s belly. I gave her severe morning sickness before and I can do it again. This isn’t a joke to me. I’m open to brand deals from today. I want to be filthy stinking rich. There’s nothing I wont #ad #spon and #ootd my way through. Want someone to turn on the Christmas lights at a children’s hospital? Better hand me that paper, son.
Me: Okay. Might just steer us away from that kind of thing for a moment. Look, you’ve just been born into royalty, that must be exciting?
RB: Yeah it’s fine, I didn’t really have a say in the matter. Why couldn’t I have been a Kardashian? Or a Huntington-Whiteley? Nobody even knows my surname. I don’t either, come to think of it. Is it ‘Of Cambridge?’ or something like that? Either way, this is the hand I’ve been dealt and I’m going to make the most of it. I’m having McDonalds for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. I won’t even be ordering off the Eurosaver menu because I’M RICH.
Me: Nice. Anything else to add before we wrap things up? I don’t want to keep you any longer.
RB: Yeah, if anyone reading this wants to talk about a brand deal, don’t hesitate to get in touch. Also, can everyone please follow me on my various social media channels once I get them up and running. And if the Huntington-Whiteleys are reading this, I’m open to talking about an adoption.
Mel: RB, it’s been a pleasure. Thanks so much for this heartfelt interview.
RB: No worries. I’ll invoice you tomorrow. Speak soon!
