So Prince Charles turned sixty in the weekend.
Happy birthday Chuck.
It's kind of weird to think that he's five years younger than Mick Jagger.
But you have to feel for him, just a tad. I mean for one, he has to survive on a paltry sixteen million pounds a year but then, the real kicker is that Mummy won't let him do the job he was born to do.
Think about it, all his life he has been told, 'When you grow up, you shall be King.'
And sixty years later, he's still waiting. Do you think he wants to sidle up to his mother and whisper in her ear, 'Err, Mother, you know that, er, King-thing lark. Don't you think it's my turn now? You must be sick of it, surely.'
'No, dear, just a few more years, when you can prove you're really grown up.'
If I was first in line for the throne, I would totally understand my parents holding out on letting me take the top job because they would know that once in power I would immediately set about ordering that the Guards of Buckingham Palace incorporate a waddle into their changing of the guard routine and hiring Ricky Gervais to write my televised Christmas message.
But it doesn't appear that Chuck has the maturity of a seven year old, so I am a little bewildered as to why Queenie isn't budging on handing the mantle over.
If driving a taxi was the family business, Prince Charles is effectively driving around in the passenger seat, with his mother at the wheel. Cause let's be honest, if you're a bloke (who likes to drive) in your twenties and your mother is driving, you're always going to be a little bit uneasy about it, cause it's not that cool. So I'm picking that after a good forty years of sitting in the passenger seat, he's starting to feel like a little bit of a plonker.
But then again, if your mother has the power to have your head chopped off, I suppose you're not going to put up too much of a fight.