ACCORDING to Charles Anson, woyal press secretary, this has been "the people's pregnancy".

I could not agree more. Had I been pregnant myself, I could not have experienced more discomfort than the people's duchess herself.

I have heard it said that when Princess Di was taking her time delivering Prince Wullie, Prince Charlie ordered her to have a caesarian because he had a polo commitment to keep and couldn't hang around for ever.

In search of the truth, I turned to my old friend Tina Brown, who always kept her ear pretty close to the ground. To suggest that Boney Prince Charlie would rather have been playing polo than watch his heir emerge, said Ms Broon, is tripe. Or words to that effect. In fact, BPC hung around Di's bedside for 16 hours, urging her on like a nag in the Grand National.

BY Jove! It's a boy! In the mood to celebrate I rang the bell and – hey presto! – the Home Secretary came running with a silver salver upon which she'd set a glass of tepid prosecco and a bowl of beyond the sell-by date Bombay mix.

Meanwhile, everywhere one turns there is ill-informed blather, including speculation about what the new kid on the block will be called.

One BBC "royal watcher" says that whatever name is chosen it will carry the albatross of historical significance. If, for example, he is called Edward, it could usher in another Edwardian age.

Similarly, if he is called Victoria - At which point the royal watcher realised what he was saying and clammed up.

John Harrumphries, Today's Torquemada, suggested Kevin might be an appropriate name for the new prince to adopt. I have heard worse ideas. Top marks, however, must go to The Independent, whose readers had to wade through 12 pages of real news before they got to the royal twaddle. Its editor can say cheerio to a gong.

THE Man Booker longlist has been announced. There are 13 novels on it, most of them by folk I have never heard of. This may be a good thing. On the other hand, it may simply be an act of perversity on behalf of the judges. Not one of the authors is Scotch. Clearly, this is blind prejudice. The main talking point is a novel titled The Kills by one Richard House. It is notable because it runs to 902 pages. "It involutes itself," says Robert Macfarlane, chairman of the judges. Is that good or bad?

ALAN Partridge is back! How I have longed to write that sentence! He – or rather, his alter ego, Steve Coogan – is the star of a movie called Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa, in which the former television presenter is asked to resolve a hostage crisis. Who better?

As ever, his bailiwick is Norwich, a backwater that is blandness incarnate. As readers of this throbbing organ do not need to be reminded, Norwich is an acronym of "(k)nickers off ready when I come home", though who first invented it and why I haven't a clue.

I've visited it on several occasions and not once did I hear that uttered. The object of my last sojourn was an interview with the late, much-lamented and somewhat demented John Martyn, a rock god.

Mr Martyn was not in a good way, having had both of his legs amputated. He was due to play at East Anglia University that evening, which left the afternoon free.

The motel in which he was staying was similar to that in which Mr Partridge used to stay. It had a plastic fountain, plastic flowers and plastic staff.

Plastic music spilled out of a speaker like sewage from a pipe. It seemed, as I remarked to Mr Martyn, an ideal place to kill yourself because you wouldn't need to do anything except stay there for a couple of days. He smiled grimly.

He hoped to survive the one night he was booked in for. I asked what he'd like to drink. He said he'd given it up. So he'd just have a Guinness. In fact, he had five.

THE Woody Allen documentary on BBC 2 was a wonder to behold. Among the talking heads was Dick Cavett, described by Clive James, no less, as "by far the wittiest of the American talk show television hosts".

Once, I recall, Mr Cavett signed a book for Mr James which, he wrote, he did "more in Seurat than in Ingres".

THANKS to a dear amigo I have been watching Game Of Thrones, though for how much longer I cannot say.

I have seen six episodes so far with the Home Secretary, each of which has had its quota of violence. In one episode, a flaxen-haired bloke who was eager to be king and wear a golden crown was killed by an uncouth giant with bad personal hygiene who melted gold in a pot and poured it over him. That was taking literalness to an uncommon level.

Sex and nudity are commonplace. One of the characters is the chap who played the mayor of Baltimore in The Wire. Here he owns a brothel and plots. In one scene a brace of doxies pleasured themselves while he rabbited away as if he was on I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue. When one asked him if he'd like to join them he said he couldn't because he was saving himself for someone else. Whereupon the Home Secretary cried: "Eneuch! Eneuch!"

Now she says we should cut our losses and abandon GOT. But dare we? Dare I! For I am of the school which believes that one should finish what one's started even when it's utter tosh.

QUOTE of the week: "I love him, I have forgiven him," said Huma Abedin, wife of New York mayoral candidate Anthony Weiner, after he owned up to an online fling with a 22-year-old. His nickname was Carlos Danger.