HRH the Marquis of Coton

Not even the republican Indie can refrain from running the only story in the news today on its front page. The birth of a child (well what did you expect? A piglet?) to their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge is even the Guardian's lead story, with a thousand comments already, some of them chuckle-aloud amusing. The red-tops speculate widely on the young man's name, or rather speculate narrowly, veering between James, George and Charles, with never a Wayne, Darryl or Tyrone even considered. His first names are quire irrelevant, of course; he will be given about a dozen, as is normal. No, it's his title that will be critical. As the son of a duke he will be a marquis of course, but taking his title from where exactly in his father's honour? Rupert Brooke may help;

For Cambridge people rarely smile,
Being urban, squat, and packed with guile;
And Royston men in the far South
Are black and fierce and strange of mouth;
At Over they fling oaths at one,
And worse than oaths at Trumpington,
And Ditton girls are mean and dirty,
And there's none in Harston under thirty,
And folks in Shelford and those parts
Have twisted lips and twisted hearts,
And Barton men make Cockney rhymes,
And Coton's full of nameless crimes,
And things are done you'd not believe
At Madingley on Christmas Eve.
Strong men have run for miles and miles,
When one from Cherry Hinton smiles;
Strong men have blanched, and shot their wives,
Rather than send them to St. Ives;
Strong men have cried like babes, bydam,
To hear what happened at Babraham.

And there you have it. For a United Kingdom with such a plethora of laws that not even the Police can keep track of them, with crimes so foul that not even the Prime Minister can name them publicly, there can be only one choice:- let's welcome his Royal Highness the Marquis of Coton to court.