I went on a big birthday night out dressed as Prince George

Everyone’s favourite royal baby is turning three today

Britain has a lot of heroes – from David Attenborough to Hugh Grant, our shores are filled with luminaries. But has anyone ever captured our hearts as much as Prince George?

The impression George has made in his three short years is formidable – from Billericay to Bolton, mums are queuing up to swipe Rachel Riley dungarees and anxiously perfecting the partings of their sons’ hair.

But today the young prince is turning three – and as everyone’s favourite royal baby becomes a royal toddler, he’s sure to start stepping away from the 1940s baby look that has made him such a sartorial star.

So can an older gent capture the magic of Prince George, or is his particular brand of sprezzatura best left to children? Against my better judgement, I decided to try and find out.

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It turns out it isn’t that easy to ape George’s effortless look – either he has his outfits tailor-made, or the clothes he opts for aren’t meant to be worn by adults. I’m assuming it’s the former.

I’d been in and out of at least ten shops before I’d found some suitable garms, and even then the only knee-high socks I could get were a children’s size 12.

Regardless, one crudely scissored V-neck jumper later, I was ready to go. The work day finished, and I headed to the office toilets to get changed.

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The outfit I’d chosen was, of course, George’s iconic first official photoshoot. It sums up everything about the young royal’s inimitable style – the charm, those socks, that winning smile – although I unfortunately couldn’t find a jumper in my size with soldiers knitted onto it.

I was met with baffled looks from the people in my office building when I emerged, although I was more concerned with the heat. For a child with a July birthday, George doesn’t half dress warmly, and the fact I’d chosen one of the hottest days of the year to wear a sweater vest meant I was already suffering.

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Having put myself in shoes like George’s, I tried to put myself in George’s shoes. His dad would probably opt for a quiet night in at Kensington Palace for his birthday; his uncle would inevitably spend it getting wasted at Mahiki or Bodo’s. But what would George do?

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I opted for a rooftop party in Shoreditch, which I felt would suit George’s ahead-of-the-trend yet accessibly mainstream vibes. Also, it was the only thing I’d been invited to – and even then, I hadn’t warned anyone what I’d be turning up in.

After the initial shock was out of the way, most of my fellow revellers were actually quite complimentary about my outfit, although a fair few did see the combo of blue badge and posh hair and think I’d come to campaign for the Tory leadership.

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Beer pong was played, and with every drink I began to feel more like George himself: that is, I had the balance and eloquence of a three-year-old. Ready for the next step in my birthday BNO, I hoisted up my knee socks and headed into the centre of Shoreditch.

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If I hadn’t fully appreciated how stupid I looked, the people around me soon made me realise: I was greeted with a mix of confused glares, horn honks and the occasional tourist asking me for a picture.

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After a small hiccup with the first bouncer (something about me telling him I was three years old), I was ID’d and into a bar.

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The barman who served me gave me the disapproving look of a man looking at another man dressed like an adult baby, but I just pretended to myself he was jealous of my sick side-parting.

Forgetting I didn’t have the luxury of the taxpayers’ money to play with, I was a little too hasty in buying a £29 round. That said, the actual George would probably have celebrated with a bottle of Grey Goose with a sparkler in it, so I was actually being quite frugal.

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While the actual prince was most likely tucked up in bed, I’d had enough tequilas for the both of us and was doing my best to let him down in the pulling stakes. It didn’t take long to glean that, unlike George, girls don’t find me very cute.

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Several hours and drinks later, it was time to call it a night – but not without a cheeky kebab, of course.

I wasn’t sure what George himself would think of my food choice, but something about his cheeky knowing smile tells me a doner meat and chips with onion rings and garlic mayo would be right up his street.

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After finishing my kebab and stumbling home, I passed out in full Prince George regalia in bed, happy to have experienced just a pinch of what it’s like to be Britain’s favourite royal. Needless to say, I slept like a baby.

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In my time as the royal toddler, I hadn’t just felt like a prince. I’d felt like a king, wearing those tailored shorts and frilly socks with more pride than any crown could give me.

We salute you, George. Here’s to your long and glorious reign, and the undoubtedly fabulous outfits that will come with it.

Pictures By Josh Kaplan 

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