Warning ? the following article contains nudity, swearing and numerous references to bodily fluids. If you are under the age of 18 (or are under 18 but already a parent, in which case congratulations for being able to read at all), then you might not want to read on unless an adult is present.

Last year, I sent a simple yet utterly awesome text message to my friends. It read:

?Lady X pregnant.

Holy Sh*t.

Repeat: Holy Sh*t.?

We had made the discovery (with typical good timing) en route to a wine-tasting holiday in Bordeaux. Lady X had woken up following an overnight rest stop feeling slightly funny, and had sneaked out to purchase a pregnancy test from the nearest pharmacie. Despite having taken four years to come to terms with ?Une bouteille d?eau plate, s?il vous plait?, she was somehow able using the international language of exaggerated girly gestures to acquire a box of little stick things after only half an hour of frantic waving.

Making her way delicately back into the room past a gently snoring and completely-unaware-of-impending-doom husband, she soon discovered that both the instructions and the result of the test consisted of one word: ?Oui?. I was then woken up to the sight of a delighted Lady X hopping up and down with delight while shaking the (still dripping) test in my face.

Shamefully, my first thoughts were: ?Damn you, karma? as I had only recently written columns on the horror of ginger children and the stupidity of many parents and was convinced that an angry cosmos was about to provide me with the most violent and ginger offspring in history. I immediately resolved to realign my karmic balance and spent the next months doing good deeds including preventing a terrorist attack on America and saving many innocent villagers in Africa from the ravages of a civil war (at least I?m fairly sure that?s what I did – unless my sleep-deprived brain has once again failed to distinguish between i) reality and ii) the latest adventures of my alter-ego Jack Bauer). Of course, this didn?t stop me on doing the gentlemanly thing and insisting that Lady X take over the driving duties for the remainder of the holiday as it would have been a terrible shame to waste all those pre-paid vineyard tours filled with delicious, delicious wine.

Anyway, several months later a thankfully blond-haired Baby X has arrived and you will shortly be required to join in with the rest of the population of Jersey in swearing allegiance to your new and diminutive overlord. If you fail to comply, it will be at your own risk: he has already mastered the dark arts of projective vomiting and ? more impressively ? projectile pooing and take it from me, once he has decided to use these evil powers your curtains may never be the same again.

More disturbingly, he is also progressing his understanding of the human psyche such that not only are his victims forced to obey his every wish, but also being screamed at repeatedly seemingly makes them more frantic in their desire to please him. He has also declared war on the sort of awful baby clothing that says things like ?My Grandmother has no originality? and ?If you think I?m ugly, you should avoid my parents at all costs?, instead preferring to adopt a basic wardrobe of simple vests tastefully dotted with little cars and diggers (which symbolise his understanding of the importance of transport and infrastructure to any good dictator).

He communicates using the aforementioned screams and a selection of cute little mogwai noises, which, combined with his distaste for bright light and water, has made us extremely reluctant to feed him after midnight. He has also filled an astonishing number of nappies with a substance that I have been desperately trying to keep hidden from any passing United Nations WMD inspectors (although the government of Iran has recently shown an interest in helping me ?dispose? of them). The future is clearly his, and if you don?t jump on the bandwagon now, you and everyone you love may meet with a series of unfortunate accidents. All hail Baby X!