
He was DELIGHTED by the Olympic flame.

He read things.

He looked hot in sunglasses.

He listened to the Carol of the Balls.
He walked places wearing jeans.

He put the moves on members of the British Olympic team.

Sports stressed him out.

He shushed Team GB when they chatted too loudly.

He demonstrated jazz hands.

He cheered enthusiastically.

He felt the thrill of victory.

He took iPhone pictures. (Be more cautious with cell phone photos in 2013, Harry.)

He pointed at things.

He played with stuffed kangaroos.

He pointed at things, AGAIN.

He looked smart at some random relative's wedding, and perhaps felt very angsty about his SECRET UNSPOKEN LOVE for Kate, which I just invented because I read a lot of novels in which English people have romantical problems.

He allowed Kate to groom him in a simian mating ritual.

He allowed Princess Anne to pinch his cheeks.

He, er, re-adjusted his junk post-polo match.

He rode a white horse.

He was adorable with babies.

He was adorable with dogs.

He wondered if he could drink the dregs of someone else's champagne without that being super disgusting.

He was amused by adorable saucy children.

He sported a tuxedo.

He levitated balls.

He unconsciously posed for his Tatler cover, all pensive in berets.

He made jokes that did NOT amuse his cousin.

He pointed at incoming fighter jets.

And then delighted in a fly-over.

He wore a top hat.
He managed not to nuzzle Kate's neck in public.

He remained calm whilst the Queen lurked nefariously behind him.

He demonstrated finger guns.
