He could have been almost anything he wanted for at least two or three productive decades. He could have had a career, made a name in his own right as uncle Linley has done, used the education bought for him at high price and the intelligence that came to him naturally. But instead he did the boring, banal thing. He chose what his younger brother - the one with the overworked elbow and dodgy A-level in art - had done only a few months ago. He opted for Sandhurst and a man's half-life in an army uniform.Thus the 23-year-old who would, sooner or later, be king faces a well-trodden few weeks of publicity. No beer, much relentless exercise. No sex or even trysts with Kate. Much yomping and early rising of the kind his dad remembers from Gordonstoun. It's routine publicity as the student prince turns to warrior prince for compact headline purposes. But it is also a dreadful waste of talent, another bumpy ride down the same rutted royal track.William, remember, is monarchy's last best hope: young, handsome, dashing, romantic. Most young voters, duly polled, would like him to be the next in line, the one who leaves his father alone in Highgrove to enjoy a leftover life of waiting in vain. Give us our media star asap!It won't happen, of course. Hereditary monarchies that start skipping generations for marketing's sake are signing their own death warrant. The Queen will not retire. She must go on and on. So, when his moment comes, must King Charles. And then, eventually, there is William.He will be 40 going on 50, or more. The David Cameron aura will have faded away, just like his hairline. Romance will have had its definitive day. This is James Hewitt territory with a twist of Charles Ingram added for millionaire luck. Mum always fancied chaps in uniform, we'll be told a hundred times. The throne, in extremis, will be saved or sunk by some ageing ex-Guards officer who relinquished a proper public profile for years when the barrack doors had closed behind him.The entire scenario reeks of defeat and disillusion. It is a very bad idea. Captain Willie Windsor won't live a life where reality bites. He will not - whatever blustering ex-colonels currently claim - be sent to Iraq or anywhere remotely dangerous. (Leave Harry as the only heir in town? You'd be cashiered first.) No, William will lead an active life for the cameras a suitable distance from any action. He will get promotion, but not too much of it. He will fill a recruiting slot. And then, in his middle or late 30s, he will be obliged to do what his father and uncle both did: that is, not very much, retired early, parked in the waiting room of monarchy.William, in sum, will become a killer of time and occasional cutter of ribbons. He can't be promoted too far, a runner of regiments, a power in the Ministry of Defence - because one fine day he'll be notional commander in chief of the whole damned show. He can rise so far but no further. He will be a lofty Guards officer who knows why lowlier guardsmen must keep their place. And then, like the Duke of York or papa for far too long, it will be more waving-and-shaking on Commonwealth circuits. Wills will be shopsoiled goods when his moment finally comes.Of course, the army (or navy or air force) has certain regal benefits for uncertain royals. Its entry requirements are benevolently enforced. It offers the company of other, suitably discreet fellow officers - and the hope that privacy can be protected once the mess bar is open. It provides a blameless, patriotic way of filling in a gap decade. But none of this is enough, not remotely enough. The army in its upper reaches is cut off from society, not fully part of the nation that must be ruled.Class distinctions and class pursuits still fill the pages of the Tatler. There's no way William can be a people's prince covered in braid as he gallops from polo ground to polo ground. There is no way he can keep in touch - or draw fulfilment from a job where the real rewards of danger and heroism are denied to him.He could have been so many things: a cartographer, using his geography degree; a schoolteacher, helping to shape young lives that would blossom as a legacy long after he'd left; a charity organiser, an Outward Bounder, a businessman learning to manage the Duchy estates in ways his father has never mastered. Even a journalist. He could, in short, have been useful - and signalled that his reign, at last, would be the start of something new, fresh and relevant.But no: the lack of inspiration and imagination is total, perhaps terminal. By the left, now, shuffle slowly towards oblivion ...