A Very Royal Wedding
Well I do love a royal wedding.
The hair, the hats, the pomp, the ceremony, the months spent wondering if the brides lost weight, the sleepless nights over whether or not Fergie will behave herself and of course, the pleasant memories it invokes of Pippi Middleton’s derriere.
Call me a soft hearted romantic old fool if you will but I turned down the chance to see a fantastic local band “The Burning Fridges”, listening to Crawford’s dulcet tones and Moore’s blistering guitar riffs, for an evening tucked up on the coach glued to the telly.
For the first hour you could have been forgiven for thinking you were watching a George Clooney documentary as the commentators gushed about his rugged good looks and the jaunty angle of his wife’s hat.
Now I like George and his wife’s hat as much as the next man but after half an hour of unmitigated drivel I was feeling pretty jaunty myself and so it was with much relief that Harry and Will’s turned up and reminded all and sundry that this was actually about the house of Windsor.
Well Harry looked absolutely spiffing in his uniform, William scrubbed up pretty darn well and as the debonair young Prince’s strolled casually towards the church I thought to myself (and not for the first time), “What I wouldn’t give to be fifteen years younger (and a woman!)”
Things looked a little unorganised for a while but luckily Prince Charles turned up and with a wisdom that belied his tender age, took control of the situation and got everyone seated and ready, pausing only briefly to snarl at Fergie as he walked past “I see you got your invite fat-ass!”
Now before you send me hate mail and accuse me of embellishment. Yes, of course I have made that up. He never got anyone seated!
The Queen turned up looking an absolute delight and toddled off into the chapel as happy as a dog with two tails closely followed by her husband who looked slightly less happy, maybe like a dog with one tail.
You always know where you are with the Queen.
She’s a solid, conscientious, reliable monarch and as she glided elegantly down the isle (pausing only to give Fergie the fingers), she looked the very definition of regal majesty and my heart swelled with pride to be her loyal subject.
Eventually all was ready and some old guy wearing a second-hand tablecloth and what looked like a Sheppard’s crook (maybe in case Meghan made a run for it at the last minute. Whoa their Missy, you’re coming with me!), headed on out to grab the bride.
And then suddenly there she was. She got out of the car and like millions of others, I gasped with delight and admiration at the sight of her, beautiful as a winter rose and as fair as a summers day, resplendent in a white wedding dress that was apparently designed by someone called Gonorrhoea (seems a strange name for a wedding dress designer but of course I’m a little out of touch with the latest fashions).
She walked down the aisle by herself (Wow! women can walk unaided, well I guess we’ve all learnt something today) and then good old Charles jumped up and helped the poor girl the rest of the way.
The rest was a blur of prayers, hymns, readings and vows, interrupted briefly by some American who, for reasons known only to himself, told a complicated story about the internal combustion engine and tried to pass it off as a sermon, and then thankfully it was over.
They wandered back down the aisle as husband and wife and as they stood in front of the adoring crowds, Harry kissed his new wife and she looked up at him, eyes filled with tears and whispered “We really need to get you some mouthwash!”.
Now the more astute of you may have guessed that my version of events may not be completely accurate.
However, if you look past all the glamour, the pageantry, the tradition, the hype and the media frenzy, what actually happened is that a quite decent young man got married to a quite decent young women and they looked very much in love.
If that ain’t worth celebrating then I don’t know what is!
Well done to them. I wish them all the best.