Although Ünders likes to cover what hasn’t been, this certainly can not be said of: The. Royal. Wedding.
Well and truly. Covered. From every angle available at those attractive green sheds the media so camouflagedly erected. And the air, sea and underground tunnels besides.
My favourite media coverage moment being from a brassy yank who introduced the day thus:
“Nyow here we aaw, right next to the palace of Bucking-Ham.”
If only she’d got in a cab at Heathrow and asked for Buckingham – we could have joined her by Skype in the middle of royal Milton Keynes….
I missed the actual ceremony in real time, because I happened to be in a two-hour kickboxing session with a bunch of other pain-seekers looking to fill the gap in their lives by gnarling their muscles for fun.
But after devouring an entire chicken on my return, I had the pleasure of sitting through two hours of coverage leading up to ‘the kiss’. Hardly reminiscent of a klimt, but still with ample opportunity for slip-ups.
As they stepped onto the balcony I recall thinking how lovely Kate’s tits looked, and madefimagine a note to self to purchase a ‘flat-fronted basque’.
So all in the name of research, I set to watching the reruns on the beeb.
And if they were busting for a widdle on the way in, imagone their dismay when they realised there were no water closets in the abbey. I wonder if posh’s hat sufficed?
On hats –they say there’s a hat for every face shape. Who in kingdom-come’s name has a face shape to complement half a moose?
And how everyone cooed when willy spluttered
‘you look beautiful’
at the freshly-baptised ‘catherine’.
Allow me to draw your attention for a moment to their courtship – we all know he never thought she looked ‘beautiful’ until she raunched down a runway on a few grammes of whizz wearing bugger all.
I got to thinking how the royals could have softened the blow of the public expense issue sufficiently.
Firstly: sod Harry as best man, bring in Alfie Moon.
Secondly: open up the wedding feast to the general public, sponsored by Greggs. Half a sausage plait and gone-off hot cross buns for all. Voucher for a yumyum for those who couldn’t afford the bus fare.
Dresses by matalan.
I mean, talk about overdo it. This pompous event may well be good for tourism, but a three-day bell peel is no good for anyone’s ears. Hell’s bells, that’s a lot of clanging, and if clanging be the music of love, deafen me.
And aren’t the great british public delightful?!
I particularly savoured a buck-toothed kate lookey-likey with a flat midlands accent, as she supped on a strongbow.
The middle-class, middle-of-the-road families who served to sedate me as I waited for the build up to ‘the kiss’.
Reporters desperately seeking the unsubversive amongst the mob.
Preying on gangly-limbed, vacuously-spurting pubescents panting “I loved it!” as they shook willy’s hand with their own – their hormones so busy exploding like nuked corn kernels that right now, they think they love everything, but later, their only lover will be the five-finger shake.
In the organiser’s defence, they did do well in some areas. Shutting prince philip in a glass cage and giving queenie a blanky for her chubby knees being two.
Her canary-yellow, chubby knees pleasing not only my good self, but also the bookies.
I’d like to have placed a punt on whether kate managed to force any foie-gras down her blue-blooded neck. Whether she was on the blob, and how long it took her to go to the ladies all sewn-up in her dead-man’s dress.
I’d like to have placed a special matchmaker bet on which aristocrats got it on:
“third earl of Winchester frigs lady chantecleuse of tring behind a fake tree in chapel”.
The fashion disasters of the day giving hope to the misguided style wannabes amongst us by showing us that it doesn’t matter about the moola – if your mother is fergie, who was forgiven by the 80s for crimes such as this,
then you WILL have inherited her bad taste (eu)gen(i)e.
There is hope for us all in peacocks.
Other highlights: catherine’s royal wave – a flawless modernisation of the queen’s brownie-salute. And willy chose a good time to get hitched – that bald patch is growing by the day, and nobody wants to marry friar tuck.
The wedding managed to thinly-veil quite a few earth-shatteringly important news events.
Taking us back to the 9/11 ‘it is now a very good day to get out anything we want to bury’. The queen. And prince philip. The wedding pissed right over her maundy money.
This, a divine opportunity for an attempt at optimism for the people of england – nay, the world.
Never mind the bomb explosion in Marrakech, tourism thrives on in London town.
Never mind the 180 people killed in Alabama alone by the devastating tornadoes.
The beatification of the pope. His passport, the miracle of healing a nun who, it turns out, probably didn’t have Parkinson’s in the first place. And no such place for comment to this effect on the bbc website…..italian censorship reigns supreme.
And poor old bin laden eh? They’d only been watching his dynasty mansion for four years before they allegedly popped a bullet in his ‘fro, tucked neatly two days after the wedding.
The fact that the ‘coalition’ have been flicking their tiddly winks in each other’s banana custard over a voting ‘reform’ that, quite frankly, has befuddled the discerning public so much that they would be better off using a ouija board to determine their view on the yes and no.
What would jesus do? Had pontius and his mates had a piece of paper with multiple choices on, would the donkey have got nailed up?
And in years to come, when my test-tube grandchildren fondly ask ‘mad grandma’ where she was when Diana died, I shall say “snorting pink champagne in the 100 club at a northern soul allnighter”.
And when they ask me how I celebrated King William and Queen Catherine tying the knot, I shall wince and say, “attending a gay engagement party”.
The royal wedding certainly sparked debate from all corners. And none so dull as the debate at the said gay engagement party, between a greggs-worth of under-achievers hiding behind a faux-front of intellectuality:
“WHY SHOULD WE PAY FOR THEIR WEDDING?” Says a frizzy-haired dumpy girl, as I sit in the corner reading a1970s book on witchcraft.
In the name of research I half-heartedly join the discourse.
Why should anyone pay for anyone else’s wedding? Well, if the money’s there love, take it. You only live once. And let’s face it, this debate is null and void seeing as no one’s going to ever take you on. Or offer you any cash.
Another bespectacled specimen in the kitchen lisps at me about the AV. And the labour party. And the fact she’s just joined match.com.
And I am reminded that there are, indeed, always those less fortunate than ones self, even when one is wearing an oversized leopard-print t shirt borrowed from one of the grooms because her h and m v-neck is too clammy for attire.
Even if one has not been asked for her hand in marriage by one of the world’s most affluent batchelors, only by a mentally-ill construction worker at a party.
And there remains a realistic argument to keep our glowing, depressed, eastenders-watching monarchy in yum-yums:
And nobody, I think, covered the argument against such an affair as well as Mervin from Milton Keynes (near Bucking-Ham)…
For chelsey davey…