Saturday 30th April

Having managed to stay away from home until 7.30pm last night, I thought it would be safe to sneak into the house as I figured, wrongly as it turns out, that the road based merry-making would be all over and done with.

Since the revelry had started at 4pm, I was pretty confident as I tippy-toed towards my close that, royal wedding or no, most people only have about 45 good minutes of schmoozing in them when it comes to actually having to speak to people that they live next door to.

According to my calculations, the crazy-kooks should have run out of  ideas for small talk at around 4.35pm at which point people would slowly (and totally unexpectedly of course) start developing nasty migraines and backaches.

 Realising that their social-networking eyes were bigger than their social-networking bellies, appendixes would start perforating left right and centre and they would melt away, clutching their boo-boos whilst loudly assuring each other that they definitely must ‘do this again sometime’.

I remember going to an in-the-street firework party with Friend-Kate a couple of years ago where she had spent hours, lovingly preparing a huge vat of chilli for all of her community minded neighbours to enjoy.

They snatched the chilli as we arrived and, thrusting their snouts directly into the bowl, they snarfed it down with a voracity and speed that would have offended the table manners of a baby-stealing dingo.

None of them actually bothered to either acknowledge or thank Friend-Kate, they simply inserted their noses into the trough and let their curly pink tails do the talking.

I can’t swear that when Alex, her son, started wailing about his leg hurting and that he wanted to go home” right now, this very minute”, that it wasn’t entirely natural causes. I am however, pretty sure that I heard him ask her why she’d kicked him.

I dunno, call me unsociable but when it gets to the stage that you’d rather kick your own kid than have to stay for one second longer with your ‘nayburs’, it’s got to be a situation for us all to remember to give a very determined swerve to.

Certainly my disturbing recollections of that evening were contributing to my terror about becoming involved in my own neighbourhood shindig and, sure that I didn’t want to waste 45 minutes of my life that I would be unable, ever afterwards to get back, I was forced into the unfortunate position of having to creep-creep-creepy-creep around, in the gathering gloom, like a bloody rapist.

As it turned out, the party was still energetically swinging with, to my absolute horror, the Teenager smack in the middle doing what looked like a Michael Jackson style dance-off with Mrs Plants-A-Lot from number 18.

All three parts in the bag, my entire community were giggling, slurring and falling off chairs like college frat-boys. There was an amusing ‘swing-ball-athon’ going on between Her-Poshliness and Boiler-Man-Neighbour. Hysterical sniggering kept erupting from their direction as they were both so pissed that neither of them could see the ball.

Let alone hit it.

I stood in the middle of this chaos, piously surveying the destruction and bedlam that was going on around me.

Then I did what any other sensible person would do. I grabbed a can of Red-Stripe and a swing-ball bat.

If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

Friday 29th April (The one with the wedding)

I always find soap weddings to be a bit of a treat and so at 8am, I was perched on the edge of my sofa to see if episode one of The Windsors (the one with the wedding dress) was going to be as action packed and gripping as, for example, when Stacey married Bradley on Eastenders.

I was relieved that somebody had finally grasped that Westminster Abbey whilst obviously quite old (and spectacular and that) was still, in terms of location, missing that extra special something.

Fortunately the set designers had a member of the Forestry Commission on hand and disaster was averted, in the nick of time, when they realised that what the thousand year old interior was really lacking was trees.

 Good call.

I spent the entire show with my fists jammed in my mouth and my eyes glued to the screen waiting, (nay, hoping) for a red dot to appear on K’milla Park-Your-Bum-In-Diana’s-Seat Bowlesziz forehead but it never did which is odd because I can’t hit a barn door at ten feet but there were numerous occasions there when even I could have gotten a clean shot in.

When it got to the part where the crazy-haired arch-vicar man asked if there were anyone there present who could give just cause why these two should not get hitched, my eyes were on stalks and I was gripping the edge of the sofa with the same white-knuckled, vice like grip, that K’milla has always maintained on her fantasies of someday wedging that great big arse of hers into the British throne.

I was waiting, obviously, for some drunken bum to erupt up the aisle shouting that he had actually been married to Kat two years ago by an Elvis Presley lookalike in Vegas.

But yet again, I was disappointed.

The balcony scene was pretty good. Although there were times when the approaching mob (sorry, crowd of good natured well-wishers) who were marching both murderously and slowly up the Mall, looked as though their thoughts were more along the lines of guillotines than wedding favours.

They didn’t storm the palace though so, again, bit of an anti-climax.

I cheered up enormously when reporters started interviewing the overnight-camping-nut-jobs who had all with one accord gone shopping at Union Jack’s Emporium of Crap.

When asked how they thought it had all gone, they all confirmed that “no, they hadn’t really seen anyfing”, that they were most definitely “proud to be British” and that “coming up London to see it had been the most speshal day of their lives”.

I, for one, was certainly beaming with pride when one woman who was interviewed ( just about wearing a Spice-Girl dress that must have been three sizes too small for her fifteen years ago), drunkenly admitted pushing over some barriers in her haste to secure herself a prime spot near the cameras.

Considering that this spectacle (the woman, not the wedding), was being watched by a third of the world’s population, I think we can all be glad that she took the time to stagger to the front and represent the British nation on the world’s media stage.

I suppose it’s true that, right up until the end, I was hoping that one of the royals’ pants would fall down or that Grampy-Phil would get one of his attacks of racist tourettes or that Harry would turn out to have a button hole that was really a water pistol because, to my mind at least, something going horribly wrong is what turns good TV into great TV.

But in the end it was the closing scene that stole the show and the credit must go entirely to the sense of humour and warmth of the young couple themselves.

The Aston Martin with balloons and a JUST WED number plate was wonderful. And so, despite all my cynicism and mickey-taking, as William and Catherine leave for their honeymoon in a manner reminiscent of when Kat Moon and Alfie left Albert Square for theirs,  I only have one thing to say.

Move over Katie Price and Posh Spice, there’s a new kid in town and in terms of providing the front pages for the foreseeable future, and giving little girls a role model that isn’t orange and completely illiterate, as a nation we are all sorted now.

Thanks.

I think Princess Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge can take it from here.

Thursday 28th April

Annabelle and I were brushing our teeth this morning when she swilled, spat and asked which night the new, royal program was going to be on.

It seems that she is under the impression that the marriage of the future King of England is, in fact, an ITV soap opera of some kind that will end up causing her the same amount of scheduling confusion as the whole X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing debacle of November 2009.

I had to explain to her that when Kate and Wills walk down the aisle, that its for real and that we won’t in fact be watching the pilot episode of The Windsors: Season Two.

Or will we?

Since the tragic death of Diana in 1997, The Windsors have been without a leading lady of any substance. Britain as a whole, lost interest in the remaining characters which, for those of you who didn’t watch Season One are as follows;

Charlie: The cheating-git- husband and K’milla: the grotesque, canker–sore of a mistress that he ran off with.

Andy:  The lecherous uncle who is easily led and frequently succumbs to the peer pressure of his paedophilic pals, which often ends up getting him in a bit of strife with the papers .

Sarah: The hapless spendthrift who isn’t bright enough to figure out that, at her age, dancing the funky chicken on board a yacht in the south pacific isn’t such a brilliant idea. Even less so when you’re so drunk that your baps are flapping around all over the place and you have just declared yourself bankrupt (for the eighth time).

Then there’s Grandma: The old grumpy one who has that TV show on the 25th of December every year where she tells the penniless public what they should be feeling grateful for.

Sometimes she also moans a bit about what a bitch her year has been but having grabbed the prime-time ratings for the day, she sods off back to Let-them-eat-cake Mansions and spends the rest of the year avoiding her adoring public like the pox-ridden termites she clearly believes them to be.

Last but not least, there’s Grampy-Phil. Now Grampy-Phil is a bit of a buffoon and often says the most outrageously rude, insensitive and downright racist things you can imagine. Old bugger that he is, he is excused the media glare of any responsibility for his actions because he’s a ‘bloody good shot’.

Being a ‘bloody good shot’ is dead important when you spend your days challenging your own limited intelligence by outwitting the innocent creatures of the forest with a twelve-bore shot-gun.

 I don’t really get it personally, but then I already know that I’m smarter than a pheasant.

Since our new heroine has a mother who once worked as an air hostess (apparently Will’s mates snigger and say “Doors to manual” every time she walks into the room), and at university earned herself a reputation as one half of the ‘Wisteria Sisters’ (so called because of their ferocious ability to climb), it looks like Season Two is going to be a belter.

And on the plus side, at least we can all stop pretending now that Trout-Pout-Beckham is our leading lady.

I’m afraid that Princess Wisteria and The Windsors simply have it licked.