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