I’m no Mother Shipton but I was the best part of right about the fast approaching royal wedding: none of it has been interesting. I may well end up watching bits of it on the day, if I have absolutely nothing better to do, but I still pity the fool that has spent more than a fleeting moment following the build up. Still, I do read the news so I can tell you that the happy couple to be won’t be inviting Theresa May of Donald Trump to their special union at Windsor Castle. Let’s start with that and see where we go.
Why on earth should Harry and Meghan (is it just me that finds the silent ‘h’ a bit rubbish?) invite the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and the President of The United States of America to their wedding? More crucially why would they? I imagine there’s probably some kind of suggestive diplomatic protocol that they have decided to forego and I expect that a few purists will frown upon their decision, but frankly who cares? Between them Theresa and Donald have the charisma of a cardboard box and the dress sense of, er, a second, slightly less interesting cardboard box.
Besides which Harry and Meghan’s wedding is already pretty full. Because one of them is the son of a complete cock who also happens to be a member of the house of Windsor and so this is a royal wedding. And because the love-struck pair are always gasping to show us how down to earth and popular and caring and in touch with the commoners they are they’ve split the guest list into roughly the following categories:
- Family. The extended royal family just love a good wedding, despite the fact that each one is utter crap and most have been disastrous. Still, it’s a good way of appreciating how generations of glancing, low level incest has paid off to produce a gene pool one could comfortably surpass with the swab results from a 3 week old dish cloth. I don’t know much about Meghan’s family but lets face it – who still gives a tiny toss about Kate Middleton’s family now the dust has settled?
- Friends. This category is inhabited almost exclusively by twats of the highest order. There’ll be rugby twats and polo twats and university (more or less) twats and ex-pat twats and charity twats and on and on. There’ll be lots of empty headed twats in Hackett suits called things like Horatio Augustus Charles Henry Caesar Hoxton-Roxbury and an equal number of thunderingly pointless women in laughable hats and called Cordelia Allegra Chlamydia Octavia Ormesley-Clitoris and I won’t envy a single one of them. I’ll just wish I had their money.
- Celebrities. There’ll be lots of celebrities but one simply mustn’t make the mistake of calling them friends. Not real ones anyway. You see, they think they’re friends of Harry and Meghan but we all know that if Harry wasn’t called Harry Bloody Windsor then they would never have given him a second glance. And if they didn’t do an awful lot of work for charity then Harry and Meghan wouldn’t even bother to shake their wringing hands. It is precisely this co-dependant, bottom-feeding relationship that means I’ll never have tea with Prince Edward or play Subbuteo with Robbie Williams. Mustn’t grumble.
- Helpful people. These are the types that Harry and Meghan want to be seen (briefly) but not heard. Oh sure they’ll be there on the day but most of the inner circle wouldn’t touch them with a shitty stick any other day of the year or if the cameras aren’t rolling. This group are the fund raisers and the real charity workers and the AIDS nurses and the army medics and the polo club turf engineers. And once the moment has passed no-one will ever speak of them again. It will all just be a fading memory and a cheaply framed, sun-bleached invitation on someone’s wall.
- Unfortunate people. There’s nothing that cheers up an unfortunate person than being invited to a huge, fucking waste of money at Windsor Castle. Been hit by a bus? Come to our wedding. Had your legs blown off? Come to our wedding. Born deaf? Come to our wedding. And the list goes on for a bit until it stops and what’s left outside the castle walls are only a few million other poor buggers with all too similar problems trying to work out what they did wrong. Point is – seems a bit harsh in a lucky dip kind of a way.
- Some people who live in Windsor. Of course if you’ve won the postcode lottery then now’s the time to cash in! If you’re already wealthy enough to live in a spectacularly expensive part of the country then surely a couple of free glasses of champagne won’t hurt. No doubt a few pricks from the Eton side of the river will drift over as well.
- The ‘staff’. These will be members of the permanent royal household staff who are being rewarded for their years of loyal service and for not saying anything about all the shagging and drug taking that goes on. Amongst their number will be horse brushers, cutlery polishers, light switchers on, carpet grain consistency facilitators, spoon feeders, tie knotters and bath drawing consultants. They will all be so thoroughly institutionalised that they will fail to cope in the real world once they retire and will all go mental or top themselves within 6 months. Except, regrettably, Paul Burrell.
- Elton John.
- The ghost of Princess Diana.
So there you have it. If you’re not on the list you’re not coming in, I’m frightfully sorry to say. I expect the security detail alone will be costing more than Lady Tina Green spends on anal bleaching in a year, but don’t worry The Queen and Charlie have got this (and therefore so do we all). Incidentally if you want my advice for wedding guests then it’s very simple – no kids, no-one you haven’t both personally met at least once, and although it’s fine to invite people who are obviously better than you it’s never a good idea to invite someone who actually thinks they’re better than you. But, of course, who could possibly be better than Harry and Meghan? You’ve gotta love ’em. Haven’t you?
G B Hewitt. 11.04.2018
I expect James Hewitt will be lurking in there somewhere. No relation. To me, that is.