With more celebrities than you can shake a stick at (don’t actually shake a stick at them, it will end up with you being sued and the Sun ‘Newspaper’ hounding you for an exclusive) the summer’s first major event is upon us. The flag-waving and pretending to be British and proud starts now. Queue up like the rest of the fools at Oh-My-God O’Clock and prepare to enter a cauldron of Britishness.
No, this isn’t that other high-society event masquerading as an international tennis tournament; this is the wedding of the year. This could be the wedding of the decade, hell, it’s the Royal Wedding. A proud and elaborate tradition where a member of Britain’s favourite dysfunctional family pair off with a pseudo-commoner and tie that knot at the expense of the taxpaying public. Hoorah!
Watch, as really important and knowledgeable people from telly-land interview Sharon from Bridport as she gushes:
“I couldn’t miss this,” she beams, evil in her eyes. “My nan is dying of boredom in a nursing home, but I thought, screw it – you only live once.”
Thanks Sharon. The rest of the delusional, part-time royalists who are the journalists’ cannon fodder salute you. May you choke on your Gregg’s pastie.
These weddings mean one thing, no, not invasion, well. Anyway, I mean blanket worldwide television coverage. More facts, more figures, more in-depth interviews with people who were once in the same postcode as Harry, and as such, understand him. More patronising back-slapping and pithy comments. It’s like Eurovision, but on a much grander scale and only slightly less political and camp.
We here at Pf Magazine are here to help you. Relax, we’ve got you covered with this indispensable mini- guide to watching the Royal wedding. You’re welcome.
Do it early, and only purchase the essentials: Booze, crisps, and ibuprofen. Any last-minute trips will leave you looking like a bloke on Christmas eve, so get in early. A minimum of two weeks before said event should suffice. Stock up on disposable cutlery too. Nobody, I repeat, nobody wants to do the washing up after a messy one.
Secondly, pick your supermarket wisely. Tesco and Sainsbury’s – or whatever they will call themselves in the coming months – will be amply stocked with cheap cash-ins. Go mad!
Avoid Waitrose at all costs. This is a royalist breeding ground of tweed jackets and obnoxious kid’s names. All the staff are related to the Royal family so a slip of the tongue could see you facing the stocks. Stay safe and avoid.
You will need a loan just for a bottle of Lambrini in here. Whatever has been rung through the tills here on any weekend has probably financed Megan’s hair clip and paid for her hen do in Bournemouth. Shop smart, shop cheap.
Is the front room ready? Has the beer fridge you wished you never bought been moved to your living room? Don’t forget to remove the small nation of dead invertebrates and the ball of cobwebs that could form a scarf.
Be sure to ventilate the room, as you will likely spend large chunks of time on your arse. This is an all-day event and therefore a whole day of belching, BO and bottom burps could create a veritable shit-cave. The dog, if nobody else, needs an escape route.
The crowd you choose to share any social event with can make or break it. Are your friends’ royalists? Do they read the Daily Mail? – remember, reading this daily is an actual criminal offence in Northern England – Do they love Diana with unhealthy abandon? These must all be considered. Another must at such an occasion is someone to stir things up a bit. Invite Uncle Ted, who absolutely abhors the Royals. Feed him gin and watch him go.
A party without games, is like a day without sunshine, dull, cold and inevitably ends with a trip to the local railway museum.
Shot glasses at the ready. The rules are simple. Drink when you hear one of the smug-faced royal loving simpletons utter the following:
- Doesn’t she look lovely?
- What a great occasion this is
- Just look at the crowds
- It really makes you proud to be British
- This is being watched all over the world
There you have it, a brief guide to help you ‘enjoy’ the day’s festivities. Sit back and let the wave of national pride sweep over you and your loved ones. Let your heart swell and your eyes sting at the beauty and majesty of this perfect of days. Or, do what the rest of us will do and slowly slip into a drunken haze and hurl championship-levels of abuse at your poor telly.
Or, just go out and ignore the whole bloody thing.
*Update* – Scarlett Moffatt (Gogglebox fame and I’m An Attention Seeking Nobody winner) is now a BBC correspondent for the event, and as such, viewing of said event is compulsory.
God save our…oh, forget it.
Jason Moody for Pf Magazine
Lazy sod. Husband. Writer. Brentford FC fan.