Look, I'm as much of a Spart as the next person - if that next person is quite Sparty. But come on, let us not end up looking like po-faced maiden aunts sneering at Wallace and Gromit over a schooner of sherry by the fireside at Christmas. Even dyed-in-the-wool Robespierres should realise that they're going to look like pretty farty party poopers if they decide this whole royal wedding doo-dah is a Very Bad Thing.
I see Aaro has already done a "Ooh, who cares? Me actually, cos I'm getting lobbed a few quid for saying who cares, kerching!" article, in which he says, oh, actually who cares what he says. (Do you see?) And doubtless many others will follow. Wurgh, the evil Tories trying to resurrect the corpse of Diana with a showboating wedding to deflect the proles from the menacing bulldozer. Grrr, the bad people who have inherited money, spraying around champagne and merding on the sans-culottes while dusting sparrows out of their periwigs, de dah de dah de dah. You know it all by now. And then there will be the counterintuitive contrarian wilfully facedeskingly dumbo scribes pottering around with some kind of new angle to take on this whole shabby deeply disappointing affair, among whose number I should probably quite rightly count myself.
Come off it though. It's going to be a ruddy big party, with fizzy pop and street parties. Union flags everywhere. Brian May atop Buck House, with a bubble perm and Anita Dobson dangling off his guitar strings? We can hope. We can hope. Next year's load of old flannel could be Take That, featuring that Potteries wastrel Williams, cooing away at the happy couple. Can you imagine that? It could be worse; it could be a lot worse.
No. I may have no delight in the lives of these royals. I am going to lose the will to live when I hear about how many billion sequins go into the dress, ooh isn't she lovely, ooh isn't she nice? I may want to go and slap those who camp out on the Mall from next Wednesday onwards, in some kind of Wimbledon-style middle-class wankery. But so what? They're having a lovely time, and so should we. and yes these dreadful inbred no-marks shouldn't have a great big piss-up subsidised by the poor hardworking taxpayer (tm) at a time when we're all being shunted into the Soylent Green factory. But still. Eh, it's a laugh, isn't it? It's a bit of fun. You know, fun.
Sure, it's going to drive us all mad, but that's that. Let's enjoy it. Let's luxuriate in the forthcoming tackfest; let's pretend it's actually relevant that real people, on real news channels, are giving a shit about these bloody people. Let's get in step by the adoring masses. If we don't, we run the risk of looking like right old grumpy so-and-sos. And who wants that? I don't. Hurrah for the royals, and the royal wedding! I'll be down the pub getting wrecked, but that's beside the point. It's going to be a lovely day. A lovely day indeed.
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