sweet effay

Royal weddings, eh? They’re not what they used to be. I remember the last time Chas got hitched: Legged it up to the Princess of Wales on Blackheath for 10 o’clock opening because the first barrel was given away free, then back down to The Jolly Woodman in Beckenham for the serious drinking. We were so pissed that we even enjoyed the Morris dancers, although I must admit that I wasn’t as pissed as some of the patrons who started coming out with sentences such as “The royal family are all right really, and there’s not a bad word to be said against the Queen.” I also wasn’t so pissed as to disagree with them; anyway, they were a reasonable bunch most days. There was a TV on in the pub, but nobody was watching it.

We fell out of the Woodman in the early evening and staggered round to Ange’s parents’ house: His mum’s a serious Royalist so they had a massive party involving barbecued fillet steak, trout, and so much alcohol that we were still working our way through it twenty-four hours later. During the course of the evening, we threw some woman into the swimming pool, only to discover that she was wearing £500 silk suit which the chlorine ruined. How we laughed.

It’s a lot more low key this time, but one thing hasn’t changed: I’m still not going near the TV (well, not until Dr Who obviously). However, I’d like to add to the celebrations in my own small way, so let’s just see the dashing groom making a tit of himself at the Pope’s funeral one more time shall we?