I woke up several times last night thinking I should be sitting in front of the flat screen tossing back crumpets and tea.
Fortunately, I had my trusty personal video recorder doing all the work, so I happily went back to sleep.
I am so bloody grateful for the thing I could kiss it.
I love royal weddings, but I detest listening to a bunch of trendy windbags doing the play by play.
The PVR allowed me to zoom through all the hyperbole and metaphors spewed out of the red lipped mouths of the Fastenater-wearing CTV correspondents. As usual, the network hauled out all its gas guzzlers — Lainey Liu, Ben Mulroney and Tanya Kim — that crack journalistic team from ETalk Daily.
The coverage was not helped by Jeanne Beker who is now looking like a bulimic Hallowe’en mask someone left out in the rain. Question: why do fashion correspondents all look like trolls?
What a horrible wankfest.
I noticed that Seamus O’Reagan had his gay hair especially frost-tipped for the occasion. And where exactly was Uncle Lloyd? Did he sleep through another CTV special? Probably getting transfusions in the trailer.
I set the PVR to record from 3 a.m. to 10 a.m. and I managed to get in all the necessary Royal pomp in less than an hour. Just zoomed through the rest.
What I noticed?
Like many family businesses, there are stark contrasts through the generations.
It’s like certain traits — respectability, regal carriage, good skin –skip generations in the Royal Family.
The oldest members of the Firm are still truly magnificent. Queen Elizabeth did it up right with a stunning bright yellow frock and matching hat. She looked like a summer flower. The Duke showed few signs of wear and tear, even though he’s on the cusp of 90 years young. Really, really impressive.
At the opposite pole were the young Royals who were bursting with youthful exuberance. I nearly wept with both joy and sadness as I watched William and Harry waving to the crowds from their Rolls Royce. I remember all too well the last time they made this journey, walking behind their beloved mother’s casket, young boys who had to grow up quickly. But there was no sign of sadness, just brotherly joshing, and my heart was filled.
And the bride. There are not enough superlatives in the world to describe young Princess Catherine.
She left even the normally motor-mouthed gas bags speechless.
The fabulous oldsters and hip youngsters clearly trumped those Royals who represent the sad and moldy middle.
Prince Andrew looked puffy and distracted. Edward and Anne looked bland and pasty.
The Prince of Wales appeared for all the world like an asterisk, an afterthought. Dull, grey, mostly ears and baldness.
Finally, there was sad and boxy Camilla, looking seriously trumped-up on Valium — or breakfast gin and tonics. She walked as if she was stifling a fart. I counted five the number of times she almost fell off her heels.
Every family business has them, the embarrassing heirlooms, the tag alongs who are kept in the back unpacking boxes because they are either too stupid, too inept or too greedy to work the front of the house.
That’s the middle. Charles, Anne, Edward, Andrew. Would that the Firm could send them off to manage a colonial outpost somewhere.
Hopefully, they’ll just die or retire.
The future of the Monarchy will surely depend on it.