Random mutterings, sighing and gasping, finger jabbing, brow dabbing and general bleatings about everyday bollocks. Brought to you by Angie Annetts, author of the highly-acclaimed short story collection, 'Tales From Around The Bend'. http://www.talesfrom.co.uk/

Thursday, 28 April 2011

Royal Wedding, March Of The Mods and Fireworks

As the country steadies itself for tomorrows Royal Wedding, I feel I ought to be whipping myself into a frenzy, (and be half-buried under a sea of commemorative tea towels, mugs and johnnies) but to be honest, I’m still reeling from the day that Charles and Diana juddered along the aisle, parked up, stuck the handbrake on and said, ‘I do’. Do you remember that? Mental wasn’t it? And she even called him Philip Charles, rather than the other way round. Some say this was ‘nerves’. I say she was about to call him a ‘prick’, but bottled it at the last moment and recovered just enough to call him ‘Philip’ instead. With hindsight, she should have gone with her gut instinct.

"Listen to me, you dozy bint. If you don't get one's name right, then
one is going to ram one's ceremonial sword up one's crapper."

Not only does Diana blatantly disobey Prince Charlie, but also
defiantly strains out a Mr Whippy on the red carpet for good measure.

            Yes indeedy, it’s true; I was one of the millions who got swept along in the tidal wave of hysteria that surrounded the wedding of Old Big Ears to Bambi, back the early 80’s. It was hard not to: she seemed alright and fronted up for photo shoots in a see through skirt. And as for Charles, I think the nation was just grateful he was finally being off-loaded so he could crack on with his breeding to-do list. Yes, the nation approved – it was trebles all round.
            I even broke down and went to a huge firework display in honour of ‘the’ wedding in London’s Hyde Park. And it was mobbed there. After the initial deluge of fireworks there was a lull. “Go on! Open another box!” I bellowed out, with a cupped hand to my mouth. This amused me somewhat, and I had a little snort and guffaw and a micro snot. Unnervingly, those in close proximity to me just cast a stony (and disapproving) expression in my direction.
That was a classic example of when I amuse myself, but sadly, no one else. It happens to me quite a lot.

Back in the 80's the public were also known for showing their support for
the Royal Wedding by performing The March Of The Mods enmass.
Even the police horses joined in.

I also used to devote a lot of the time doing Diana impressions. This involved resting my chin (at an angle) on folded palms and looking up with a doe-like, blinking expression. I would also make small pursing movements with my mouth – which must be said, had nothing to do with Diana – and may have had a bit more to do with a gold fish I once had when I was young.
My Prince Charles impression used to amuse me greatly, and simply involved spreading the fingers on both hands and then pressing them together (at about mid-chest height –if you’re trying this at home) and just saying, “One…” (as a drawn out word) as you stretched your lower lip as wide and as low as you could. At this juncture, you were free to add whatever you wanted to your ‘one’, i.e. “One thinks that Tim Henman is an awful little shit”. Or maybe, “One thinks one may have dropped one”. And so on. And so forth. To make this impression as realistic as possible, one must push one’s eyebrows up and making small shaking movements of the head when speaking.
I could do my impressions for ages. And did; when I was pissed.
So as you can imagine, come their big day, I was already exhausted.
And then five years later, we had to endure Prince Andrew and Fat Fergie rocking up at the alter with high fives and Toblerone crumbs all over the gaff.
And then everyone got divorced. And the other prince and the other bird didn't count.
So I’m finding it a bit hard to get overly whoop-wooey about this wedding. I wish them well in their married life – waving, breeding, more waving, more breeding, day out at Ascot and a humorous cameo appearance on Comic Relief…but fear this is being somewhat overshadowed by encountering an endless stream of fuckers who think they’re the first person in existence to say, “Did you get an invite to the wedding? I didn’t. Mine must still be in the post, hah hah”.  
(To date) I have exhibited enormous restraint when confronted with such tedious bollocks of this magnitude.
So what for tomorrow? The Royal couple being fanfared into the Abbey by vuvuzelas? Prince Harry texting from the hot seats? The choir boys breaking into a bit of street dance (body popping and all that kind of caper)?  A mexican wave by the congregation as the happy couple say their vows? Or maybe a ‘Spot The Hip Flask’ competition? (After all, the Queen is her mother’s daughter - and has had to sit through an inordinate amount of tedious shit in her lifetime).
Or maybe, just maybe, to show how ‘in touch’ our young Royals are with the modern era, they’ll just do away with the traditional balcony kiss and cut to the chase, with Wills hoofing up Katie’s frock and giving her the rogering of her lunchtime. Now, that would get the global viewing figures up.

Close, but no cigar.
Andrew goes for a quick fumble and a delve, but falls short of going up her kilt entirely
under the guise of rehearsing to be the rear end of a panto horse for a Comic Relief sketch...

Play yer cards right Katie, and there'll be fireworks coming from that balcony tomorrow.

Just off to wrestle up some bunting.

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