Wall to wall wedding action

Ok so…

It’s been awhile. I took advantage of the logjam of bank holidays to, erm, have a holiday. My reasoning was that I’d covered the royal wedding in a nice cathartic display of contempt. The hype surely wouldn’t get worse so I may as well get away from all the royal wedding stuff and maybe write a nice simple post about something else that came up in the news to infuriate me.

I was wrong on all counts. The degree of news ratcheted up to an inconceivable level. Escaping the wedding proved impossible without leaving the country (which I failed to do) and there was nothing left that I could write about apart from the fucking royal wedding because, according to the news, that is all that has actually fucking happened in the world for the last 2 fucking weeks.

So here I am. A fortnight after writing a royal wedding post writing another royal wedding post.

I’ll be honest. I’m not that enamoured of the royal family. In fact I hate them. I’d happily see them all guillotined except maybe the one who refused titles for her kids. She’d just get stripped of land and privileges and made to work in a factory or something. I think of the royal family like this:

  • Imagine you are a brane surgeon.
  • You marry to a gardener.
  • The gardener is automatically a brane surgeon t00 gets to perform intricate procedures with no training.
  • Any kids you share are born as brane surgeons. Even if they’re mental cannibals and end up spooning out brane and eating it like blood crazed simpletons.
  • None of this matters. You all get given loads of money and land and elevated to the peak of social status even if you can’t operate on a brain for toffee. You suffer no repercussion for your senseless acts.

that.is.the.royal.family. Want an example? Check out Prince Philip’s fucking diplomacy skillz – right there!

But whatever. As much as I hates em, I know that some flag waving, anthem singing, union jack sporting pond scum likes em so let’s be fair (or as fair as you can be in a society that awards massive state privileges for being born into a family deemed ‘better’ than the rest) and give them some airtime. They could grab a few headlines on the big day, unless, of course, loads of people were dying elsewhere, like in Syria or Morocco or some’ting!

What actually appears to have happened is slightly different. You see I’m interested in what’s happening in the world at the moment. Since the UK is bombing Libya because Gaddafi was killing his own people, I wondered if we’d be doing the same to countries like Syria (where the death count eclipsed 500 this week, imagine half of Kate & William’s 950 formal reception guests being bloodied rotting corpses if you need a wedding angle) or Bahrain (where the government allowed Saudi forces to step in and violently quell civil unrest). So, even on holiday, I watched the news. And watched… And fucking watched…… Jesus. Groundhog Day had an end. The royal wedding did not.

I got my answers though. Syria and Bahrain felt the wrath of the British government by, erm, having their royal wedding invites rescinded. Harsh measures there from a royal family that counts these murderous governments as good friends. Of course Colonel Gaddafi was never invited. Who’d invite an unelected despot to their wedding? One who made up his own military rank to boot? No way would he be seeing Prince ‘Colonel’ William marrying his Kate. Hang on!

What sort of idiot gives himself the rank of Colonel?

This sort of idiot awards himself the rank of Colonel

And so it rolled on. Even on holiday, spending several hours a day with no newspaper or tv in sight, I’d shouted myself hoarse with rage days before the actual event and resorted to hoping for some sort of fatal crush from the flag waving gawpers running to grab a snatch of the staged ‘kiss’. 

So… the big day arrived and there I was looking for some other way to find the news. I tried. I really did! When I saw the beeb had pulled out every human being known to man to present it (Fearne Cotton?! A BBC news reporter?!?) I panicked. First I tried the only non-British news channel on-air. Russia Today. They had an article on about Siberian petrol prices. Nice! Oh fuck?! What’s that? Along the bottom? Shit, it’s a blurb about the royal wedding!

They ran out of proper journalists didn't they

Right. So off goes the telly and we go out. On goes the radio. I am not joking when I say it was like the grand national. Reporters standing at key stages along the route COMMENTATING on the progress of Kate’s horse-drawn carriage. Then SHOUTING encouragement as though they had a tenner on her to actually go through with it and marry the balding prick.

Gah! Off goes the radio and we park up and stand on the beach. What’s that I hear? The radio still? Some bloke in a hut ON A BEACH has it blasting out still! Radio 5 news having a collective orgasm over ‘that’ dress. I need a pint. But it’s on in the pub too. All live and garish, with the avenue of trees that ‘common touch’ Kate insisted they ship in (cos it wasn’t grand enough already). I go in the pub garden. It’s on there too. The beer garden of the pub is showing the royal wedding.

Ok so it’s not all bad. I got a meal in a nice restaurant with no royal interruption. I got back that evening thinking ‘it must be over now’!

WRONG! It was still smeared everywhere like stale faeces in a dirty protest. Jesus! The news coverage jammed the whole day on repeat. On BBC 1 there was an East Enders royal wedding special followed by a ‘match of the day’ style royal review. Huw Edwards playing Gary Lineker to pundits like Simon Sharma (Why?) and Prince Charles official royal harpist (yes he has a harpist. She follows him round playing his own ‘entrance’ music, which is actually the theme from Johnny Briggs – play it in your head when you next see him). It ran through every miserable moment in detail, with second-by-second commentary attempting to give meaning to actions so banal that the comments just became sinister innuendo (cue Huw commenting that Kate’s dad lifts her dress up ‘making sure everything is unsoiled and undamaged’).

I'm not joking they brought in a psychoanalyst and official photographer to deconstruct this picture

I woke up Saturday relieved. Shurely now it was over. It wasn’t! It was still running for an hour on the hour every hour across all the channels. Sky news said that the most ‘iconic symbol of the day’ was some car that said ‘just married’! Yeah – It was the most iconic cos it was ALL rubbish. Like every other symbol that the news decided to belch into my face. There was nothing iconic. Sky were saying ‘that turd in the sewer is the most iconic turd in the sewer of the day’.

The picture of Che Guevara was "iconic" this is two people in a car

For me the iconic thing was the completely thin-lipped and loveless kiss they exchanged at the screaming behest of the mob, which made me think of the sick baying you’d get at a dog fight. That and the news that the younger royals were up til 3am drinking a cocktail called a ‘crack-baby’. Haw-haw-haw. Snort. What-ho! Ah well. Finished? Sadly no.

I'm with the little girl on the left

2 days after the wedding. I turned on the car radio hoping for some news on the world and 5 live were running VERBATIM the same commentary they’d run on the ‘big day’ FOR FUCKS SAKE! It’s over! Get over it! Please!

There really has been news going down in the last few weeks. Not just the double standards over Libya, Syria, Bahrain (I see that, after saying we weren’t targeting Gaddafi, we bombed his house again and killed his son). Not just the deaths in Morocco or the tornadoes in America or the super injunctions going round. The governments been pushing through more NHS cuts and in a few days time we’re voting on huge reforms to our electoral system.

This could change our political system forever! So what better to take up the first 6 pages of the Sunday times plus have its own colour supplement than the celebration of the marriage of the heir of an unelected head of state from 2 days ago? The royals chose their wedding date very carefully, very carefully indeed. And the gasping idiocracy of this country, buoyed by a sycophantic press and a million or so drooling, feeble-braned flag-bearers, have ensured that, whatever happens on May 5th, my despair over our hysterical media and the lunatic gawpers who follow their every word, has never been stronger.

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