Live dispatches from the Royal Wedding

Note: What with Donald Trump behaving like David Duke and the many terrible tornado deaths, I feel a little guilty joking about anything.

However, as some fine young women once sang “Some Days You Gotta Dance”. On with the badinage.

9.52am BST – Well, my little carbuncles, I’m finally seated in the Abbey after being patted down for twenty minutes by a most obliging young Pakistani policeman. I haven’t had that much fun in months.

I was a little sad that he took my little Beretta away, even though I explained that I was a trained marksman and might need it if any revolutionary outrages were to be perpetrated during the ceremony. He was lovely though, and said he would put it somewhere safe and I could pick it up before I went to the lunchtime reception at the Palace, just in case Camilla got out of hand. Which was nice.

On my way in I was screamed at hysterically by several young women who apparently thought I was Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. It must be because the monkey-gland facial I had on the plane coming over made my nose go all wonky. The poor dear has had so many years of chronic cocaine abuse she can barely breathe without a short length of Louis Vuitton-branded hosepipe up each nostril, and with me in this new wig we look like twins.

The atmosphere in London is quite extraordinary, what with the street parties and the bunting and the crowds of nylon-clad chavs waving flags to celebrate the fact that a bunch of elitist wankers with no chins can spend more on a wedding cake than any of them will earn in their entire life. As a result, I admit that I’m quite excited to be here, even though I would normally be in sympathy with the 75% of London residents who are apparently cowering in their homes with the music turned up loud pretending the whole thing isn’t happening.

You may have read that the police are using special signal-blocking technology to stop the punters tweeting or calling from inside the Abbey. Never fear, I didn’t work in the CIA for 42 years and not learn a few things about sneaking information past the officialdom of third world countries. I’m carefully concealing my iPad under the most gorgeous stole made of dead badgers. It looks a bit like Robin Williams’ wedding night, but I think it’s fooled the police so far.

I’m sitting next to that nice Gareth Thomas, the rugby player – real football, dears, not that padded-up excuse for a game Americans play. I must say that William and Skinny Kate do appear to like their gays, what with Gareth and Elton and Edward and that young Australian swimmer in the pearls. There’s even a whole group of queens in dresses up at the front of the South Nave.

Just minute, dears.

Oh. Really? Gareth is telling me that the men in dresses are actually Archbishops and Cardinals and suchlike. Who’d have thought that Cardinal Brady would look better in a beaded Givenchy gown and Jimmy Choo pumps than I do?

10am – Bear with me for a minute, dears. I’ve just spotted an empty seat next to that lovely David Beckham and I’m going to nip over for a minute to chat him up.

10.05am – How embarrassing. I’d been sitting chatting to David about his balls for a few minutes before I noticed the muffled squeaking coming from somewhere underneath me and realised the seat wasn’t empty and that I’d been sitting on little Vicky Beckham. I offered her a breath mint to make amends. She accepted, even if she did put half of it away for later. A girl has to watch what she eats.

10.09am – Heavens. There was a woman there wearing a hat that looked like a stork had swallowed a serving dish.

10.11am – Gareth is cruising a rather dishy Guardsman. I had to steal the Queen Mother’s line to Noel Coward. “I wouldn’t if I were you, Noel – they count them before they put them out.”

The flowers are quite lovely, by the way. I think green is so flattering to young skin.

I’ve only just recovered from the horror of Vicky Beckham’s hat. It looked like a pencil holder designed by Tim Burton.

10.20am – The bridegroom and the best man have arrived, wearing their nice hats. So useful for the less hirsute gentleman. I wonder if William is going to keep his on all day?

10.21am – Apparently not.

10.22am – Dear Harry does look so like his daddy.

10.38am – I spotted one gentleman coming in just now who appeared to be hepped up on crystal. I hope no one scares the poor thing.

– There is a woman in blue (apparently one of Fergie’s children) who is wearing an exploded bantam on her head.

10.50am – The Duchess of Cornwall came up briefly to say hello to me on her way in. Betty Windsor has obviously told Camilla that I know where the brake-line-snipping bodies are buried. She kept laughing nervously at me and giving odd little shakes of her head. It was like being befriended by a mule eating a toffee.

10.51am – The Queen has apparently come dressed as a yellow marshmallow peep. She may be the yellowest thing I have ever seen this side of George W. Bush.

11.03am – Jesus. I haven’t seen that much gratuitous train since “Atlas Shrugged”.

– Heaven’s she’s thin. Vicky Beckham was glaring daggers at her. At least we can tell this isn’t a shotgun wedding. Well, not unless Kate has had the baby moved to her summer uterus for the week.

11.14am – Poor William looks skeerder than Donald Trump when his limo broke down in the Bronx.

11.19am – Awwww.

11.30am – Good grief. I’m going to ask Gareth to wake me up when the endless singing is over.


Joseph Nobles – Sarah, since you avoided the signal interference, you might have caught the understatement of the wedding. Dad was helping Kate get her dress arranged, lifting it up and around, and a TV perp evidently said: “Michael Middleton just making sure everything is unsoiled and undamaged”.

I don’t often admit that words fail me.

11.46am – When does the drinking start?

11.46am – Given the use of the term “sobriety” in the sermon, apparently the answer is never.

11.48am – Does David Cameron always look like a worried spaniel?

11.57am – It’s almost done. Cambridge has a new Duchess, Princess Anne can take off her ugly hat that looks like a licorice allsort, Prince Andrew can stop holding in his tummy, and Grammy can get a damn drink.

12.36pm – I’m off dears. Gareth’s Guardsman tells me he has a friend.

All in all, it was a lovely wedding. Kate looked stunning. William and his brother both looked dashing, and William and Kate are clearly in love, which makes for a nice change. There were wacky hats everywhere. No one comes close to the British on pomp and circumstance. After all, all they need to do is play “Jerusalem” and old ladies like me tear up. What more could a girl ask for?

I will check in later to tell you all the dish about the lunch reception.

All my love – Sarah xx

4 Comments on “Live dispatches from the Royal Wedding”

  1. an admirer says:

    Your entrance into the blogosphere could not have come at a more opportune moment — and might you have any stories about Sarah Palin to share? Such a good mother…

  2. Jeannette says:

    Sarah dear, the wedding was predictable though your observations not so much. But while you’re there in London see what gossip you can gather about the Bachelor Party Harry threw for William. Is it true that Big Red herself bounced out of the cake?

  3. Lisa says:

    Rather wicked and witty, thanks. (Friend FDC sent me here.)

  4. Ingmar says:

    “It was like being befriended by a mule eating a toffee.” ROTFL!

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