And as Harry plugs in his iPhone charger at a rather convenient yet never before seen power point near the Palace grounds the painful wailing of a BBC director can be faintly heard in the distance as ‘broadcast lost’ fills his wall of monitors.
We watch the ‘who the fuck are they then’ wedding guests arrive in their stylish commoner M&S spring collection. Distant uncle 34 times removed, Derek, finds out his wife, Phyllis, has forgotten his piles cushion and tries to prepare mentally for the two hour wait before the media happy couple even arrive. Luckily half cousin by proxy, Geraldine, has brought Dairylea sandwiches and a flask of Horlicks to encourage time’s fast passing.
Following a swiftly discrete delivery round the back of the official outside broadcast van the BBC news presenter finds his new lease of refreshed life during his 23 hour shift. As he wipes the remnants from his philtrum the floor manager gives him one and the seamless live exuberance of extended excitement continues.
Meanwhile, although she’s been scrubbing for ages, Kate still can’t get the egg and larger stain out of the bustier of her dress. Her mother remains unconcerned, however; taken up as she is with setting up her banking app ready for prompt balance checking once the queen winks her tip as those inevitable I dos are uttered like an unwritten signature.
As is only befitting on such occasions the country’s jovial politicians are released to drench the streets in spittle. Boris manages to escape his bicycle clip restraints and gob on an innocent yet obviously guilty passer by. A bright young policeman presents the conservative blond caricature with his Major Morgan and thus a further mass spraying is averted. A bravery award is surely on the way for the young upholder of the law shackles.
And so the scraping of the BBC floor presenters mingle with the even commoner crowd where the distant calling of “do me first Willy!” wafts through Hyde Park punctuated by the tongue chewers and tea towel dribblers. The impression of a sick stick that is Ferne Cotton proclaims it all to be “brilliant” just as Sophie Rayworth’s corset pings out of action followed by much kafuffle involving runners, gaffa tape and string.
The Master of Ceremonies is unconcerned with such trivialities as he diplomatically tries to dissolve the potential war of pop-cult brewing between Elton and the Queen over the seat allocation. Having already dispelled Mr Beckham’s fears that his wife has been lost on the way in by making sure she doesn’t turn sideways, thus ceasing to exist (even though most preferred it that way), the Master ponders on his decision to take the wretched post over a fishing weekend in Poole.
Due to his very clear matrimonial warning over breakfast, Prince Phillip tries to restrain his bloody foreigner annoyance as Princess Maxima, Prince of Orange Things and the Royal Denmarkians argue indiscreetly over their Eurovision votes, whilst within the bowels of the Abbey the Arch Bishop carefully disengages his colleagues from the alter boys with an echoing pop and directs them to their alternative ceremonial pub(l)ic positions.
At this point a solemn awkwardness emits from the top of the bell tower as the chosen suicide bomber realises his soldering skills need improvement when the heart stopping ‘click’ fails to produce the virgins he ordered. A collective sigh is just audible from a sweaty cave somewhere eastwards.
The equestrian excitement appears palpable as Camilla passes the already (unfortunately in their opinion) mounted horses. Bart, a trainee Royal Guard, is made aware of the disappearance of his left bollock as a result, but courageously concedes it is probably a fitting analogy of the whole situation.
The relieved face of Mr Middleton emerges from the funeral…er, wedding car, glad that Kate decided against the PVC number in the end and focuses on that ‘end if it all but fiscally better off’ pint or two promised by supper time.
In-between the dreary CofE droning much sniggering can be heard amongst the choir boys as the receiving of rings occurs; some tighter than others. The BBC enjoys its perusal of various gregarious images of those relations, unrelations, politically related, wish to be related who struggle to mime the outdated lyricalities like a true modern day X-Factor wannabe. Most try to imitate the mouth action of ‘her wot is Posh’; if only she’d stop her 90 degree twisting.
Posthumous Note: whether it was due to the unharmonic vibrations of the inbred hoard, the indigestible royal sausage wind imparted by Prince (or so we’re lead to believe) Harry or just the general boredom that got him, we find great displeasure in announcing the untimely death of the greatest flea on the wall reporter in the history of ever. As tribute, alternative coverage will cease as better things to do are afoot.