The Royal Toilet Wedding.

Well it’s 29^th April, that fateful date when I really must renew my tax disc on line. It’s 7.30am and I scan the sports channels for MotoGP and find the Royal Wedding. BBC coverage has already started! A weather woman is predicting there will be the possibility of sunshine or cloud and that if it’s not dry it’ll be raining. Now maybe it’s just me but UK weather women should not have big tits. OK for Berlusconi’s Italy but not here. So this woman, with her bumper pair, a smile verging on insanity and confident prediction that anything could happen except perhaps a tornado, outside Buckingham Palace is a climatic calamity to start with. Her banter with her male presenter resembles two over excited preschoolers moments before they have a joint toilet accident. It seems all the excitement is just too much for a disposable nappy to contain. So they go over to a reporter at a street party at a holiday camp in Lowestoft or somewhere to presumably avoid showing grown men and women peeing their pants with euphoria on national TV. But this guy is little more than a demented chimpanzee as well. Between rows of windswept caravans in Norfolk are two rows of trestle tables (def: a table supported by trestles. So what the hell is a trestle?!) decked out with paper plates, red, white and blue cakes and an assortment of grannies waving flags. This must surely be an end of the war re-enactment society. But no, these too are off their tits with happiness and will be racing to the toilet as soon as the cameras are off. It’s likely, given all this glee-ing and peeing, that one unforeseen consequence of this wedding will be a water shortage. Now I’m all for royalty coming down a peg and joining the vacuous upper class and for national celebrations like ‘Punch a Cleric Day’ but I’m worried about our media coverage. Their constant need to ramp up our euphoria has gone way past credibility and is now heading for derangement. Soon we’ll be shitting in the street just to show how ecstatic we are for hosting the Olympic Games or our grief for our loss of the queen when Charles finally gets his wish.