William and Kate tied the knot yesterday and we thanked their national-bank-holiday arses for it.
Because Kate’s pleas for a quickie Elvis wedding in Vegas fell on deaf ears (God bless Wills, but he can be so bloody traditional) Westminster Abbey it was, where it seemed as if it was always meant to be.
But it was a long 10 years ago they first met- the tabloids didn’t dub her ‘Waity Katie’ for nothing (spelt, by the way, with an ‘ai’- something she wished she’d discovered sooner).
It happened completely by accident, the pair having enrolled on exactly the same course at the University of we-all-marry-each-other St. Andrews.
Wills had heard that all the fit, dizzy girls study History of Art and Kate had heard that Wills had heard that all the fit, dizzy girls study History of Art.
When they were introduced at Fresher’s week, it was fondness at first sight but the music was loud and neither of them had any idea who the other was.
After their first date over a deep-fried mars-bar, each sought the company of others…
Kate called her sister.
‘Good fun?’ asked Pip.
‘Um, he’s really into history.’
‘He can’t remember.’
‘Well, I think he was groping for my coat of arms.’
‘Dysfunctional. Unpopular. Power-hungry. Attention-seeking. German.’
Pip was losing faith. ‘Does he like pets?’
‘Not all bad then,’ she concluded. ‘Passable surname?’
‘Wales,’ said Kate. ‘I’d be Mrs. Willy Wales.’
That night, Kate went back to her digs and Googled her date.
When she finally stopped punching the air, all she could think to do was reach for her phone, to send Pip the following text message:
‘OMG. I’d be, like, the FUCKING QUEEN!!!!!’
The next day, both girls went for professional blow-dries.
Meanwhile, on the other side of Fife, Wills was confiding too.
‘I say, thanks for taking the night orf,’ he said to his bodyguard.
‘Good legs?’ enquired his aide.
‘Is she worldly, like you?’
‘No. She didn’t do a gap yar.’
‘Did she put out?’
‘Emphatically, no. She’s from Berkshire.’
‘Tell me more, tell me more, like does she have a car?’
‘Ya, Fiat Punto,’ replied Wills, possibly not getting the reference.
That night, the young Royal thumbed through a copy of Debrett’s Who’s Who and the 2001 British Airways Staff Yearbook.
Michael Middleton was only in one of them.
‘OMG,’ he yelled through the adjoining door. ‘She’s as common as muck! She’s not even honorable!’
‘Wahay!’ shouted his aide, possibly not getting the point.
But love conquered all and the couple met in the Middleton.
When William told the Queen of his engagement, she had only kind words:
‘Given that she’s not a whore like your late mother or a gold-digger or a bore, like your aunts, I approve,’ she sort of said.
When Kate told her parents they both wet themselves- Carole because she knew she would deer stalk into a comfortable dotage, Michael because he feared his ISA would not have matured enough to fund his daughter’s nuptials.
‘Don’t be a silly sausage, Daddy,’ his daughter reassured him. ‘The nation will pay.’
Pillow talk soon turned to the wedding arrangements.
Kate lost on John Lewis holding the gift list but drew the line at having Candle in the Wind as the first dance.
Guests were another matter. ‘To be honest, I don’t give a shit if the Syrian ambassador is there or not,’ exploded Kate.
‘Well, one could do without your pissed uncle doing his flight exit routine as well,’ replied Wills.
But compromises were reached because if there’s one thing Widdleton knows, it’s not to let private passions interfere with civic duty and for that we thank them.
And for uniting the nation in Marxist sentiment; for knocking Peter Andre off the front of Hello; for rescuing Jenny Bond from Cash in the Attic.
But above all, for reassuring us that within the bosom of the British Establishment, beats the heart of the American Dream.