It’s the Big Day! Here is Frank Key with the centrepiece of The Dabbler’s Big Royal Wedding Jamboree…
By rights, several dimblebys should be on hand to guide you through the events of today’s regal woading, but they have been ripp’d untimely from their anchorage, so I am stepping into the breach. Let us be joyful.
Before entering into the state of woaded bliss, the darlings are pulled by elegant horses in procession through the streets of the capital. These streets are lined by flag-waving peasants and other savages, watched over by coppers with clubs “on the ground”, as they say, and, from high buildings, by snipers armed with high-velocity rifles and walkie-talkies. But the mood is rightly joyous. The peasants wave their flags and, as the carriages progress, the darlings, yet unwoaded, wave back, though flagless. The horses have been equipped with tackle that occludes their peripheral vision, to prevent them seeing anything that might make them panic and, in panic, go galloping pell mell, crushing peasants beneath their hooves. Were that to happen, to continue with the woading would be unseemly, and there must be not a smidgen of unseemliness on this day of all days. Hence the horses’ blinkers-tackle.
Within the huge ensteepled and consecrated edifice await the guests and the shamen. None has need of blinkers. The arch-shaman is a fellow with a ragged grey-white beard, as is considered proper for his office. He will perform the rite of regal woading when the darlings are ushered, separately, into the cavernous interior of the edifice. See, there, the trough of woad, and the siphon and funnel and besplattering implement which will be used to woad-besplatter the darlings at the most significant moment of the ceremony.
But first there is much rigmarole, of a kind that cries out for interpretation-by-dimbleby. The arch-shaman, or one of his acolytes, will ascertain that the woading is pure, unalloyed and sullied not by any hint of bewolfenbuttlement. In a modern woading such as this, those watching electrical transmissions may be able to see each individual grey-white hair in the arch-shaman’s beard trembling faintly in the cool air. It is a sight to behold. The horses remain outwith the edifice, stamping their hooves, being fed from nosebags. The peasants and savages too, stay in their pens beside the streets, feeding from crisp-packets. The coppers and snipers stay alert.
Inside there is solemn blathering and the woading itself, and the darlings buss their lips, and a great hosannah of voices is raised in song. Here even a dimbleby might pause, to let it sink in, sound and spectacle without comment. Then, blue with woad, the darlings emerge, upon the steps, to much cheering and clanging of bells, before climbing together into a carriage to be pulled by snack-refreshed horses for the return procession. Somewhere in the teeming masses, a “student” raises a placard of contempt. Before he can be clubbed by a copper or shot by a sniper, he is torn limb from limb by a gaggle of peasants, unnoticed by the larger throng. It is meet that it should be so.
Across the land, jelly and ice cream are gobbled. Huzzah!
Huzzah indeed Frank, misc plebs, yeomanry, Kulaks and Mauserists can once again return their hooters to the grindstone until the next Hollywoodised royal beano complete with sagbutts and horse shit.
“Well”, I politely enquired of the lady of the hoose upon my return, “bride and sister were a class act, which is more than can be said for most of the other women, looking as they did like cake decoration.” I shall avoid the DVD, like the plague.
“Cameron is putting on weight” was the final remark.
Yes Malty – Mrs M chimed with Mrs M in thinking that the commoners got it right with a less-is-more Primark look, making the Royals and toff-totty look weighed-down with designer-look at me-bling. Can’t imagine what the orange housewives of Orange County must have made of it, setting their alarms for the middle of the night? Would they look at Princess Beatrice’s Gaga-inspired ram’s-horn-come-fallopian-tube fascinator and say ‘Hmm, I think that really works’?
In the kingdom of the blonde, the one eyed nan is king
I was enthralled by the pre-match speculation about Kate’s dress. It might, apparently be very ornate. Or then again, she might go for something very simple. Or it might be something in between.
What a nice couple though.
Tara Palmer-Tompkinwotsit wore a silly hat.
And a silly nose! Nice family, the Middletons, pity about the in laws.
My children found the AB of C scary: each time he appeared they shouted ‘Argh, it’s the witch man!’ and hid.