Jolly Excited About The Royal Wedding; But Why Haven't My Aunt Mavis And I Been Invited?

"Well have you argued, sir. And for your pains,/Of capital treason we arrest you here./My lord of Westminster, be it your charge/To keep him safely till his day of trial./May it please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit?"
"Richard the Second". I hope the Bard wasn't talking about me

"And I'm up while the dawn is breaking, even though my heart is aching, I should be drinking a toast to absent friends, instead of these comedians."
- Elvis Costello

By Charley Brady

Gosh! I'm excited and I jolly well don't mind admitting it. I'm awfully excited, just awfully. I may wet myself with excitement.

To think that we will be able to watch the Latest Royal Wedding live here on Irish television next week, well I can't tell you: I'm just weak at the knees.

I've always had a thing for a good love story that will inevitably end in tears.

Take King Kong and Faye Wray. Look at Romeo and Juliet. What about Beauty and the Beast? Frank N Furter and Rocky?

Or dare I say it - oh hush, my beating heart - Prince Charles and Princess Diana?

They're going to sell a fortune in newspapers, glossy half thought out magazines enclosed there in as well as tacky memorabilia over the next holiday weekend because the Irish are a nation of suckers who just love a good Mills and Boone like romance. The Prince and the Commoner, what could be better?

It takes their minds off the real enemy, the ones at home. Let's put our feet up and ooh and ahh at the "glorious" splendour of it all.

Listen, I like romance a lot and I think that this seems to be a young couple that are in love. Well, half of a young couple. From the way that Prince William looks at Kate Middleton with those big doe eyes that he has inherited from his mother, you can tell that he just dotes on her.

She looks like Bambi with its face caught in the oncoming headlights.

An always-curvy young lady, she is now beginning to resemble - and I sure hope that never comes to fruition - the ghastly Victoria Beckham.

Well, the beguiling Kate has already been told to change her name. Oh come on now, you didn't think that was her decision, did you?

So it's now Catherine? And as for her sister Pippa? Well, she's now to be referred to by toadies, flunkies and hangers on forever more as Philippa. What fun, chums! What jolly old japes in the House of Windsor!

Well, they do have a history of changing names when it suits them. After all they were never called Windsor at all until the beginning of World War One, when they changed their unpronounceable Lovecraftian German jaw breaker into something that was more palatable for the times that they were so reluctantly thrust into.

It's amusing to look at the horde that are turning up and not turning up at the Wedding of the Century (well, it has been a young century so far).

Tony Blair, the social crawling war criminal and his even more upwards and onwards horror of a wife, Cherie, have not been given the Royal Thumbs Up to Westminster Abbey for the Wedding of the Millennium. (It's been a young millennium, so far.)

Neither has Gordon Brown, but then again apart from being from the wrong side of the border he couldn't be trusted not to call Prince Philip a bigoted asshole. Well, the terrible person does have a habit of calling people bigots when he thinks that the microphone is off.

Something we could all cheer the Scots for, by the way. I know I do, except that I would have left the microphone on.

Baroness Thatcher will be there of course. Who will be holding her up and whether she will know where she is seems to be open to question.

Does that seem mean spirited? Well, who cares; it's not as that fragrant lady who was once described as "having the mouth of Marilyn Monroe and the eyes of Caligula" hasn't been pretty mean spirited herself at times.

I was also delighted to see that John Major will be there. Presumably his beloved peas will be on the menu but equally presumably his once-beloved mistress Edwina Currie will not be on his plate at all.

OUT goes Bono. He's not invited.

Now I did think that as the best thing since my Aunt Mavis or the Second Coming of the Lord, on the week after Easter the Divine One - Bono, not Jesus, do pay attention - who has worked so effortlessly to suck up to anyone in Establishment would be in there like a shot.

Geldoff isn't included, either. And him an OBE and all. Tragic. When I finish laughing I'll wipe away a tear. Maybe they were afraid that he would bring Peaches crashing in with him.

IN of course is the guy who is clamping down so hard on pro democracy demonstrations, the Prince of Bahrain and of course we would have to have Saudi Arabia's Prince Mohammed bin Nawaf Abulaziz. And the Emir of Quatar.

They may not mean much to you the peasants, but we do have to look after our oil rich mates these days.

OUT goes Barack Obama and what a relief that must be for him; although I get the feeling that Sarkozy and his dreadful socially upward missus might be teed off about this.

Sorry, guys, they might be flaunting this as a different, more socially aware kind of wedding - and if you believe that you'll believe that I'm totally impartial - but for centuries Royal Protocol has only allowed CROWNED heads to be invited to the knees-up.

Don't worry, though. I don't think we're missing anything. (Did I forget to mention that my invitation got lost in the post? As did that of my Aunt Mavis.)

What a ragbag bunch. Would you like to have been the characters that were making out this list? Waka-waka-waka. It wasn't like this in the Old Days.

The whole bunch of Royal Parasites would have back then just decided to "off with the head" of anyone they didn't find suitable. Now they have to tread that fine line between out and out snobbery and that appalling phrase, "having the common touch."

I mean, look at a couple of examples to prove that underneath all that taxpayer's loot it is quite possible to be at the absolute root end of tacky.

Take that chunky eejit Prince Andrew, for example. Is he a man at all?

I mean, the mother of his children, Sarah Ferguson, has not even been invited to a wedding at which their daughters Princess Beatrice and Princess Eugenie have been given front seats.

Couldn't the big, perpetually grinning oafish waste of space have stood up and said: "Listen, Your Majesty, unless you invite the mother of my kids to this shindig then I'm not going either. You and the Old Man are just showing once again how tied to protocol you are.

"Sure, the Duchess of York behaved like a prostitute when she tried to make money out of my name, but what the feck, I mean Jolly Rogers what have I been doing all of my life when you had me hanging around mass murderers like Saif Gadaffi on one hand and one of the world's richest paedophiles on the other just because I was supposed to be bringing imports to the country? Am I not a prostitute? Are my entire family not prostitutes?"

Come to that, why aren't the daughters telling them to take a hike when they are expected to be there but they're own mother isn't.

I mean, it's not as if they're not inviting one skank too many already. Jeez, when you see the awful Tara Palmer- Tomkinson showing off the operation that she had done this week in order to fix her cocaine ravaged nose in order to attend the Wedding of All Time in "dignity" then you know that The Royals understand nothing.

I doubt that Sarah Ferguson could ever be more embarrassing than the former IT girl.

In case you're wondering what that means, it means turning up as a Z list celebrity at every opening of an envelope that exists in London and who has done nothing with their life other than freeloading around the place because they were once a nanny in the Royal Household and probably know where a few bodies are buried. Or perhaps even saw Charles once storming over A Bridge Too Far.

She has to be there for some reason and it sure as she admits that cocaine went up her nose in industrial quantities it's not because she's a prize of a wedding guest.

As for Prince Harry, William's brother. Ah, now there's a guy I really like; he always gives you a laugh, even by the standards of the World's Most Dysfunctional Family.

Now, to you dreadful sceptics who have questioned whether the big roaring red head even came from the same gene pool as his father, who loves to talk to plants and is on record as wanting to be reincarnated as a tampon, may I just say: "Shame on you, you doubters."

Of course Harry is an integral and legitimate part of this family.

As soon as he let slip to one of his army buddies that: "I may be ginger, but at least I'm not Irish", it was obvious that he was his Grandfather's Grandson.

Of course he's a Windsor! Who apart from a Royal Twit like Prince Philip, a Greek with bugger all real loot, who landed on his feet when he did woo and win Princess Elizabeth, thereby boarding the Gravy Train for life, could ever come out with a nice rounded bigot of a statement like that. Of course Philip would have done it much, much better. Not classier, mind you - the Windsors have never been know for a sense of class - but he would be better and funnier.

Wouldn't it be jolly japes indeed if Harry turned up with a swastika armband on him as he did several years ago at a party, thereby mocking the soldiers who died in World War Two in order to keep an arrogant little sod like him in the privileged position that he occupies.

Well, you'll be reading this of a Tuesday so the Great Day is only three away. I know that the Olde Brewery has its bunting and little Union Jack flags already in preparation for hanging. As a matter of fact, when they read this that won't be the only thing they're hanging. My dear self, Your Humble Narrator, may find himself hanging up in their stead.

But all jokes aside, I actually do wish them well. It can't be much fun living in a goldfish bowl. The closest I ever got was when I had my head shoved down a toilet bowl; but let's not talk about supporters of the Dalai Lama like that. I know they meant well.

Who knows, they may have wanted me to be reincarnated as a turd, in which case I guess they got their wish. It's all karma, man.

As to the emails I got from last week's column on the Dalai Fraud, can I just ask you all: what is the point of telling me that I'm and idiot and a jerk? This is something that I already know!

Give me constructive criticism, you bunch of militant Buddhists!

You remind me of the hilarious story about director Sam Peckinpah when he was attacked after an early showing of his masterpiece, "The Wild Bunch" by a guy who was screaming at him: "I'm a pacifist! You ought to be shot for making this film! You ought to be killed!"

After the happy nuptials, I hope to see you all again next week.

Same bat-time!

Same bat-channel!

You can reach Charley at chasbrady7@eircom.net