Sunday, 20 May 2018

Sovereignty of Wedding Tea & Pastry

What with doing a 9 mile walk along the SW Coastal Path from St Ives to Zennor, we thought we'd nicely missed The Wedding, but when we got back to the holiday let we found out that Hay's dad and his girlfriend had suffered a catastrophic TV failure and had missed it - Hay's dad had somehow, accidentally managed to disconnect the aerial. That meant we had to sit through the entire, interminable thing on iPlayer after I got the TV working again - there was no compromise as far as his girlfriend was concerned.

The bride wore a nice dress and the groom wore a uniform, although the uniform looked like it was from the Undertakers' Regiment - didn't he have anything red in his wardrobe? The American, pantomime bishop was good, but someone should have hoicked him off after the first 5 minutes. Beckham's tattooed neck added a nice touch of Thug Life to the proceedings (was he chewing gum?). I thought it would have been a nice touch if Prince Philip could have been asked to walk her down the aisle - it would have been his final hurrah.

The papers are going to have a field day today with images of grumpy celebrities and yawns. It was a nice wedding though. Eventually went to bed at 8.30, as I was knackered and in no mood for more wedding analysis.

Woke up this morning to find Harry had bought Megan an E-Type Jag as a wedding present but, sensibly, he drove it. Bit over the top, if you ask me - hope it's not coming from my taxes. The Sunday Times shows a picture on the cover of the couple, with Harry sporting the rictus grin of one who has been forced to smile all day (I call it the Wallace and Gromit grin). We've watched Harry grow up in the glare of the media spotlight - it must be like living in a permanent Truman Show for him, but he's in on the act. Her too now.

This preoccupation with sovereignty is becoming a bit silly. Spotted these in a cupboard in the holiday let:

Never seen any tea plantations in either county. Everyone knows the tea is actually grown in the foothills of the Pennines in Lancashire and imported into Yorkshire and Cornwall where it's then rebranded...

Is it just me, or has Trump got Mr Pastry as his National Security Advisor?

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