There's one aspect of the Royal Wedding that seems to have escaped all other commentators. We expect they were all too busy ogling Pippa Middleton's bum, and who can blame them?
It wasn't “the dress”, though that was nice enough. It wasn't the beauty of the bride, though we have to say we wouldn't climb over her to get to ... well, almost anyone, really (notice the use of the royal “we”? It seemed appropriate, somehow). It wasn't the massed ranks of the privileged and wealthy. It wasn't even the bizarre appearance of the Ugly Sisters, Beatty and Genie. Were we the only ones to notice that every time the camera reluctantly settled on them, they were gurning and peering malevolently round, presumably trying to see if anyone was wearing a really silly hat?
No, it was actually a very brief little clip during the television coverage, showing one of the soldiers diligently polishing up his horse's tack in readiness.
Nothing striking about that, you might think. But it made us think. How many people were involved in the event, in even the smallest rôle? A thousand? Five thousand? Ten thousand? We have no idea, but it was a hell of a lot of people, from dress designers to pastry cooks, from the Bishop of London to the smallest choirboy, from the Air Force trumpeters to the verger who was so delighted the thing went off without a hitch that he turned cartwheels round the Abbey afterwards, from the Archbishop of Catweazle to the men who polish the royal cars or shovel up the royal horse-shit.
And every one of them determined that their own tiny bit of the day was going to be absolutely bloody perfect or they'd know the reason why. Every note would be in tune. Every belt buckle would gleam, every button would glint and every fascinator would ... well, be fascinating, presumably. Every dress would turn the eye and make a statement, every uniform would be exactly in accordance with long-standing and totally pointless tradition, not a fallen leaf or blown sweetie-wrapper would sully the pavements, no choirboy would drop his music, William had practised and practised so that he didn't step on Kate's hem as they left the Abbey, no one would trip or stumble or fall into the greenery, no one would forget their lines or crack a joke (Harry doesn't count. The best man is supposed to be an idiot), no car would stall, no horse would fart, no bird would fly over and crap on a policeman's helmet, no loony ethnic person would get near enough to wave a placard, no sad republican would spoil the fun with his drab, shallow gospel, not one tiny thing would go wrong out of all the millions of serendipitous accidents waiting to happen ...
And why? What was the point of this massive search for perfection? Did it actually matter? Would the young couple not have been legally married if the maid of honour had displayed a VPL? Would the day have been ruined if Beattie and Genie had looked like normal human beings for a change? Would anyone have cared if David Beckham had turned up in his shorts?
No, it didn't actually matter at all. And that was the whole point. Every single one of the thousands of participants had decided, that was all. They had decided that they were going to do the most painstaking job they possibly could, that their small part of the event was going to be carried out to absolute perfection. And so it was, and whole world saw that it was.
All the whole world ... all the fat Americans whose idea of elegance is a Lakers sweatshirt and who think that Burger King is haute cuisine, all those Europeans who can't organise anything without shouting, rushing around and waving their hands, all those Middle Eastern gentlemen who seriously believe that a centuries-old fairytale about an old paedophile entitles them to foam at the mouth in bedsheets and absurd facial hair over some grievance that no one else gives a toss about, all those Germans who ... well, bit tasteless to mention the war, we suppose ... all those poor sad deprived people saw something they can never aspire to, something so extravagant, so dignified, so ridiculous, so carefully planned, so pointless, so thoroughly executed and just so bloody perfect that they could only weep into their dudelsacks or whatever floats their various boats.
It was bloody brilliant, and worth every penny, frankly, in this modern world where no one, and we mean no one, can be arsed to do their job properly.
In another life the GOS spent many years as a musician, so he knows all about the pursuit of perfection. Weeks and months of planning, days and days of rehearsal, money spent, brains teased and tested, decisions agonisingly taken, performers bullied, charmed and cajoled, all for one short performance which would be absolutely perfect. Not just good, not just entertaining, not just clever, but so perfect that one could not imagine it being done any other way.
Of course, he didn't achieve it very often, if ever, which is probably why he admires and respects it when it does happen.
But he does wish we could know what it was that Harry muttered in Will's ear as Kate came up the aisle. It was obviously quite funny. In the Grumpy household the hot money was on “Hey, Will, do you think Pippa's wearing any knickers?”
The GOS says: Speaking of money – and let's face it, there have been plenty of complaints in the press about the enormous cost of the wedding – it was revealed last week that the two aircraft carriers being built for the Royal Navy were going way over budget, and would cost either £7 billion or £10 billion, depending which paper you were reading. One paper estimated that they would cost every person in the country £233.
So what? What's wrong with that? If we want aircraft carriers (and I guess that most of us think that we do), £233 doesn't seem too much to pay, not by a long chalk. In fact, I'll write them a cheque today. Perhaps they'll let me come and pat the aircraft carrier when it's built.
By the same token, do you think if I sent the Queen a cheque they'd let me stroke Pippa's bum? They don't have to wrap her, I'll take her as she is.
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