Mother London | SFTW | The Royal Wedding Issue

Souvenirs ain’t what they used to be

There’s all sorts of crappy bits of old tat being banged out by cash-grabbing chancers ahead of this big wedding.

Mugs, t-shirts, coins, tea towels, statues – all of it destined to start rotting in a cardboard box in the back of the shed approximately one day after the end of the street party. That is, if you’re one of the seven people in Britain who actually cares enough to have a street party (because you just KNOW it’s going to piss it down don’t you?).

But the best of them is the Knit Your Own Royal Wedding book. It’s filled with patterns so that you can

create knitted characters of all the major players and stage the big day in the comfort of your own home. Hang on – I’m not included in it. Why the F*** am I not included in it? Don’t they realise that there wouldn’t even BE a wedding if it wasn’t for me?

I’ll haunt it if it kills me

There’s a lot of fuss going on about the Royal Wedding up here in Heaven, which is severely pissing me off because it’s taking some of the limelight off of yours truly.

Me and the Queen Mother are going at it hammer and tongs – there’s only going to be one of us allowed to go down and haunt the ceremony and she thinks it’s going to be her. I think not. Maybe I’ll let her think she’s being allowed out for the day and then spike her gin with some plant food as she’s getting her big f***ing hat nailed on.

There’s talk of a street party happening up here as well, which is mad cos we’ve only got one street and it literally goes on forever.

I know it’s Heaven but I don’t think even we’ve got that many sausage rolls or that much bunting.

Monarchy 2.0?

Up here, a lot of people (well, Sid Vicious mainly) have been saying to me, “Here, Di, how do you think this Royal Wedding

will change how people view the monarchy in the 21^st century and that?” To which I demurely reply that although William is my son and I love him very much, neither he nor his evil commoner bride will ever be as loved or as adored as I was back in my heyday. No one gives a flying toss about the royals since I shuffled up here – it’s finished. I’ll tell you what killed it all off – the National Lottery and The X Factor. Now everyone thinks if they get lucky they can have that

fairytale lifestyle – and without having to have a face like a bent horse or worry about treading in corgi shit everywhere they go.

A guest list to die for

Have you seen the guest list for this thing? I’m f***ing seething! The Beckhams, Mr Bean, Elton John and his enigmatic man-wife, Count Kalnoky of Transylvania – what a line-up?

The most glamorous guest at my wedding was the Robert Runcie, the Archbishop Of Canterbury, and that was because he was the only bloke there wearing a dress. Mind you, before the ceremony, he insisted on giving me what he called a ‘special Runcie cuddle’ – it was a little bit too tight and went on a little bit too long for my liking. If I’d known we could have invited pop stars and celebs I’d have had all of Duran Duran there for my wedding. Mind you, if I knew then what I know now,

I’d have taken up Simon Le Bon on his offer when he rang me the night before…

Love and marriage…..whatever that means

I tell you what though, I wish the pair of them all the luck in the world – if it ends up being anything like my marriage

then the poor little sods are doomed. I new something was up when I got engaged and someone asked Chas if he loved me, to which he replied, “Yes, whatever that means”.

I’ll tell you what love means pal – it means NOT getting one of your servants to do your duty for you on the wedding night while you sit in the corner of the room in a pair of long johns, clutching a picture of Camilla and crying your f***ing eyes out.It also means NOT sidling up to John Travolta when your missus is dancing with him at the White House and saying,

“I’m a huge fan of Saturday Night Fever and you can have a go – as long as I can watch.”

Marriage? It’s for f***ing idiots.