I woke up to a village with no bunting, so I presumed that we weren't having a street party, which was a relief. I headed off out to the shops to buy a couple of bottles of Scotch ready to settle down in front of the telly to decide which was the worst location given to a BBC correspondent. No such luck – I got home only to find the family in the other car, waiting for me. Apparently we were due at a royal wedding party, and I had been told about it several times in the past week. I snuck the whisky into the boot and slunk in to the car.
The neighbour's house had been covered in so much bunting that I feared for its structural integrity. We entered what I can only describe as a hell-zone. All the other guests had come wearing tails or their original wedding dresses. The kids were dressed as though for some Little Lord Fauntleroy themed fancy dress event. My whole family froze in the doorway. I hoped this meant that we were going to turn and run. No such luck. I was informed that they were returning home to get changed into something more ludicrous while I was told to stay and "mingle".
I was in shorts, a T-shirt, and hobbling on my bionic boot, thanks to my fractured foot. I must have looked like one of Prince Harry's dodgier friends – one of the ones that were subtly disinvited, along with the Syrian Ambassador. I sat down in an empty room watching more and more obscure members of the BBC presenting community attempt to keep things exciting. When I got to Matt Allwright from Rogue Traders interviewing a lookalike Kate and William I went in search of a whisky. In the kitchen two women were slow-dancing in their wedding dresses like drunken meringues fantasising over somehow re-living their lives and bagging the ginger prince. I squeezed past as one started weeping and found the Scotch.
Slipping out of the back door, I sat next to a depressed-looking man in tails who kept saying that his wife looked better now than she had when he'd married her. The fact that she was wearing her wedding dress really rubbed this in. It didn't seem like a problem to me. It was for him: she was apparently having a steamy affair with a man she had originally hired as their "manny". I kept my views on "mannies" to myself and offered him a drink, but it turned out that he was a recovering alcoholic too. I left him muttering to himself, and went back inside.
In the television room, people were watching a man in a crazy hat being interviewed about his crazy hat. Unsurprisingly, the man with the crazy hat turned out to be crazier than his hat. The hapless reporter who had decided to interview the crazy-hat man live was now struggling to understand a single word. I managed to make out "toothbrush", "Harley Davidson" and "Mama" before the director cut to a crazy-haired Fearne Cotton who was trying to get anything intelligible out of three potential car thieves. The BBC had seriously decided to go freestyle with their roving reporters this year. I fully expected them to cut to Peaches Geldof discussing philosophy with Basil Brush in Hyde Park.
While we waited for the balcony kiss, lunch was served. We ate British beef off Union flag plates before some Union flag cupcakes were handed round and we all trooped back in to see if they would use tongues. The Royal Family assembled on the balcony, the crowd roared, "Kiss! Kiss!" and finally William gave Kate a chaste peck on the outer lips. It makes you proud to be British.
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