I had a good time watching the ChickFest on television. I mean the princely wedding, of course. I did not mind, I had the time and I am secure in my sexual orientation. I watched it on French language television to make sure I had plenty of smirking opportunities.
Weddings are important to women, of course and British royal weddings are right on the top of the ladder because of the massive display of bad taste and insincerity they allow. And think of the commentary on human nature of the fact that practically all women agree about what is not a woman’s greatest day. It’s not when she takes her first step; it’s not when she learns to write her name; it’s not when she reads her first book; it’s not when she graduates; it’s not when she discovers good sex; it’s not when she has her first child; it’s not … The greatest day in a woman’s life, they agree, is when she is able to tie man to her by legal and religious means thereby making escape difficult and costly. If I were a member of NOW, I would hang my head in shame.
I liked the show because there comes a point where very bad taste becomes attractive. It just takes a lot of it. The British monarchs are masters of this metamorphosis. There is no place in the world that gathers in one place so many military uniforms hanging on men who have never heard a shot fired in anger. And the bling on them would have triggered violent jealous rage in ghetto rappers if they had been watching. There is also no greater concentration of ridiculous hats on women’s heads. By the way, the old queen was true to herself with a bright yellow job.
The French commentators did not disappoint. They ran a mindless chatter of awful clichés in bad French for several hours. (This is a mean classist remark, of course.)The only good French spoken on the French channel was by the designer Karl Lagerfeld, who is German.
In my opinion – but what do I know, except from movies – the only aristocratic-looking guests were the father and mother of the bride, commoners both, of course. For all my pettiness, I agree that there was no harm done. It was innocent entertainment. Yet, it re-inforces my conviction that practically no woman can get on her high horses with me and demand to be taken more seriously all the time or even most of the time. Again, no harm done.
I even positively liked two things. The bells tolling for hours enchanted me and I thought having trees inside Westminster Abbey was downright cool.