One Had Me At Hello

Unless you have the cultural ignorance of a single mother from Canvey Island, you'll know that there is a little coming together on Friday. A wedding, and thank god, one that Hello Magazine hasn't been invited to.

...because thats all most of us are excited about right?

The wedding of Prince William and Kate (although it feels we are all contractually obliged to call her Catherine at the moment) Middleton is quite simply and in my opinion, fantastic. Who in Britain doesn't like a good wedding? One of our King's loved them so much, he had six of them. And tomorrow's groom is the son of someone who bumped off their own ex-wife just so he could have another wedding, therefore proving outright that the Monarchy loves a wedding.

Alright, maybe the evidence just presented does have a few holes in it, but still, in an age where weddings are about as fashionable as flare-ups and Nazism, its good to see the Royal Family showing us all how its done.

I know a lot of people who think marriage is dated and old hat. But as a particularly traditional soul, I see no problem with the art of getting married. Not only does it cement all those lovely values of love and happiness (debatable I digress) but it also means middle-aged women can go shopping for a lovely new hat that comes in a box bigger than Jupiter. And who am I to deny that?

But the Royal Wedding is a proper wedding. None of this half-arsed Camilla and Charles crap where the only smile you saw on Charles' face all day was when he was standing 3 inches away from Cam with a knife (bollocks it was to cut the cake, more like cut her face the scheming git).

The whole thing restores my faith in the British public as well. In a previous post, I had a bit of a rant about over-zealous patriots going bat-shit crazy over the national football team by displaying flags and painting everything down to their eyelids in the colours of St. George. But this is different. Whereas we're eternally hopeless at football, no one celebrates moments of national pride better than us Brits.

Take a look at the end of World War 2. How did we celebrate? Well, we had street parties, with tables longer than Jordan's dating record and the whole thing reeked of pride for our achievements. How did our allies celebrate? Well, the Russians raped and pillaged their way through east Germany, the Americans dropped armageddon on some Japanese and the Australians, ermmm....*realises personal knowledge of Australian history is limited so looks in the drawer marked 'stereotypes'* they probably had a barbecue on a beach.

But the point is, regardless of how much we criticise ourselves, British people are good at this stuff. While the cynicism instilled in us Brits wants there to be some kind of terrorist attack so we can all have a good moan about the police force and security, for once, there is an over-powering sense of being the centre of the world again, and as a result, should probably try and make sure it all goes down with minimal cock up.

Its going to be the same this time next year too, when the nations of Earth descend upon East London for the Olympics. Here again, we will see the people of Britain doing what the people do best. Which is pretend to be like the proud smug mum and dad of the cleverest kid in the class at parents evening, when really, you're still disappointed little Billy didn't get top marks.

There have been outcries of 'oooh Kate's far too common' and other protests of a similarly strange nature. 'Catherine' has parents who sit around all day in a £5million house. The only way she could be less common is if she slept on a bed of hippogriff feathers and was driven around by a steam-powered mechanical unicorn. Can you imagine the outcry if Harry got hitched to Chelsey? The Queen would probably think she was from The Only Way Is Essex (which we all know The Queen watches on a regular basis, or at leasts Sky+'s when she's out opening a museum or something).

And so as one sits here writing this totally unorganised assortment of words, you have to wonder if this is indeed it. Whether they'll live happily ever like Prince Charming and Sleeping Beauty, or whether William will tell the Parisian taxi driver to go via a narrow tunnel when he's decided he's had enough of Kate being too poor. One's thing for sure, nobody is gonna give a rats arse about anything come Friday. As long as the dress is 'beyond stunning' and the camera shows the Beckhams smiling, us Brits would be quite happy for the world to end as soon as the happy couple disappear behind the doors of Buckingham Palace.

Which is refreshing to say the least.

Keeping Up With The Joneses

It's taken me about a week and a half since the end of university spring term to get back into the swing of being at home. There are certain things I have to accept being at home: Dad running around the house like the clean up crew from Changing Rooms; Mum worrying constantly and asking if I still 'like being home' in a manner that would drive a parrot mad; and my little (I say little, the boy is basically the same size of me, if not taller) eyeing up any new clothes I buy to see if they match with any of his outfits in his own clothes emporium. You know, sorts of things I don't have to worry about when I'm at uni.

But there is one little tradition when I'm at home that I do enjoy. Dinner in the May household is normally served up at around 6.45/7ish, regardless of whats being served up. And if you are aware of the BBC1 schedule at this time, you'll know that come 7pm, The One Show starts. As Danny, mummy, daddy and brother May tuck into their evening meals, for most nights of the week our evening meal's atmosphere is provided by the BBC's flagship variety show.

During the Chiles and Bleakley years things were good. Say what you will about the Brummie frog-who-never-got-kissed-and-turned-into-a-handsome-prince, I think he's a fantastic presenter. He's got an eye for a joke and his laid-back style suited the programme perfectly. His relationship with Bleakley was one of the real draws of the programme, with conversation zipping back and forth, something that hasn't been replicated on Daybreak. Maybe they're still asleep, who knows.

Then the whole salary-gate saga went on and Chiles n' Bleakley must have had similar thoughts to those who give up their regular jobs to become postmen: 'why not start the day at 3am, finish at 9am and that way, we've got the rest of the day off!' Greedy semi-nocturnal bastards.

Great, she's got freckles too. Another thing she's ruined for me.

So then the producers cast comedian Jason Manford and relative unknown Alex Jones. Naturally the paps went berserk over the 'uncanny' resemblance between Jones and Bleakley, although as far as I was concerned the only similarity they had was they were both smiling in the pictures, meaning The Sun would probably be able to find a similarity between me and a half-eaten Jaffa Cake.

Unfortunately these two were more awkward than a high school first date when the rest of the football team is sat two rows back in the cinema. Such a lack of spark hasn't been seen in Britain since Guy Fawkes' gunpowder plot and the whole thing looked like it might end up in the BBC's waste bin alongside Top of the Pops and Richard Bacon's career. So, Manford hit the ejector seat in the plummeting plane, using every trouble maker's favourite toy Twitter to land himself in a smouldering pile of Daily Mail-loving sleaze and was probably quite relieved when he found himself booted off the show.

Leaving Alex Jones.

I've given her a chance. She started in September, it's now mid April, and still, she refuses to let loose. She's tighter than a nun's legs and probably about as funny as a pair too. She seems far more interested in the autocue than natural conversation, killing every joke stone dead just so the half-baked package on pigeon flying patterns goes out on schedule.

She's completely thick as well. Judging by the fact the BBC held 'rigorous auditions' to cast her, the competition must've consisted of a kid with Downs Syndrome and Abi Titmuss. Unfortunately my memory is a bit off so I can't remember some of the clangers she's dropped on air, but her lack of intelligence means The One Show's overall IQ is dropping to the dangerously low level set by The Only Way is Essex.

I'm aware that Christine Bleakley had a regional accent, but it was a bearable accent. Beneath all the IRA nonsense, you could understand what she was saying despite the hefty Northern Irish twinge. But Jones' accent is...well its pretty damn strong. I've had several P.E teachers who are so Welsh I'm surprised their bones aren't made out of the rocks that line the valleys, but their accent was barely audible in comparison to hers. I sit there wondering if the programme should be on that silly S4C channel (the one thats all in Welsh and it costs like £20million a day to run or something extortionate like that), because I cannot understand a bloody word the woman is saying.

For the love of God BBC, its time to draw the line on your diversity policy of hiring unknowns from towns where TV hasn't even been invented yet. Because, I cannot keep watching my beloved One Show while there is an unfunny, stupid incomprehensible Welsh muppet sat on the sofa rattling through the script without a care for presentation.

TV presenting is like shearing a sheep (I'm gonna try and make this work). Take your time and allow it to occur naturally and you get a tidy looking animal. Rush through it and you risk chopping the balls off. Please don't let this woman chop the balls off, my dinner times won't ever be the same.

(Yep, I think I got away with that one)

A Casual Ramble About Death

I had a go at being unemployed the other day. I am fully aware that I am indeed terminally unemployed and was never destined for work or manual labour during my teenage years. But I decided to do it properly the other day and watch a bit of daytime TV; a collection of shows designed only to address the minds of those who are unable to provide a service for a wage. Jeremy Kyle, Bargain Hunt, This Morning, Lorraine. They're like 8p cider. It's piss poor, you know full well it's gonna be piss poor, but that still doesn't stop you whacking a crate of the stuff on the till.

So there I was, sat on the sofa allowing my hyperactive mind to sit still for once by watching the unflappable Mr. Kyle tell a man he was a moron on national TV. Then the adverts rolled, and as predicted, the usual suspects reared their head. Car insurance, car insurance comparison sites, accident helplines; the sort of things that are likely to draw money from people too stupid to get a job.

But then an advert about life insurance appeared. The biggest con of all. If Hustle did TV adverts. If Danny Ocean started a business. If Fred Goodwin wanted another job. All three would point to life insurance. 'Have you planned your life ahead?' muttered Billy Murray, erring on the side of his old Eastenders character Johnny Allen instead of polite friendly life insurance salesman. I thought no. Instantly. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind. I look so young, people assume I'm going to order a Happy Meal whenever I go to McDonalds. The last thing I'm going to be thinking at the moment is what colour do I want my coffin to be when I finally lose the last of my nine lives. And with that, I turned the TV off and came back to reality.

Today I found myself in a care home. Some places on Earth just give me the creeps. Care homes being one of them. The queue for the Tower of Terror in Disney World being another. They're so sterile and devoid of any life I was surprised to find a human behind reception and not the Grim Reaper, sharpening his sickle and filling out forms with the blood of the last inmate to try the food.

As I walked through this institute, I saw things. Just things I'd never want to replicate. Old men shouting nonsensical nonsense at staff. Old women looking beaten and defeated as they stared with glass eyes at the telly. The smell...

So then I thought back to Billy Murray, and his suddenly logical question: 'Have you planned your life ahead?' I realised today, I don't ever want to be like that. That is the plan. Avoid mental illness, avoid care homes, avoid doing an impression of a vegetable.

When I'm old and decrepit (which owing to my Peter Pan-like ageing ability shouldn't be for a fair few years) I want to go out on a high. None of this slobbering at the mouth business, just send me on my way while I'm in the best shape possible. As soon as there is a hint of a mental illness, I want to get on the phone to Billy Murray and his crack team of crooks, take out some life insurance, then find some way of dying quietly in my sleep. No relying on Polish nurses to wipe my arse. I just don't think I'd be able to live out my days in that sort of state. I'm a happy-go-lucky chap, not someone who looks forward to cabbage and 17p canned mince after a hard day of staring at butterflies. I'm not saying that the people in these places weren't happy-go-lucky before they got there, its just that I'd rather not spend my last days on Shutter Island looking like a drunk Quasimodo.

There's a reason I'm rabbiting on about death. I have an essay to do. It's all I can think about.