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May 9, 2011 / Siobhan Argent

Wills and Katz: Tacko-rama wedding


Published 5/5/11 at Farrago

Forget London, Will and Kate should have been married in Melbourne! Picture this: St. Paul’s Cathedral. St. Paul’s Cathedral, Melbourne. It’s the middle of the afternoon with beautiful sunshine and a steady stream of gawkers falling off the road and tumbling into the Yarra. The passers-by are too busy rubbernecking at all the fashionistas walking around like it’s Spring Carnival in April (because that is, after all, pretty much the standard dress code at royal weddings). Thorpie has his best morning dress on, but God knows why he’s actually there. Julia Gillard finds yet another block colour to saturate herself in and stuns fashion reporters with a wacky bit of two-tone layering: blue and cream.

Once everyone is seated with mini bubble-blowers and whir-click digital cameras at the ready, Kate Middleton and proud dad Michael make their entrance. At this point, international debate varied as to what song would announce the bride’s arrival in that hallowed Melbourne institution. Kate and dad could have shimmied up the aisle to the tune of ‘Waltzing Matilda’, a modern Melbourne-shuffle-style take on ‘Skippy’, or gone slightly more conservative by selecting one of our greatest 17th century classical composers, otherwise known as Complete Silence. When they go with the latter, the crowd starts up their own chants like a crowd at a cricket arena. Soon enough somebody calls ‘six!’, the crowd goes wild, Mexican Waves are attempted and die quickly, and the bride seizes her fiancé’s arm and throws a menacing glare at anyone she suspects may be liable to try a nudie run.

But from there, the ceremony is relatively blasé: once the deed’s all done and the famous duo are posing for photographs outside, the heavens break loose and saturate everyone too stupid not to take Melbourne’s ‘four seasons in one day’ mantra to heart and bring an umbrella. The Queen is eager to get outside for a smoko but a touch p.o’d that her ciggy pack got wet: full story in tomorrow’s newspapers. Shane Warne hovers outside in morning finery, hoping to grab Kate’s mobile number in the event that, in twenty years’ time, she has a mid-life crisis and needs a desperate fling with a pudgy, walking hair advertisement to make her feel alive again.

After the flash downpour, Wills and Katz take solace in the cheerful $20 pints at the nearest rip-off friendly pub around the corner. Semi-comatose from fatigue, they both lean on the pub bar, heedless of the fact that an emulsion of beer stains and white Chantilly lace usually means the pansy (lace) comes out second best. The night progresses and dissolves into typical royal frivolity; Wills loses his honorary sword in a darts contest, while the bride and bridesmaid chug down some much-needed second-rate parmas.
While Pippa may have the Italians in a tizzy over her expensively covered white rear, it’s un-Australian to let girls get any skinnier than the average barbecue chicken kebab.

At the end of the formal element of the evening, the Queen asks Katz for her tiara back, because the monarch is a terrible hoarder and she never knows when she might next need a 1936 Cartier diamond-encrusted ornament. She keeps it locked up in her best glass cabinet, along with some spare meat trays and several issues of Woman’s Weekly from 1954 and 2006, with the recipe pages torn out.

There are people coming in to the pub to watch a covers band sing Bon Jovi hits; they clap and throw wolf-whistles towards the wedding couple. And while the entire crowd has been nudging and winking over Harry and Pippa, hoping they’ll soon have another excuse to get ‘off their faces’ for the sake of love, they’ll just have to wait for the tabloid papers to Photoshop in their ‘magical connection’ for the next day’s news.

Willz and Kate, dancing off into the sunset…if there’d been a kangaroo involved in the proceedings, maybe it could have given Her Royal Corgis a run for their money.

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