I can barely contain my excitement about Pippa Middleton’s marriage on James Mitchell. From my uneducated eyes I wonder what it is that attracted Pippa to the multimillionaire Mitchell, but then she has decided to marry him, not me.
The BBC informs me that I can view the highlights of the wedding which I have decided to pass up. I am sure they are a delightful couple, though, and Pippa, I learned last week, has a bottom. This must be very handy for her when she requires use of the nearest bathroom, although I do not quite know how her derriere equates to her very public position of being the sister of a woman who married Bill Windsor. Enough people bought the Sun and Mail to read about it so to some who probably don’t get out much it must represent the very height of excitement.
I read – and I ask myself why on earth I am reading it – that Pippa and Jim are having a twin-centre honeymoon. Not for them a weekend in Rhyl, but instead a week at the “no expense spared” holiday in the Pacific island of Tetiaroa and then a week in Scotland because “Scotland means a lot to them”. Well it would because Jim’s family appears to own much of it.
There is something utterly surreal seeing acres of print being used to report on a wedding of one person no one has heard of and another who is famous for being the sister of someone else. I appreciate the slightly bizarre British obsession with the royals has something to do with it but I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone should care.
I suppose it keeps us plebs in our places, doffing our caps and accepting our own lowly place in society. Good luck to Pippa and Jim. I hope they have a good life together and that tabloid readers fill their boots with the coverage whilst the rest of us can get out more.