For every single “ooh”-worthy picture from the royal wedding, break your finger clicking on this epic wedding-picture post.
It’s okay. You can stop pretending you don’t care now.
In approximately three days, when Meg and Haz – now officially the Duke and Duchess of Sussex – nick off on honeymoon and stop smiling at intrusive cameras, you can officially go back to being a true-blue republican. You can shake off the oppressive need to know more than anyone needs to about the family tree of a Hollywood actress and the dietary choices of proposing royals.
But tonight. Tonight, this is a judgement-free space – a place where petty things like cost, inequality and Nazi-dress-up parties are but an irrelevance. It’s time to roll with the royal wedding…
Stage 1: Arrivals lounge.
Oprah is there, people. Oprah. That’s it. We can all go home. This recap is prematurely irrelevant. She’s wearing a straw hat and Idris Edra. It’s over.
We’d heard that the Queen was coming four minutes before the Bride. Obviously not.
Speaking of royalty, Posh and Becks are here, too. Princess Victoria Beckham is wearing black, possibly navy if we're generous. We're not sure if that's okay. Maybe she looks so grumpy because Becks keeps getting stopped for selfies and since he's the Nicest Man In The World (since that whole Rebecca Loos thing, at least) he can't say no. Which leaves Posh hanging around with sore feet in her kick-arse red heels.
Actually, scratch that, only thongs would hurt Vicky's feet.
Okay. Amal Clooney has just answered the question of whether or not it's okay that Victoria Beckham is wearing black: It's not.
And then there are the Suits women. Look, even if you've never watched an episode of Suits, you know who they are, because they look like they're from Hollywood. They look like they gave the wardrobe department a brief - dress us for a royal wedding - and they NAILED IT. Hats. Structure. GLAMOUR.
But hold the phone because Fergie is here, and as I just explained to my co-workers, this is not the Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas, but Fergie the 'disgraced' royal who no-one knows what to do with.
If you're wondering why Fergie walked up to the church alone, rather than with her two properly-royal daughters, it's because she is NOT ALLOWED to arrive with them. They are royal. And since she got her toes sucked, tried to sell some royal china and got done in a tabloid sting trying to sell access to her ex-husband, Fergie is NOT. NOT ROYAL AT ALL. So she can't walk in with her girls, and she can't sit with them. See what you're letting yourself in for, Meghan?
So walk in on your own, lady. Head up. Smile on. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Oh. Such cruel lessons of fashion have been learned by Fergie's daughters. They both got absolutely ripped to shreds after Royal Wedding: The Last One for wearing daring Philip Treacy (read: expensive and difficult to get) headpieces - and so decided to avoid becoming memes this time by wearing really, really boring outfits. They look fine. In fact, Beatrice looks like she's a wife in The Handmaid's Tale, but still, fine.
And then. Harry. And William. They're wearing some Officer And A Gentleman stuff. And I'm sorry, but we're so glad Harry didn't shave and we know we shouldn't be stirred by images of military oppression, but they look HOT.
Even William. And that's not something we ever say.
Stage 2: The Big Reveal.
Come on. This is all we're here for, really. Even the most lemon-lipped 'there are more important things going on in the world' snob wants to see this bit. The dress bit.
It seems cruel, this drawn-out reveal. The car, the glimpse of sparkle. The sleeves. Come on, that car could drive a lot faster.
The Mamamia Out Loud team huddle together for a raw, unedited, and slightly inappropriate Royal Wedding debrief. Post continues.
But first. Almost as good as the dress, it's the kids. Meghan wasn't down with picking a Maid of Honour. Every woman knows that's a mugs' game. If you haven't got a sister who's got the perfect distracting bum, one of your friends is forever elevated above all the others.
Meghan is smarter than that. She works in HOLLYWOOD, people. She knows how shit works. Cute kids are the way to go. With their mums, so that their sticky little fingers get nowhere near your...
Impeccably white, breathtakingly simple, absolutely goddam perfectly classic Givenchy dress.
Seriously. That's a classy, classy choice. Here is a woman who had every dress in the world to choose from, literally. She could have chosen a diamond-encrusted mermaid sheath, stitched with the hair of virgin unicorns - and instead she turns up in this - the most simple, Hepburn-y, fresh-as-you-like frock you've ever seen.
No-one will ever wear a beaded wedding dress again. That's it. An entire industry has just crumbled.
But then, oh, okay, the veil that arrives four minutes after Meghan. The party in that dress is ALL at the back. And that's where those little page-boy fingers are coming in really, really useful. Because how good does that mega-veil look in the hands of teeny-tiny aristocrats?
The look on Harry's face when he saw the Perfect Dress is telling us that he was relieved about the absence of mermaid sheath and unicorn hairs. He must have been worried there for a moment, because, well, Meghan is American, after all.
Stage 3: The Ceremony.
Let's be real. No-one cares about the bit in the middle. Well, usually they don't.
But anyone who has ever sat through an hour-long religious wedding without their phone WISHES they were at this one.
Because yes, the couple are exchanging quiet-but-steamy looks, and can barely let go of each other's hands, but the best part came not in watching the face of Harry's ex Chelsy Davy (who remained composed and smiley throughout, quietly ruminating on the 'I dodged a bullet' vest she was wearing under her inconspicuous navy suit).
And it's not the part when the vicar asks if anyone has any problem with this union and Meghan holds her breath in case one of her errant step-siblings has wormed their way past security in a very large hat.
NO. The moment is when Michael Curry - an African American preacher from New York City who conducts same-sex marriages and campaigns for day care centres in vulnerable neighbourhoods - takes to the pulpit and delivers a sermon that makes every posh English person in the place squirm and side-eye like embarrassed teenagers as they try to comprehend the presence of a religious leader speaking with such... passion.
Watching Duchess Kate trying to catch Camilla's eye - 'Who let him in?' - has made my life and now I can die happy.
Right now, every royal in the room realised at the same time that - shit - 'This is a bit... different'.
Kudos to the #RoyalWedding for being blacker than the Oscars.
— Anand Giridharadas (@AnandWrites) May 19, 2018
And just as they were reeling from that realisation, that an African American preacher had been allowed to take his sweet time speaking in front of the Queen - the congregation was hit with another reality check.
A black-British gospel choir, singing a Ben E King song.
We're not in Kanas anymore, Toto.
This is the moment when, if Prince Philip had not just had a hip removed (or something), he would have jumped up, spat on the floor and hobbled from the place at speed.
It's beautiful. It's perfect.
And then, just to make sure my heart really does soar to heaven, the national anthem is sung, and Meghan's magnificent mother, Doria Ragland, the single mum who raised her, does not stand up. Because she doesn't have to.
This is the best royal wedding that has ever happened and I never want it to end.
Oh. It's ended.
Stage 4: The kiss.
These two have clutched each other through the whole damn thing. PDAs are totally their bag. But they are not allowed to pash. Because they are royal, and because this is a church.
So as soon as they get out of that place it's on and Harry finally gets to kiss Megs. With flowers all around, the sun shining and a gospel choir audibly singing something atmospheric in the background, seriously, no-one would be even a little bit surprised if bluebirds flew out of ears and glitter rained from the sky.
But somehow, it doesn't. And somehow, these two manage to keep themselves nice and not let that smooch go on for five minutes, which is just totally what you know they want to do. Their eyes are practically falling out of their heads.
But they can't, because there's a carriage waiting, and a very long trot to "breakfast", waving all the way.
Let's face it, cynics, this wedding was possibly perfect. The whole shebang.
And now we can all go back to our usual, cynical selves. Because, really, the royals. Such parasites.
Until the baby, at least.
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