This was my third night camped out in Windsor. At least it hasn’t rained. Its been just fantastic, sitting on my folding chair on a really nice bit of pavement, outside Greggs bakery who provide me with all (the carbs and sugar) I need. The atmosphere is wonderful, almost ‘electric’ as our crowd of union-jack draped, Queen-mask wearing flag wavers all ask each other what, exactly, we’re doing here and what the fuck were we thinking?? 3 days of my life that I’ll never get back. The boredom, when the news cameras aren’t telling us to cheer and look happy, the morons you have to talk to telling you their stories of how long they queued up (5 days) to sign the Diana memorial book and how at the last Royal wedding they actually saw a sideways glance, between 90,000 moving heads, of Pippa’s arse as it wiggled up the stairs!! But then last night it was all suddenly worth it. Worth all the cynicism, all the ennui, of that terrible feeling of nihilistic existential worthlessness, when Wills and Harry came and walked, quite literally, within 173 yards of where I was standing up screaming at the top of my voice. It was just amazing. Spectacular. Made life worthwhile once more. So I put my glasses on and realised I’d actually been looking the wrong way at some security guards. And then I did actually see them, in the flesh. And they looked… errr… they looked totally different than they do on the tv. Somehow… more… real, less… less televised.

I love a royal wedding. It makes me realise just how important I am in this great monarchy…

Woah!!! Just had a terrible dream. Awful. Fell asleep here at Terminal 5 waiting for the flight to St Petersburg and really thought I was waiting for The Wedding. Nightmare. My ‘who killed JR?’ moment in history. Never mind, I’m going to Russia where they’ll probably have a different take on today’s nuptials. If only I spoke Russian I might get their doubtless barbed and nasty commentary on a. a monarchy, b. Britain, c. something so wonderfully undemocratic in the very homeland of democracy itself.

Putin isn’t like the Queen. He’s much much richer. As any good communist should be. Richer than 10 Methuselahs, 17 Abramoviches or 4753 Manchester City players. And he’s a ‘real man’, all that bare-chested horsemanship and martial-arty baldness. A man you really have to admire. Mainly because if you don’t he will just have you killed. Simple as that.

But am I nervous? Nah. Don’t really do ‘nervous’ about foreign lands. But I do about long queues at passport control at hostile airports manned by humourless automatons trained to hate everyone from everywhere.

Enjoy the wedding,

Happy Saturday

A xxxx