My sister emailed me from her new home in England earlier this week, saying “these Brits are weeing themselves about this wedding business, and even I’m excited. It’s contagious…like the plague.”
A couple questions about the Canucks, their penchant for disappointing the masses and Stephen Harper’s increasingly Trump-like hair followed in the email that summarized these exciting times. But it was the wedding thing and its impact on even the most closeted Royals fan that got my brain buzzing.
Our mother, a fresh-off-the-boat Brit, raised us on a heap of anti-Royalist sentiment, which has, quite frankly been an issue I’ve awkwardly avoided my entire life. When friends heard her mispronounce aluminum and realized her distaste for emotional outpourings, they automatically assumed she had a stash of Queen Elizabeth plates in a cupboard somewhere, and if they came over in their wellies and a change of clothes, they could make it for tea and discuss Welsh corgis.
Imagine being an elementary school student having to explain that their mum actually has a bad taste in her mouth over the cost of the monarchy, their role in modern society and Charles’ looks. Needless to say, I just side-stepped the topic and crossed my fingers that they wouldn’t cozy up to her with their thoughts about princesses.
That said, my own Royal fondness hit its peak at the same time. When history lessons taught me my country’s founding fathers were a load of grubby fur traders with dodgy practices and even less exciting shifty politicians—Tommy Douglas excluded—I took solace in England’s crazy history.
Henry the VIII lopping off the heads of powerful queens had a lot more romance and excitement.
But somewhere along the way, that interest faded. In fact, it’s disappeared entirely.
I’ve even been turning up my nose at all this wedding hubbub and mocking those who have been caught up with Royal fever, but today, for reasons unknown, I feel the same curiosity about foreign glamour taking me over.
I actually want to know, will Kate Middleton’s dress live up to the hype? Will she torture her bridesmaids with some nasty silky number more fit for a pageant than a Royal red carpet? Will Hot Harry on a Horse outshine his big brother? Will protestors steal the limelight from the jewel-laden, celebrity-rich event? How will these nuptials impact the franchise?
I’m ashamed to admit it, but Stephen Harper could light his fine civilization of hair on fire this week, the youth vote could rise to 100 per cent and Cedar Avenue’s potential park could become the battle ground of nudist squatters for all I care—it’s the big day.
So, sorry mum. I’m putting on my wellies, boiling water for some tea, dressing my chihuahua as a corgi and getting my Royal groove on. It’s a strange global happy-fest that I can’t help but tune into— God Save the Queen, be she ever so far away, expensive and outmoded.
Kathy Michaels is a staff reporter for the Kelowna Capital News.