Before most people rose from their beds on Saturday, I, along with thousands of other peasants across the Commonwealth, witnessed the union of an American actress and the Queen’s red-headed grandson.
In the brief span of minutes that my associate Don and I spent hurtling down the highway towards the Jack Graham Community Centre in Bristol, it struck me that this was one of the oddest assignments I had ever undertaken.
To gather in a hall and sip mimosas with strangers while watching a television program at 5:30 in the morning is one thing, to come out on the other side with a coherent narrative to put on paper is another.
In addition, I had decided against any research about the Royals or the bride and groom to-be, opting instead to rely on my fellow viewers to fill in the blanks for me. Much like the reality shows that drop naked people in the forest to see if they can survive, I was going to have to get by with just my wits.
Fearing I would appear too much like the disheveled, moon-faced outsider that I am, I asked Don if I should tuck in my tuxedo t-shirt.
He didn’t think it would make much difference.

That’s one of the reasons we keep him around, to dish out the harsh truths and generally act as the Sancho to my Don Quixote. He was pulling double-duty on this assignment as both designated driver and official photographer.
There were far more vehicles parked outside than we had anticipated. How could two people exchanging vows across the Atlantic Ocean get people out of bed at this ungodly hour?
Bonnie Beveridge, president of the Norway Bay Historical Society and the ringleader behind the viewing party, greeted me and gave me the itinerary. Nearly everyone in the room was dressed up and wearing their fancy hats, which I learned are called fascinators.
As someone who infrequently peruses the tabloids at the grocery store checkout, I had only vague notions about the kind of complex pageantry that awaited me. This was hammered home when Beveridge explained that we had shown up to watch the parade of guests in swanky clothes enter the church before the service. I took a large gulp of my mimosa.
Several of the ladies at my table were discussing the upcoming ceremony like scouts at a sporting match and I tried to absorb as much of their background knowledge as I could.
This was being billed as a modern fairy tale wedding, and would likely be the last one for a good while.
Apparently, a gal named Charlotte was predicted to be “the belle of the ball” and others wondered which tiara the bride would wear. Someone thought they saw Princess Margaret, but the experienced viewers at my table quickly informed them that she was dead.
A gaudy wedding countdown timer BROUGHT TO YOU BY STARBUCKS flashed across the screen at regular intervals, with all the elegance of a turd in a punchbowl. I was glad to see that despite this wedding breaking from several traditional norms, cable television remained constant.
The excitement in the room definitely ratcheted up as the Royal family began to arrive. The topic of discussion switched to what colour the Queen would be wearing, and whether the bride’s hair would be up or down.
The groom and his brother turned up in their military dress, prompting several catcalls from the audience.
The only on-screen arrival to get a tepid reception from my tablemates was Camilla, though everyone seemed to approve of her hat (personally, I thought it was a little much).
Her Majesty, the Queen arrived in an armoured vehicle that would make the Pope jealous, dressed in an upbeat yellow outfit and carrying herself like a mafia Don. The gaggle of young children seemed to be the highlight for the folks at my table.
The vehicle carrying the bride raced up the cartoonishly-long promenade to the chapel, and a voice rang out above the excited murmurs. Her hair is up, it’s been confirmed.
The bride was hardly out of the car before people were calling her dress iconic. Beveridge didn’t recognize the tiara, and consulted her literature on the subject.
The ceremony passed without too much fanfare, though many thought that American Bishop Michael Curry’s sermon dragged on a little too long (I heard someone call for him to “pull the plug”), and judging by the looks on many Royals faces, they had reached the same conclusion.
A talking head on the TV commented that sermons are typically kept within seven minutes.
Before we knew it, the couple was on the steps of the church having their first kiss as husband and wife, and the emotion in the room was palpable.
Several minutes later, they clambered into a carriage and the spell was broken. People began to peter out of the room and Don and I said our goodbyes.
I didn’t know what to expect going into this assignment. I didn’t think I would enjoy a glitzy performance of this sort, but the ladies I shared a table with were excellent guides for my journey to the centre of this pop-culture heart of darkness. A big thank-you to all of them for their wisdom.
In a time where we are perpetually bombarded with bad news, it was actually kind of nice to get (somewhat) dressed up and overly invested in something as care-free and whimsical as a Royal wedding.