Royal Fascinators

So did you all get up at 4am on Friday to watch Will and Kate get married? Hmm?? I don’t want to make you jealous (well that’s not really true) but I have to tell you that I, humble D. Parker, was INVITED to the Royal Wedding! To say I was truly honored is like saying Bianca’s boyfriend was nonplussed when I asked him if the strange pair of underpants I found in our laundry were his. I cannot reveal the nature of my relationship with the new Duke and Dutchess of Cambridge, as it would be a breach of their privacy, or as the Brits say it with a short “i,” “PRI-vacy.” Suffice to say when I was vacationing in London a few years ago, I met Will and Kate (and Harry!) in a pub, where I had jumped on stage with a local band who had asked me to help them out with my tambourine skills. By the end of the night, Kate and I were singing karaoke together, I was speaking with an English accent, and much like the owner of the convenience store in her hometown of Bucklebury, I told Kate to remember me if she and Wills ever decided to make it legal.

I know what you’re thinking: “D. Parker, why didn’t we see you on the telly, during the many, many hours of the wedding broadcast?” Well that’s not such a good question, because not all of my readers have ever seen me in person so you wouldn’t know if you saw me on tv or not, but it is a good question in that I actually never did make it into Westminster Abbey but I’ll get to that later.

As soon as my invitation arrived, I quickly made my travel arrangements, and then got to thinking about my outfit for the special day. Should I wear a hat? a “fascinator?” or just go with a small tiara from my personal collection? I had to consider the possibility of the bride borrowing a tiara from the Queen, and I didn’t want to be chastised for trying to upstage her. So I opted to go with a fascinator because I figured I would get a lot of use out of that once I got it back home, what with all the occasions requiring wearing what looks like a bird’s nest on one’s head, and if I didn’t, it would make a great chandelier duster. Worst case scenario, I’d have a new Christmas tree ornament. It was Kate’s special day, not mine, and I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be doing anything to steal her thunder. At least not during the ceremony (or “cere-mUny” as the Brits say). What went on behind closed doors at the reception would be a completely different scenario, and I was confident that Kate, knowing me as she does, would come prepared with her own microphone and tambourine, probably bedazzled by a fancy designer like Philip Treacy or Stella McCartney, and not assume that she could share mine (personally Bedazzled with fake pearls and cheap crystals, but looking very “bridal” nonetheless).

The days prior to the wedding were like a whirlwind, and faster than I could ask “Do you have any cold beer?” it was go time! There I was, dressed to the nines, on my way to Westminster Abbey, trying not to move my head too much for fear that my fascinator would fall off, but trying to move it enough that a bird wouldn’t decide to lay an egg in it. This was, hands down, the most exciting thing I had ever experienced in my life, if you don’t count the time I saw Adam West, the original “Batman” of my youth, talking to Regis Philbin on the corner of 44th and Sixth. I was literally on the RED CARPET, steps away from the glorious entrance, when I was thrown up against the wall by a Royal Guard. Apparently they all don’t just stand there staring straight ahead for hours on end.

“I beg your pardon madam, but I am going to have to ask you what color your dress is.”
WTF?? Nobody told me there was going to be a quiz! Was this a trick question? As I tried in vain to readjust my fascinator, I noticed Elton John walking by. Damn it, I was missing all the celebs!
“It’s bloody yellow!” I shouted, in my best Cockney accent. I mean this dress was yellower than the belly on a yellow-bellied sap sucker.
“I’m sorry madam, I’m going to have to ask you to step behind the barricades and join the spectators.”
Huh?? There had to be some mistake….or did Bianca’s boyfriend infiltrate the Royal Guard to get back at me for the Underpants Incident? As I dug through my handbag in search of my precious invitation I noticed the Beckhams. Victoria appeared to have some sort of weapon hanging off the front of her hat, and I was hoping she would step close enough to this guard to take his eye out with it so I could give him the slip. But clearly she was using it to keep women away from her beautiful husband, and I was at a loss.

Some of you might be thinking, “D. Parker, don’t you know you aren’t supposed to wear the same color as the Queen?”  Well for god’s sake, did you? This was some anti-American trick to get us back for winning the Revolution, I’m sure of it.  So I was banned from the wedding, just like that.  Forced to stand among the masses who had been camping out for days and days, unshowered and unwilling to share their champagne with someone callous enough to try and outdo HRH Queen Elizabeth II. Who, in my opinion, had bigger fish to fry than me: did you get a look at those awful, homely, Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie? Tell me their outfits were not insulting to the entire country, much less the monarchy! There I was worried a bird might land on my head, when this chick was trying to channel a peacock. And I don’t even know what to say about her sister’s ensemble, except that if she was using the contraption she had strapped to her head to keep the eligible bachelors at a safe distance, she needn’t have worried. And don’t even get me started on that beast, Camilla Parker-Bowles. Let’s just say that her stylist must be a real jokester. (“Camilla, dahling, everyone knows that wearing a drop waisted coat with pleats at the hips is the only way to look slim!”)

Sigh. Things in the States might not seem as exciting, but I can dust my chandelier with my fascinator if I want to, and wear my yellow dress and my tiara wherever, whenever I want. Long Live the Queen. ME!