I’m bummed there are almost no pictures of Chelsy Davy, because when she walked into Westminster Abbey, we both went, “Oh… no.”
Not that it was AWFUL, per se, but the front was really kind of baggy and stodgy and stale, her hair looked rough around the edges, her fascinator was this random lacy disc with a bit of a veil, and her skin is the color of a thoroughbred. Chelsy seems like she could kick my ass, but I will forge ahead undaunted and say that I feel for her, because what Kate Middleton managed to develop in uncanny poise and polish, Chelsy terminally seems to be missing — in the sense that she always looks like she blew in on a slightly sweaty breeze. I decided she’s the European Tara Reid, a.k.a. the girl most likely to show up on E! hosting a show about Mustique’s best bathrooms to vomit in, or Ibiza’s best hangover food, or Majorca’s best beaches to pass out on at odd times of the morning.
I should point out that I’m making complete snap judgments about her, but that’s what happens when you’re pushing into hour 25 of no sleep and you just spent ten minutes shaking your fist at Ann Curry just because she’s there. She’s always there.