My day might have ended — at least mentally — once I went to bed at 9 a.m. Friday morning, but William and Catherine “Kate Middleton” Cambridge Carrickfergus Etc. went on to a few post-wedding shindigs (if only Harry’s Best Man toast would end up on YouTube…). The bride once again wore McQueen, the groom wore a tux, Harry and Pippa presumably wore lusty grins on their faces at one another because they are only human after all, people wore hats, and Camilla… well. Camilla. She may not have realized there was still a party happening.
Fug File: The Royal Wedding
I’m sure there will be more to discuss come Monday, like what everyone changed into for the approximately three thousand after-parties, but for now here are the links that might help you relive the anticipation and the eventual scratching-of-the-itch.
- We covered A History of Wills’ Hotness, complete with him lugging giant spears and nibbling on his thumb and gazing pensively into middle distance; then we looked at Kate Middleton’s style and speculated in the comments that she’s gotten an unneeded but also truly subtly excellent nose job that streamlined things just-so, and threw Harry some slideshow love because he’s no mere spare to us (nor any warm-blooded creature with eyes).
- Jessica did a hilarious Fug the Fromage of William & Kate, the soft-focus biopic of the couple that aired on Lifetime, which looked insanely terrible and dull, because nobody really completely knows the details and nobody could fill in the blanks with anything too salacious or else Lives Would Be At Stake, or something.
- We covered what some of the random fancy-pants royals wore The Night Before.
- We live-blogged the runup to The Blessed Event, and then the wedding itself, and some of the aftermath. It was fun. We were exhausted.
- We put the madcap ensembles of Beatrice and Eugenie — Fergie’s princesses — to a Freaky Fug Friday (submissions due by Sunday at 10 p.m.!)
- We wrote up a bunch of the guests, and of course The Queen, for NY Mag, and reviewed the wedding spectacle itself
- And of course, we featured Kate’s glorious dress, Posh & Becks, William and Harry in uniform, Pippa Middleton looking lovely but in my opinion a tad too slinky and ME ME ME for the occasion, the nasally challenged Tara Palmer-Tomkinson and her cranial canoe, and Harry’s girlfriend Chelsy Davy. Who we worry might get into a scrap with Pippa based on how Harry seemed to appreciate her, uh, assets. Hey, it’s what Tara Reid would do, we imagine.
Phew. GOOD TIMES. Let’s do it again. Come on, Harry, pick your poison.
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.
I really wish you could see the wonk in socialite Tara P-T’s nose. It basically recently collapsed, because — she’s admitted this — prolonged cocaine use jacked it up almost beyond repair. She kept touching the right side of it really gingerly, as if making sure it hadn’t shifted any further to the left. Oh, Tara. You are a delight.
A delight, and presumably a canoeing enthusiast, as she’s strapped one to her skull. Do we think this is what became of Violet Beauregard? A rampant drug habit brought on by years of ritual juicings, ending in her at a royal wedding holding her nose in place while a very cold horizontal Dutch person goes clogging on her forehead? Poor Violet. At least Veruca got a golden egg on her way down to the incinerator.
And of course we wrote about it for NY Mag:
“The first glimpse of a girl in her gown, about to change her life in ways even she may not fully grasp, managed to be breathtaking even to those of us who like to think we are thoroughly jaded.”
And also, we made fun of some hats to boot. Pop over there and check out the entire piece, if you’re so inclined.
Well, we can’t let the girls have all the fun, right?