Queen D muses on our Kingdom’s future king, breaking free from the the traditions of the past and having a right royal knees-up this weekend!

Queen D is cheering our future king, that jug-eared old buffer Chaz. I like mavericks and he’s been busy bucking trends for decades, ever since he admitted secretly yakking to his best friends who just happened to be plants. Miserable republicans dismiss Prince Charles as a self-obsessed ageing brat who longs to reign over us, but he has my loyal royalist vote. Not only did he marry a fun-loving gin-drinking horse, he banned that specimen of female buffoonery, Sarah “Fergie” Duchess of York, from this up and coming royal wedding. The reason? Apparently he said he can’t stand the woman, never could. Simples. Forget she’s mother of the Queen’s grandchildren and ex-wife of that appalling Prince Un-hand-me Andy. She’s a right royal pain in the arse so no invite. The end, said HRH.

How many times do we wish we could do the same? “Love you to come to dinner on Saturday, Becca. Leave Nigel at home, would you? He’s just too boring for words.”

As king-in-waiting and dad of Hazza, our bonnie Prince Charlie lives in rarified air. He has dungeons full of spondoolicks so money’s no object when it comes to his sons’ weddings.  He’s hosting the imperial knees-up after the nuptials and as he was in charge of the invitations, no doubt he was bucking more trends than just giving Fergie the royal finger. In his lineup of 250 lucky guests, no doubt there’s a good number of his favourite eco warriors, dodgy Saudi princes and 1980’s showbiz stars (apart from the ones in prison who’ll be sent a piece of wedding cake in the post).

Here’s another trend he’s bucked. Parents are so over as far as weddings are concerned, even if they’re coughing up dosh for the big day. It’s positively infra dig to send out invitations from Mr and Mrs requesting the pleasure of company at a forthcoming marriage. The kidz are in kontrol now. They decide who’s celebrating their special day, and invitations come from them, with parents allocated space for two friends and a loopy cousin. 

But not when Charlie’s in charge.  Not only has he decided who’s coming, he decides where they sit. Queen D reckons he’s had the best fun with the table plan. He’ll put Harry’s mates together because they’ll make whooping and hollering noises in the right places during his speech. He’ll lump all the dreadful titled relatives in a corner to bore each other to death about who’s the most inbred, then indulge in some skilled mixing and matching. After downing two bottles of claret, his chum with the crumbling piles is likely to explain dogging to anyone sitting next to him, so that’s Meghan’s granny sorted. And Prince Abdullah can be parked next to the comedian who brings the house down with jokes about Mecca and bingo.

While admiring Charlie’s ability not to give a toss about convention, what’s not to love about the traditions of our royal weddings? We Brits do it so well. For a day or two, we can bask in the glow of worldwide envy. All that fancy dress marching about, all those snorting glossy steeds jangling their harnesses, and wall-to-battlement-wall aristocracy led by the Queen of all Queens nodding to each other in fairytale carriages and waving gloves at seas of little plastic red white and blue flags. It’s always a spectacular display of wealth and privilege which only the British can lay on without the risk of peasants with pitchforks having a meltdown.

While Prince Charles bucks trends, the wedding will set them. Just as fashion queens predict frilly this or slinky that, up pops a royal bride in The Dress They Never Saw Coming, and within hours it’s a copycat race down every High Street. Brides-to-be, themselves and their credit cards nothing, can step into the dress of Meg’s dreams and, followed by a gaggle of day-glo damsels, glide to the side of their own precious princes to promise the earth and live a life of romantic bliss.

Enter Queen D with shocking statistics. After around ten years, like the Meg-style dress in the attic fading in its box, the magic has gone. 42% of marriages ended in divorce at the last count.

Harry and Meghan will promise to love, honour and obey when they say, “We do.” They don’t have to – the law doesn’t require too many promises to be made, thereby avoiding the sound of them smashing to smithereens a decade later. Couples actually only have to declare they’re legally free to marry, and then, in front of witnesses and the law, say, “You’re my wife now, Dave,” or words to that effect.

Even more shocking, according to a recent survey, one in five brides and grooms promise to love each other forever with their fingers mentally crossed. Standing there, reciting vows from a prayer book of a religion they don’t follow in the name of a god they don’t believe exists, or drowning in a cascade of home-made vows between poetic prophets and Adele, 20% are actually thinking, “WTF?”

But still we try, with more and more couples marrying and believing they will buck the trend. Even the most zealous party animal knows their wedding is one thing, their marriage is another. Queen D’s wish for Harry and Meg is they will beat the odds and their marriage will not just survive, but thrive.

Because marriage works, even if it takes a couple of goes. The cynic in Queen D may want to shake those starry-eyed brides until their whitened teeth rattle, and cut up all their credit cards, but hey at least they’re having a go and not just settling for a mere mundane moving in together.

On the royal wedding day, the romantic in Queen D will crack open the bubbles and settle down to watch it on telly, mentally throwing rose petals and blowing kisses, and echoing every awestruck commentator’s gasp with hiccups of her own. She’ll shed a little tear in the name of love and romance. She will even wave a little plastic flag and trust that hope and luck, the twins of good fortune, will trot away with Meg and Harry into the sunset. And while we’re at it, Shinies, let’s raise a glass to Charles and his beloved Camilla, Mr and Mrs Maverick, and drink a toast, to the skill of trend bucking. Cheers!