Dunno how things are looking from where you’re standing, but from here it seems that the globe’s most pressing problems have been solved. See, a story has hit the news with such force that it might have left a crack in it and, from the hysterical reaction to said story, starvation, poverty and war are clearly no longer anything for us to get het up about. That’s right. Jennifer Aniston’s nuptials might clash with Angelina Jolie’s. And yeah, we are expected to give a shit.
See, Aniston’s wedding to some bloke with over-tweezed eyebrows is reportedly being held on the same weekend as Jolie’s wedding to a bloke with an under-tweezed chin. According to the foam-brained pen-fiddlers behind said story this is all about years of snubbage between the varying marrying parties, a bit like an episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show but with fistfuls of money and full sets of teeth. And for some reason this doesn’t just make a story. It makes a story that will attempt to overshadow everything from fine-dodging ministers to jail-dodging terrorists. That’s right. Fuck the announcement of the new Pope because Jen’s just revealed the size of her party favours.
Yet it’s not just the wild-eyed blabbering of the purveyors of gossip who care about this. For some reason that eludes me like a size 10 arse, we are all supposed to care about it. The way we are being delivered fevered reports of whether there will be a “battle” over guests suggests that none of us have a decent grasp of reality until we’re crumbling over whether George Clooney will turn up at Angie’s post-vow disco or Jen’s conjugal barn dance.
The truth is, though, that I really couldn’t give a fuck. In fact, I gave less of a fuck about the details of my own wedding so I’m not about to abandon my sanity over whether Angie’s ordered the bloody napkins yet. That won’t stop the world’s press from force feeding us with every sordid detail of the duo’s nuptials though, will it? Christ no. And if this is making me want to gouge out my own eyeballs purely to allow squirrels to play marbles with them, fuck alone knows what it is doing to Ange and Jen.
It was bad enough when I embarked upon my own modest wedding. Suddenly the only conversation anyone ever wanted to have with me was about sugared fucking almonds and table arrangements. It was like being bludgeoned over the head by the corpse of a decomposing Cupid.
Imagine, though, every gossip mag in the land running screeching stories on dates, times, guests, dresses and wedding fodder. Either Ange and Jen are immune to this festering shit or right now they can be found crouched in the corner of Vera Wang’s changing room while whimpering about the fonts on the invitations.
As if there isn’t enough pressure for women to marry anyway. Marriage is like the denouement of a lifetime’s coaching from family, friends and anyone else with the imagination of a crushed milk carton (because no fucker ever asks you what type of Nobel Prize ceremony you’d like). So imagine getting that pressure from several billion onlookers who are just desperate to know whether your napkins will be shaped like swans or B52 bombers?
I’d be in no mood for love after that. I would, though, be in the mood to assault various strangers with cheese-wire. So, no, you gossip-twitching arse-facers, I don’t want to know about the wedding day trials of Jen n Ange. And I certainly don’t want said trials attributed breaking news status either. What I do want, though, is some perspective. Now nip over to Britney’s house and tell me what’s on her shopping list will you? I’ll not rest until I know she’s got the milk in.
What do you think about the nuptial fuss? Loving it? Hating it? You know where the comment box is…