Wot-er fab elephant

Well the beast is the best thing in Water For Elephants, by far. And I don't know why 'water' is in the title ;all they gave the thing to drink was Moonshine or some such, as 'twas set during the Prohibition era. This didn't stop anyone from getting right and pissed, including the elephant, on account of its cruel treatment at the hands of the Circus Ringmaster. Yes, it was that corny-so bad it was good.

Reese Witherspoon seems to have lost weight for nancying about on horses, in a series of revealing leotards. So she was basically just a chin on wee legs. I have always had difficulty with The Chin. It was the same with Meg Ryan. Some days, it was all I could think about. Anyway, you never quite know where to look during this type of performance-it's the same on Britain's Got Talent, when there's some sword-swallowing bint doing her stuff. You're not looking at her act; you're trying to work out out if she's had a Brazilian or a Holywood. And you very often can.

Reese was married to the Ringmaster and in spite of their struggle to make ends meet in the Circus, and the fact that alcohol was banned; they were able to rock about nightly, in evening dress, swigging Champagne. There were stacks of performers and animal trainers and the like, holed up in windowless carriages on the Circus train, but the only person they ever invited to dinner was Robert Pattinson, leading to a lerve triangle the audience was clearly meant to care about. Truthfully, any more than ten minutes of screen time without the elephant had me chewing fretfully on my Magnum stick. I insist on Magnums in the cinema-at least they are quiet, if you can stifle the orgasmic moans. Trouble is the marve thick chocolate drops off and you emerge from the Omniplex, without realising you have great big smears all over your face and crotch, like a mud-wrestling toddler.

Robert managed to get himself a couple of mates halfway through; a cantankerous dwarf and an irascible elderly alco, each of whom were of extremely limited use, both in the circus and to the plot. Small wonder they got chucked off the train at high speed, an hour and a half in. Robert had been abruptly orphaned earlier-he wasn't the luckiest of fellas. Not that you could tell by his utterly bland countenance-he wasn't making much of a fist of breaking out of the whole vampire business, for my money. Takes a bit more than a bit of blusher and no fangs, like. He really only managed a couple of facial expressions; reminded me of that Dorothy Parker review of one of Katherine Hepburn's performances: 'She ran the whole gamut of emotions, from A to B'. However I am fairly sure that that he and The Chin walked off into the footlights. Once I knew they'd rescued and cared for the elephant, I lost all interest in the outcome.

That animal should win an Oscar. I mean, it will have to become bulimic and slim down to, say, the proportions of Marlon Brando in his latter years. And it'll not be able to drink the way it's been used to unless it wants to go to rehab, for the Betty Ford 12-step program I believe all actors must undertake at some point. These privations would be well worth it to sit between Jack Nicholson and Barbra while trying to get a good look down Jennifer Hudson's cleavage and pretending to cheer on the competition. If only they allowed Magnums, I 'd jump at the chance.

Holier than I

I rang my mum recently, having just returned from a trip and she quite inconsequentially exclaimed; 'I wish yis would go to church' (she meant me and two of my sisters, she addresses her disapproving remarks globally). 'You know, if anything happened to you, it would be awful for me.' Never mind how it might be for me, suddenly killed off, in the prime of life, you might say. She was fixating on how terrible it would be for her, if I could not be pictured sailing off into what has been known in my family, since our granny's funeral, as 'the Heavenly Harbour'. On that occasion the minister had a whole nautical theme goin' on-unexpectedly this was rather comforting. My mum's generation thinks that attending church regularly is non-negotiable, if you want to anchor your vessel at the port of Jesus and eternally, er, trim your sails in the celestial hereafter. She has no truck with my claims to an intimate knowledge of Paradise Lost and a spot of spiritual contemplation while looking out of the windows of Spinster Cottages. It's a bit irksome for her too that best friend, The Brick, has her entire extended family in attendance every single week-not that The Brick is lording it over her(pun intended). The upshot was that I and an equally wayward sister were invited to a church lunch today, preceded by Morning Service.

I half expected a regal fanfare as I walked down the aisle-it has been some time, after all. However, the surroundings and many of the faces were mostly unchanged-the older generation's hair colour was 'not what God intended', which I believe is a quotation from Gone With The Wind, but this came in very handy when it came to recognising an octogenarian still sporting the flame-red hair from my recollections. There the familiarities from my youth ended. Not a hymn was to be had, for starters. The music was extraordinary-a good fifteen minutes of tuneless droning started us off, with repetitive and vulgar lyrics; 'Our God is awesome' and the like, which inexplicably sent several members of the congregation into some sort of religious ecstasy. There was eye-closing, arm-raising and at one point, I kid you not, a blue flag was waved about in the manner of Olga Korbut in the 'floor section' of the gymnastics. Then there was a puppet show, aimed at the many hyperactive children present. They enjoyed this so thoroughly that several ran up towards the pulpit, squealing, and attempted to participate before being rugby-tackled by their parents. This livened it up for me no end, I can tell you.

Then, before I could do any more sotto voce muttering about Ritalin dosage, they were treated to a terrifying monologue about Christ dying on the cross out of love for them, then packed off to Sunday School. I can only hope they were forced to quietly colour-in a comforting tableau of, I don't know, some tombs or crowns of thorns, perhaps. Speaking of youth, at this point, I became distracted by an utterly gorgeous bloke two rows up-he may have been 20 or so, I couldn't take my eyes off him-it was all very Thornbirds. Highly inappropriate, but it took my mind off the powerpoint presentation on Cleft Palates in Peru, to which we were being treated, at the time.

Next came the sermon, which was reassuringly similar to those of my younger days, that is, fairly baffling, awfully clever(good bit of business about St. Paul and the Ephesians) and still trying to pull off that blend of kindly friendliness and horrifying 'fire and brimstone' you get at most weddings and funerals in God's own country. This was topped off by another ten-minute song featuring three chords tops, two verses of ghastly over-simple lyrics and some high-pitched wailing, clearly thought to be enhancing harmony. I can't think what God would make of it, as He steers us from his lonely helm.

Tell you what, though, the lunch was tremendous-Presbyterians really know how to cater. I might book them for my next big birthday. And I've told me ma, when I buck up my ideas and become a proper churchgoer, I shall be madly traditionalist;I want proper hymns, bible readings and children being seen-and-not-heard. I realise this may mean submitting an application for a sanctified extension to Spinster Cottages. I wonder if that handsome young guy might want to join my congregation-would kill two birds...

The style up the aisle

I am wedding-obsessed, I hear you cry. Certainly between me, me ma and Older Sister, there was a near encyclopaedic knowledge of royalty. And couture. My mum asked things like; 'Who's that in the navy shot silk behind Princess Alexandra?' To which the reply came; 'Either Marina Ogilvy or Crown Princess Victoria of Sweden. Lovely bit of Bruce Oldfield.' You would think we were fervent monarchists. No, we're just really nosey. Years of careful study of Hello! are also a key qualification to get into our Royal Wedding parties. One or two key volumes by Gyles Brandreth must be digested. You can't just turn up with a Fondant Fancy matching the Queen's hat, you know.

We laughed uproariously at the Royal Family's transportation in those mini coaches-looked like they were being transferred from Protective Custody. Why would you not go about in carriages if you had the chance? Bit like brides not wearing a veil-crazy to ditch something so flattering. I'm just wondering if I could get away with one in work. This leads me to the subject of the attire of the day. I must start, of course, with the stars of the show.

The Beckhams

He's just plain gorgeous and everyone likes him-matters not a jot if he has loads of tatts and wears his medal on the wrong side on the wrong occasion. The man would look good in an Easyjet uniform, my idea of Europe's most unflattering outfit.

Victoria looked pinched and miserable-and that was just her feet in those grotesque shoes. She was in a navy tent of her own design. Well, she can't draw-this is why all her dresses look like something you would have seen in a Fuzzy Felt box, back in the day. Horrid angular shapes in block colours. The make up was like a mask and the hat-terrifying. I preferred her tacky in the WAG days-now that she's all 'fashion', I'm getting a pain.

Kate

Not loving a wedding dress is akin to not saying someone's new baby is beautiful or at least, cute. I'm going to say it anyway-didn't like it much. Too timeless, too classic, too structured-with those heavy eyebrows and the flat veil and slightly apologetic tiara, the whole effect was very Disney princess. The pair of them looked just like wedding cake figurines, which will go down very well with the tourists I imagine. Now that they're Duke and Duchess, it's as if they've suddenly aged ten years and their evening and going away outfits bear this out-very Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones.

Tara Palmer-Tomkinson

Older sister summed it up perfectly when she confessed it put her in mind of a Batman villainess-a variation on Poison Ivy in violent royal blue. Took your mind off the nose, though.

Santa, her sister, was dressed fabulously, I thought-the hat was perfect for a wedding, opulent but frivolous.

Beatrice and Eugenie.

Sorry, Lady Gaga and Dolly Parton. They looked unhinged. Beatrice's hat was similar to the symbol used by Prince when he gave up being called Prince. My mum has found out that Philip Treacy was up most of the night three nights running and Beatrice's headpiece is the result of his being 'not well'. Hard to argue.

Samantha Cameron

Girlish figure does not indicate girlishly dressed and coiffed. This was not an occasion in which to be caught underdone, with a barrette in the side of your head like a second former and sweatily clutching a mismatched pashmina like a paper bag. There was far too much hair down in general, for my liking. I blame The Only Way is Essex.

Miriam Clegg

Dame Edna meets Carmen Miranda over a visible panty line. Get a grip. Actually, get gripper knickers.

Princess Anne

Remember in Gone With the Wind when Scarlett had to make the dress out of the drawing room curtains? I mean, I know she's 'thrifty' and all but we're between wars.

Carole

Vay nice. The evening dress was even better; midnight blue pleated tiers, gorgeous. So thin, my niece and I were pondering whether the camera still adds ten pounds in the HD age.

Camilla

Also rather lovely, I thought. Not as good as her own wedding outfits though. Needs a haircut; she's starting to look even more like a Terrier.

The Spencer girls

Who cares what they wore? They are so beautiful. Mind you, Lady Kitty was bursting out of her Victoria Beckham buff-coloured Lego dress or whatever the hell it was.

The Queen

Who cares what she wore? It's the Queen. We're just lucky we haven't had to look at that Pekinese, Wallis Simpson, for the last fifty odd years.

A quick word about the hoi pollo-I

Bad enough we have to be shown all the street parties and flag- waving, mask-wearing proles half the day on Friday-I am just not interested in the antics of ordinary people I don't know. Fearne et al had the divil's own job getting anything noteworthy from their very many interviews in The Mall. The cartwheeling vicar is a rare exception; the guy has spirit and some talent, at least.

Media coverage now is punctuated with commentary through Twitter , email etc. from any old chuffer ; 'Doesn't Beckham look fab, all clean (sic) up?' at the bottom of our screens. What is it with this mania for the ordinary, uninitiated person and their reactions and remarks IN THE MIDDLE OF A GLOBAL EVENT. You are trying to have a moment of pure escapism, only to be interrupted by the musings of some telesales executive from Tooting. Unspeakably annoying.

Far better the path taken by my Aunts. They stayed indoors, keeping their comments to each other, occasionally fluttering a union Jack napkin and admiring themselves in their replica Kate/Diana engagement rings, especially sent for.

Wedding Iron-I

It's almost impossible not to love a wedding, if you are a woman. Unless you saw the pictures of Liza Minnelli and David Gest, that is. Did you not think it most unreasonable of the Norn Iron men to complain and moan as they did? Some wouldn't even have it on in the house. They must be firmly told that this sort of event is sport for women and they're lucky it doesn't go on for four weeks, like the World Cup or the Olympics. The main sport for me was in the clothes (on which I plan a whole separate outpouring, never fear) and the lip reading, in which my status is merely amateur. I was able to 'do' William at the altar a bit 'You look lovely, beautiful' and Kate looking up at the Royal wastitsname air force ; 'Pehfect Fohmaytion' ( I suspect elocution lessons), much to the amusement of my company. Thank god for Sky News-their guy got every 'Ok, ya'.

How come every bride's dress is so top secret and mustn't be known about for fear of imitation? Some people won't even tell you the colour of the bridesmaids' dresses. They will be dealt with when I am in charge. Colours are no-one's exclusive domain. Yet after every Royal Wedding, there is a huge rush to make copies of the dress. Is the desire for originality eclipsed by the regal endorsement? Who are these people who would wear a copy of Kate's dress and why don't I know any of them? They are probably the sort who send gifts to the royal family and do not realise these will be immediately donated to charity, as the family admire the latest Faberge egg, bestowed by the Sultan of Brunei or someone.

I was at the gym yesterday and the teacher announced that she had only one comment re the wedding, which was that she felt sure that Kate Middleton does Bodypump; 'Those arms!' Gym people always try to credit attractiveness of all kinds to working out. Kate is simply extremely lean. If she lifted weights, she'd have Madonna arms, bulging biceps and popping veins-wouldn't have 'done' at all with that lace. How ironic that she has been made a duchess-wasn't it the Duchess of Windsor (also a 'commoner') to whom the adage 'You can never be too thin or too rich' is attributed? Kate now has both attributes, regardless of how long they are going to be holed up in Anglesey with no servants. Mad. Ask any married woman, a servant would be the first thing they would get if they could, before jewellery, even. For now, however, what else is there for Kate to do over there, apart from the Hoovering? I wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't a baby on the way very soon. You need a good excuse to get out of unveiling statues and breaking bottles on bits of boat.

I thought her the perfect storybook bride-beautiful, demure, bland and poised. Only the white knuckle grip on her father's hand betrayed what must have been intense fright. Mike might have to use the other mitt for a while for making up his party bags.

I was all agog to see Prince Albert of Monaco-that royal family being far and away my favourite for beauty, glamour and scandal. I mean Princess Stephanie actually ran away with the circus fahcrissake! First the trapeze artist then the ringmaster. And that was after having out-of-wedlock children with her bodyguard and calling them things like Pauline. Now Albert, between his two siblings, most resembles his mother, Grace Kelly and like her, seems to have taken on a rather bovine appearance in middle age. He looked squat and bloated. How badly has that family aged, given their genes? Princess Caroline is not 'wearin' well', as my mother would say and all the fags, sunbathing and mucking out elephants has caught up with Stephanie something shocking. Ironically, the British royal family looked fantastic. They have all been on the Slimfast and have become positively coltish and sexy. I do not include Beatrice and Eugenie here and I will be discussing those two later (menacing tone intended). If not careful, the Windsors can take on a distinctly bloodhound appearance-you can even see the odd whisper of it in William at certain angles. But on Friday, they looked great, even the Queen at 85, if only she would crack that smile more often. 'Dry as boke' at times, another of me ma's baffling yet apt expressions.

William, I am happy to report, has inherited all of his mother's warmth and charisma but another irony, were you not really looking at Harry, when you could? How much fun does he seem? You just know you'd have a great night out with him-there he was piled into the bus at 3am with half his shirt buttons undone, off to an after-party at the Goring. I bet he likes curried chips along with blowsy wee girls with tons of sex appeal like that Chelsy. I love how you can impart so much by putting 'that' before anyone's name. Grazia says Chelsy's not having it- couldn't stick the royal way of life. Perhaps that's why she was about 2 miles down the church behind one of those stupid trees and forced to show up at 9am with the unimportant people. No wonder she looked a bit rough. Knackered I'd say. Up all night, rakin' about with Harry, lucky bitch.