Royal Wedding Antiques Roadshow

Hello both fellow Britizens and foreign types alike, last year, in case you didn’t notice, we had a bit of a do. But not just any bit of a do, a royal wedding bit of a do! That’s right, in the most ancient of all our ancient traditions, the grandson of our absolute monarch, Queen Elizabeth (the unelected supreme commander it’s okay to like), took a bride and we, the loyal subjects, got a day off to celebrate.

But not just that, we also got the chance to invest what little money we have left in some commemorative arse-clutter in order that we might never forget the day two of our betters became One, arse-clutter to stack on the shelves of Welsh dressers, store food in, leave in the garden for drunken yobs to smash and, yes, even wear on our own royal members like snug latex crowns to help fuel the celebrations still further, but ensure we don’t accidentally create any more drains on the benefits system.

This striking collection of pomp pisspoority that we laughingly refer to under the catch-all of ‘souvenirs’ may have been mostly purchased by the mentally ill in the midst of the regal-high that swept the nation, but now that the whole thing is long over and due to lapse into the realms of nostalgia any time…. now, some of this stuff could soon be worth literally pounds.

I’ve seen Antiques Roadshow on Sundays and, since going freelance and becoming time-rich, Cash in the Attic, The Great Antiques Hunt, Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is, Bargain Hunt, Flog It!, Dickinson’s Real Deal and re-runs of Lovejoy every other day, so I know a thing or two about ‘collectables’. To that end I’ve scoured the metaphorical post-nuptial street party dustbins across the land, fishing out and rinsing the vomit off those commemorative keepsakes that one day I can see Fiona Bruce gawping at in disbelief as some gaudily dressed deviant advises you on taking out an astronomical insurance policy. Welcome to gimcrackery heaven…

William & Kate USBCELL Battery

Still on sale even now despite obviously selling like hot, prone to overheating and burning your home down powered up cakes, USB rechargeable batteries may, at first, not seem to have that much relevance to a Royal Wedding, but when you think about it, when you run it through your mind and work out all the possible similarities between the nuptials of Wills and Kate and a USB rechargeable battery there actually are, I think it’s fair to say that you’d be pretty much safe in coming to the unquestionable conclusion that, yes, there is no relevance whatsoever.

But then when did we ever let relevance get in the way of things? Some might say that the monarchy themselves are not relevant in the 21st century. We call these people traitors and hang one from the gates of the Palace every day at tea time as a warning.
Price: £11 now, but in the future… £12?

Crown Jewels Royal Wedding Condoms

Far more relevant within the nature of weddings, yet still undeniably misguided, Crown Jewels souvenir condoms come (no pun intended) in an elegant box with an image of the happy Royal couple and the date of their big day on the front, inside of which you’ll fine three lubed and ribbed party balloons, an ‘intriguing’ pastel portrait of the Kate and Wills in some magical fairy tale land that’s supposed to be England and, my personal favourite, a disclaimer that the condoms “may not be suitable as a contraceptive or barrier against STDs”. Amazingly also still on sale, forget the failings, raise the salute, slip on, lie back and think of Pippa Middleton’s arse.
Price: £5 now, but one day that poster alone could be worth a Duke’s ransom. But only if Wills gets kidnapped and there’s no other photos of him around.

Kate & Will Royal Wedding Wardrobe Doors

Who wouldn’t want to celebrate the big day of two people they’ll probably never meet than by tarting up their boudoir with glass panel sliding wardrobe doors (available in a range of colours including blue and pink) with a massive photo of William and Kate themselves printed on said doors in over-sized terrifying detail? Who? Well probably very few people, in all reality, which explains why these sliding doors of perception are no longer on the market. But what that means to you is, if you can track a pair down by, say, buying the house of a recently deceased Royalty obsessive who unwisely invested in this bit of sliding objet d’art, you could make a royal mint! Though probably not.
Price: £448 (retail)
Price: £millions (potentially)

Royal Wedding Dress-up Dolly Book

Featuring Wills in T-shirt and Union Flag boxer shorts and Kate in a saucy vest and panties, finally peasants can know the joy of dressing their glorious overlords and ladies in all manner of paper kit from Kate’s wedding dress to William’s RAF uniform, or the far more smart/casual ‘a weekend in the country’ look. Again, this must-have, collectable novelty is still available for purchase, almost as though they couldn’t even shift them at the time, so snap a future antique right now. Just don’t put Wills in the wedding dress because you can still be publically executed for things like that and, believe me, if you’re known to have bought one of these, they will be watching you.
Price: £6 new, less secondhand depending on soiling of paper outfits.

Royal Wedding Sick Bag

Even when the rest of the nation, the Commonwealth and those in the Americas came together to celebrate, there was always going to be someone determined to ruin it. In this case it was Edinburgh College of Art graduate Lydia Leith who thought she was being all big and clever by producing these tasteless screen-printed Royal Wedding barf bags in vibrantly offensive blue and red options. Originally a limited edition of 260, the grasping Miss Leith went on to produce countless more due to some nonsense about them selling out. One can only presume to angry lesbians.

Leith was eventually hunted down by the anti-terror squad and humanely put down in a fire-fight during which she not only tried to defend her bags, but also went on to try and defend herself with her bags! Ha, ha! She’s dead now and, consequently, these sick-catching symbols of sedition should be worth a mint.
Price: £3 (pre-death)
Price: Ooh, loads (post-death)

Special Edition Royal Wedding GE Fridge

An absolute essential for anyone who missed out on the first round of commemorative cock collecting and/or those who need something gaudy in which to chill food, GE created this: a glorious abomination aimed at those who really shouldn’t be allowed money at all. What we have here is an American style side-by-side refrigerator with Kate and Wills emblazoned on the front in all their photographic splendour for reasons nobody will ever be able to satisfactorily explain.

Practical, peerless and with a special bit for keeping eggs in, now you can feel the warmth of the Windsors and imagine what lavish feast they’ll be enjoying every time you open the door to gaze in despondence at the meagre rations contained within.
Price: No longer available commercially, these monoliths of awfullness will be rarer than, well, big fridges with majestic mugshots on them.

KaTea and William Teabags

That’s right, there’s nothing more British than tea other than queuing, silent indignation and looting Foot Locker. To that end some Germans came up with the ideal Head&Shoulders moment by combining tea AND Wills and Kate! The result, depending on which way you want to look at it, is a delicious cup of spot-hitting tea made all the better by having the smiling faces of the happy couple to gaze upon as you wait for death to come, or the hideous visage of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge grimacing in horror as they wallow without escape in a vat of their own watery prolapsed filth. Some people are cup half full, other people are cup brimming with hot effluence. Which are you?
Price: €4.95 for two (Out of stock over in Germanland, but already swapping clammy hands for US $16.95 on Amazon!)

That Was the Year that Was, Wasn’t It: 2011

2011 was a busy old year, so what did you enjoy most? The Royal Wedding? Nah, you’re right, apart from a day off and a chance to ogle an all-new Royalty related arse in the shapely shape of Pippa Middleton, it was all a bit naff. What about the killing of bin Laden? Yeah, that’s more like it – a 10 year game of hide and seek come to a brutal end in, what was described as, a ‘luxury villa’ in Pakistan. I personally would have liked to have seen more images of Barry Obama punching the air and Condoleezza Rice rubbing against the furniture in a orgasmic frenzy of savage vengeance, but you can’t have everything. I would also have preferred the video footage to have been soundtracked with AC/DC, but again…

Which bad-guy bashing naturally leads to the equally drawn-out demise of Libyan golf-buggy fancier, genocidal maniac, and all-round nutjob melty-face, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi. Defiant, mad as a box of retarded frogs, and as deeply in denial as previous holder of the It’s Not Happening World Championship, Comical Ali, there were rumours that Gaddafi Duck had fled Sirte disguised as a woman, which was well worth mocking until you remembered that he wore dresses every day anyway. In the end he died the way he lived: in a pipe. Or something.

Meanwhile, in Europe, Greece owned up to having fucked up its finances on a whole new level of fuck-uppery, leading to Germany umming and ahhing about helping out before eventually deciding that some kind of hostile takeover of the Greek banking system was called for. Followed by a hostile takeover of Greece, no doubt. They can’t help themselves.

Back in Britain, some criminal who owned a gun but wasn’t holding it at the time got himself shot by the police, consequently the nation went looting. Never before have so many stole so much in the name of so few, well one, one person they didn’t know… or know anything about. Alright far from a political movement over dissatifaction with life in coalition Britain it was all about pinching trainers from Foot Locker and as much tech as their cheap gold jewellery covered pikey hands could half-inch from Currys. Fortunately before long even nicking stuff began to feel too much like ‘work’ and the chaos stopped.

It was also the year of demise for another terror of the people, the News of The World – a newspaper that was simultaneously not about the world or news. Hacking coughs spread and took down journalism’s last bastions of illegal practice in a whirlwind of finger-pointing, back-stabbing, implausible deniability and out-and-out lying as the Murdoch family pleaded laughable innocence and the red-topped, Ross Kemp battering banshee of the red-tops, Rebecca Brooks, was toppled and the 168 year old creaking organ that was easily Britain’s Worst Newspaper was shut down forever, the final edition’s front page emblazoned with ‘Thank You & Goodbye’ which, presumably, came from the end of a phone call they’d hacked.

There was also plenty of natural and unnatural disasters scattered throughout 2011 to keep the remaining newspapers in business until the Leveson Inquiry (not named after Brian Leveson, the writer behind the hilarious My Family) inevitably shuts them all down: Japan with its earthquake, tsunami and subsequent Fukushima nuclear near-Fuk, Thailand with the floods they didn’t love long-time, and America with its annual array of high school and postman-based shootings.

In entertainment – a term I use as loosely as a prolapsed rectum – X Factor history was made when the fixed competition was won by a group comprising three chavettes and a singing pig. Which, come to think of it, would be a better name than Little Mix. But, of course, they’re all winners, aren’t they? – the one who looked like a bloke in a dress, the fat Cocc kid with the stupid hair, the one who thought she was Grace Jones, that stunted, Autistic Irish homosexual, the fat one from Take That, the one that’s not Beyonce, the new Queen of the Chavs and…. wait, no they weren’t winners, were they? There’s only ever one winner – Simon Cowell.

2011 was also the year the terms Tiger Blood, Bi-Winning and Complete And Utter Public Mental Collapse were bandied about all across the papers as Charlie Sheen began his descent into shit-smearing insanity and a teenage American girl called Rebecca Black recorded the worse song ever, worse even than Little Mix’s reimagining of Damien Rice’s Cannonball (for which they will pay), but which finally settled which day came after Friday and overtook the Japanese disaster in the Twitter ratings; unbelievable. Following which, refusing to be outdone, Amy Winehouse poured herself a proper stiff one in a blaze of absolutely no surprise to anyone and now has another number one album. That’s how it works.

What else? Ah yes, the final flight of the Space Shuttle arrived when apathy set in at NASA and what was once all ‘space this and space that’ ended after overwhelming evidence across the globe proved that there’s no intelligent life anywhere and they’d be better off saving the money up in the hope that they can one day buy the country back from China.

Which I think just about covers it. Nothing more I can think of anyway. Feel free to add anything I missed.