My Royal wedding days always start in exactly the same way.

Wife, ‘are you going to watch it?’

Me, ‘oh, I might just dip in from time to time’.

Then I catch a glimpse. Sit down, and finally become addicted.

Yesterday was no exception. The sun shone. And with the exception of the splendid Sir John Major, who was an official guardian of William and Harry, this was a politician free zone.


It really was a joyous day. Charity workers seated next to entertainment royalty. Brits in dopey outfits swigging bonhomie and prosecco in equally generous measures, joined, it seemed, by the rest of the world just having a really good time.

In an age of the worst political polarisation world wide that I can ever remember, the genuine and unstaged love of two young people united us all in one great woohoo of genuine joy.

There are so many memories and messages from yesterday. The magical grins from the two little page boys as soon as the state trumpeters blew the roof off St George’s chapel with their imperial and majestic blasts.

And that American preacher, Bishop Curry.

All I can say is, wow.

Moving. Relevant, healing. Urbe et Orbe. And the sub text being up yours Trump, Putin and the venal sowers of division.

Wonderful. Wonderful. Wonderful.

I am not a particularly religious man, but it felt as if an Old Testament prophet had descended in a flaming chariot to be amongst us, preaching not fire and brimstone, but the power of love.

It was as if the nation, if not the world was being touched by the heart of God.

Love each other and you might get to love yourselves.

We will hear a lot more from Bishop Curry in years to come. That speech will join the all time greats, along side Martin Luther King’s ‘I have a dream.’

Not just because of its power, eloquence and relevance, but because of it’s powerful message of hope.

For us all.

Everyone will have a special moment.

Mine was of Doria Ragland, mother of the bride.

Flown over from LA last Wednesday under a cloud of confusion and hurt over the foolishness and naivety of her former husband for doing deals with the paps and putting up with the bile and barbs of his press hungry vulture daughter Samantha, this seemed the perfect storm for the makings of PR disaster.

How wrong we were. Seated closest to the bride and groom, Doria presented a tableau of demure and dignified elegance.

And this is what her daughter wrote about her a while back.

‘Dreadlocks, nose ring, yoga, interactor, social worker. Free spirit. Lover of potato chips and lemon tarts. And if the DJ cues Al Green’s soul classic Call Me, just forget it. She will swivel her hips into the sweetest little dance you’ve ever seen swaying her head and snapping her fingers to a beat she’s been dancing since the womb. And you will smile. You won’t be able to help it. You will look at her and feel joy.’

So for a few sunny and joyous hours the United Kingdom was united and at ease with itself.

It was a bad day for Republicans.

Talking of which, never mind Trump’s visit in July. A new permanent and very special relationship with the United States of America has been forged.

Not in political necessity, nor trade.

But love.

Well, dump those empty bottles, put the bunting away and let’s get back reality. Damn.

Oh, the irony that is politics. Speaker John Bercow is spared an investigation into allegations of bullying his staff, but may have to retire to Dunrobin sooner than he intended.

Last week he was alleged to have whispered that Andrea Leadsom, the ocean going dimwit who is Leader of the Commons, was ‘stupid and F… useless. And this will be his downfall, although anyone with E in GCSE media studies the intellect of a pot noodle knows that it’s true.

There are the usual howls of Tory outrage, particularly from the sixty six clearly deranged MPs who voted for Leadsom to become party leader. As they have only just been released from a place of safety and given their up to date certificates of sanity, their howls are most likely to be when the moon is full.

It would be very foolish to hound the Speaker out of Office.

The trick is to let him leave with as much dignity that he can muster. Expect a statement in the next couple of weeks whereby he relies on his manifesto pledge to serve no more than nine years.

He will be gone by the summer recess.

And the headline?

‘Shock horror. Politician resigns for telling the truth’.

You couldn’t make it up.

Oh, a footnote. On my Lovesport show yesterday we had a great singer songwriter, a talented lad by the name of Valerio Lysander. I asked him what he was going to sing. His reply was that it was all about the frustration of musicians expected to work for nothing. A fair but embarrassing point. There is no appearance fee on the Jerry Hayes show. Well, apart from me.