Rosie Hore: Week 3

It doesn’t take much to make me cry. John Lewis adverts, pandas and being a massive girl will all make my bottom lip tremble.

But the real tears happen when I’m slightly hungover and watching Don’t Tell the Bride. For the uninitiated among you, the concept is simple: a stoner husband gets given £12,000 by the BBC to plan a wedding for his grumpy bride, who is left completely in the dark about his plans until the big day. She cries, I cry, it’s beautiful.

At this point, I don’t care that Stacey from Somerset just had a tantrum because her husband-to-be didn’t think to match the table settings with her vajazzle. Nor do I care that the ceremony is being conducted by a Dalek because Shaun from Sheffield is ‘really into his Doctor Who’. As long as there’s a white dress and an ‘I do’, I’m toast every time.

Which means that it was probably a bad idea to watch the Royal Wedding in company. At 12.30 on that April afternoon last year I was loudly sobbing at the back of a packed JCR at the sight of two people I’ve never met publicly proclaiming their love. I hadn’t even had the emotional build-up of half an hour of iPlayer. But she was a princess, for fuck’s sake, and she’d put trees inside.

It’s not even as if I’m a hopeless romantic. If your wedding is the biggest day of your life, then it can only go downhill from there. As soon as the wedding was over, I stopped feeling teary every time K-Middz wore something from Whistles or was friendly to a child. I don’t want to hear about the Cambridges’ ‘date-nights’ any more than I want to know that Shaun is now Not Telling the Bride about his affair.

It’s an unfortunate truth that a wedding and a marriage are two very different things and only one of them involves a party. I want a day of diamante, salmon and snogging as much as the next girl, but apparently there’s a bit more involved in getting someone to agree to marry you. I’m not sure I can deal with the effort of being loveable long enough for someone to pop the question. Let alone having to stick around after the champagne has gone flat.

So, wedding-day over, I have no more tears to spare for the royal couple. That is until, of course, Kate finds time between rockin’ out with her knockers out to bonk our future King in strict accordance to her ovulation charts. Because 20 isn’t too early to be broody, and I will cry at a baby any day of the week.