Wayne and Colleen Part Two – The Revenge

They do like to eke things out in OK land these days don’t they? I wonder if spreading Wayne and Colleen’s nuptial love fest over an entire three week, double issue, bumper fun pack is a symptom of the general decline in quality gossip/celebrity scandal, since the paper shops have been flooded with rival publications such as; ‘Heat’, ‘Reveal’, ‘Closer’, ‘Faster Pussycat Faster’, ‘Phwoarghhhhh Missis!’ and their ilk?  Although Phwoargh Missis does seem more like it should be nuzzling cheek by jowl with Nuts and Big Bosoms Weekly, First for Boobs.

Yet again, as with wedding part one, they have released wedding part two a day early, which meant than rather than spread my celebrity gossip fix over two days as usual, I was able to partake of a double helping of Heat and OK at the Co-op today.  You will no doubt be hugely disappointed to find that I spotted no transvestites, no aliens and absolutely not one whiff of Amy Winehouse, throughout the duration of my purchasing event.  And at the moment she looks like you could probably smell her from the fruit and veg section, even if she was in the Mateus Rose department.  As she has been recently diagnosed with emphysema (which I am proud to say I don’t have, and have never worried that I do have), you would probably have been able to hear her as well.  She probably got it from smoking too many baby mice whilst being filmed for YouTube by the ever clean and fresh smelling Mr. Pete Docherty.

Getting back to the question in hand that of my thoughts on the Waylleen wedding (as I believe they’re now dubbing them.  I would have preferred Colleenarooney as it makes it sound more like they’re on Tweenies rather than your real, actual people), it’s hard to say.  I thought I’d pretty much covered it last week, but if they’re going to squeeze every last drop from it, then so will I, because that’s the sort of petty woman I am.  I wonder what Jason and I would be if we were a celebrity love couple name.  Jaty I suppose, or Kason.  No wonder we’re not slebbed up.  That’s crap. It sounds more like a drain cleaner or a credit card than an image of two Prada clad, love nested sex gods.  Tsk!  I’m not changing my name.  I like it.  I’ll have to get Jason to change his to something like Brett, or Iachimo.  I don’t mind being Katimo.  That would work.

So, the wedding.  Can you tell I’m enthusiastic?  It’d be more fun covering my best friend’s sister in law’s sister’s wedding (God! That’s so complicated and so local! ‘Oh! You know Dave? Yes, that Dave. He’s her brother’s sister’s son’s niece.  The one who had that horrible hang gliding accident in Torremolinos and walks all funny? ) where they had jelly out of washing up bowls and a big fight to round everything off.

This week’s edition of Huzzah covers the post ceremony party.  Colleen did a costume change into another Marchesa gown.  This one was knee length, which I feel is a bad length for her.  Like me, she has footballer’s knees.  It’s alright for Mr. Rooney to have footballer’s knees (although nothing could excuse that gurning smile), he’s a footballer, but wives should hide their knees in these cases). I think it actually came just below the knee, but this only exaggerated her healthy calves (we have a lot in common, leg wise) and the fact that she was draping organza over her footballer’s knees.  It was also Grecian in inspiration and had lots of soft pleats and gathering, which with an ample bosom is also not such a good idea.  She had a scoop neckline with a three inch deep silver sequin collar and matching belt.  Basically it looked like a pair of Greek curtains had fallen on her and she had tied them together with a lot of glitter to make a ‘look’.  The look I would call Hairdresser trapped in Athens circa 1968.  Not my favourite look, but it was very well co-ordinated.

Again, no shots of shoes.  I examined each page minutely on the footwear front, but the only times you saw below the ankle she was barefoot, which given the fact she had probably been up since 3.30 a.m. walking around in four inch spikes and Italy has a lot of cobbled streets, was a very wise and infinitely practical move.  I expect the shoes she had casually kicked off under the table on the loggia were worth more than the entire contents of my house and were fabulous.  Saj informs me that Louboutins were worn.  I believe her.  She’s a good source for shoes and the investigation of, even if she does prefer Choos to Manolos.

The less said about Wayne the better.  One feels on the subject of Mr. Rooney that less is always going to be more.  Apparently he serenaded her, backed by Westlife.  That would put the final nail in his coffin as far as I was concerned.  We will move on.

The dinner itself looked rather nice actually.  They ate outside under a pergola which was decorated with cream roses and tiny,sparkly lights with lots of candles and cream coloured butterflies.  I actually found myself approving heartily of this.  There was, and this is another thing that they get ten out of ten for, two cakes.  The first was the traditional and infinitely preferable to the English way of doing things, Italian cake.  This is a mountain of profiteroles about four feet high, smothered in chocolate sauce.  What a fantastic, fantastic thing indeed.  My one grumble about ordering profiteroles in restaurants is that there are never enough, but even I might find a tower of profiteroles four feet high satisfies my cravings.  Only just mind you.

The other cake was huge and had layers of different kinds of cake, which also met with my approval due to my loathing the traditional English wedding/christmas/fruit cake type thing.  It was about three feet tall, which is also excellent.  So on the cake front they get twenty out of ten for me, and have surpassed my wildest cake expectations.  Good work.

It only remains for me to pass comment on the entertainment, which was a live set by Westlife, and then Westlife and the groom.  This I feel was the low point of the entire event.  The words eyes out and with red hot needles and rather poke my spring to mind on hearing about this, either singly or in combination.  I would even, and it pains me to say this, even prefer Chris De Burgh’s The Lady in Red, only on vinyl mind you.  The thought of the monobrowed, satanic dwarf in the flesh would probably send me into a stress induced, shingles raising coma.

So there you have it.  Apparently next week we are to be invited aboard their yacht of love.  The mind boggle, and biggles, and runs screaming.  I will of course, be reading (looking at the pictures of) my copy, and spouting forth, so don’t feel that you have to sacrifice your own £2.80 to see such a vehicle of passion.  I am providing a public service and will be happy to oblige.