Although I’ve never really understood or endorsed the royalty thing, I have to admit that the Kate and William nuptials were endearing. Cute, quaint and a little queer. The British have a marvellous knack for mixing pageantry and peasantry in a way that keeps those on top on top and those on the bottom happy. It was colourful, storybook and kept all of our minds off mad dictators and mercenary armies for at least a day. Innocent and joyful it was. The wedding of the century it was not.

It is hard to imagine what prompted the media to call it so, especially with a much more wondrous pairing waiting in the wings, duct-tape corsage and garrotte garter in hand. I refer on the bride’s side to the lovely Casey Anthony who finally got her stay-out-of-jail card despite slaughtering her two year old daughter and tossing her into a garbage bag with her mouth taped shut and the stench of chloroform filling the trunk of the family car. Casey dumped her poor kid Caylee in a swamp and ran off to get a tattoo.

Proving that the apple does not fall far from the tree, it took Casey’s parents a full month to twig to the fact that they hadn’t seen their granddaughter in ages and sense that perhaps something was wrong. The rest you will recall is lies. Lies upon lies upon lies, to tell the truth. It was only a matter of time before the cops did the math and charged the Nancy Grace coined “totmom” with Capital One. The chemist with no name began preparing the lethal injection.

Of Casey’s guilt there was and remains no doubt. But never underestimate the power of a defence attorney born Baez who upstaged his folkie namesake by singing a song of chaos for a pocketful of cash. Jose, not Joan, had solid back-up from a prosecutor who learned the hard way that the only thing juries hate more than a murderous mom is a smirking lawyer. Suffice to say that instead of walking the last mile to the death chamber, lusty Casey is set to walk down the church aisle into the arms of her Man.

Fascinating stuff, but I digress.

Back to the Wedding of the Century. We have a bride and now we need a groom. A man who is tall, dark and then some with a straightforward approach to things in general and relationships in particular. A man who cuts to the chase or to the neck, depending. Having fallen in love with OJ and vodka, are you ready for OJ and Totmom?

Think about it. What could be a happier ending than for two people who have gotten away with murder to get away with each other? Can you imagine how many millions will pay to watch these two hold hands, exchange rings and say “I did” on pay TV?

It boggles.

We wish them happiness. And sterility.