It happened. We can now all die happy. Life has reached peak. It cannot get any better. The maximum pleasure level is amongst us. Pippa Middleton is married. The magical man who took her dating, up until marriage was James Matthews, big brother of Spencer from Made in Chelsea fame, that big old pile of shite.
The Royal Box
It was of course, the wedding of the century. Okay, lets be real, no it wasn’t. That title belongs to literally anyone else. Anyway, Pippa’s dating career has been extensively followed and documented by this blog. She has excited me with her dating life, looking at all the posh toffs she picked up along the way. All the men she has dragged into the Royal Box at Wimbledon.
I don’t mean to be the definition of a ‘bad’ feminist and highlight she might still be a bit miffed she wasn’t the Middleton sister to bag herself a one way ticket into the Royal Family?
Right now, I’m just hoping and praying that in this wedding’s wake there is a increase in fan fiction of Harry and Pippa having a secret affair. This is a free idea and I won’t claim commission on it.