But of course I jest. The world’s only ginger Welsh antipodean political leader deserves a party after all she’s been through since she took office.
I am still avoiding my point.
While I wasn’t waiting with baited breath for my own invitation to the royal nuptials – or indeed rehearsing fake delight ahead of the distant chance any acquaintance might be among the chosen few – two words are lodged in my craw. Joss Stone.
I can accept Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. At least she flirts in royal circles and occasionally persuades the world that Duncan from Blue has more to offer us than Eurovision or bisexuality "shockers".
I can even accept Posh ‘n’ Becks. At least they guarantee viewership from the jaded brigade who don’t do royal but refuse to succumb to totally common (yes – you, Katie Price).
But Joss Stone? Really? Not Adele? Not Laura Marling? Not even Amy Winehouse? At least she’d be worth a laugh. A castoff from Jane McDonald’s “Star for a Night” gets to brush past the bouncers at the biggest event of the year?
Fergie might have felt aggrieved if her namesake from the Black Eyed Peas had been asked along. But Joss Stone?!
Joss, sweetheart... This turn of events is not super duper and very few people are diggin’ on it.