In a development that has sent shockwaves through the collective consciousness of every tabloid journalist and Instagram stalker, Ariana Grande and British actor Slater have reportedly ended their brief, allegedly non-romantic, association. The split, verified by a source who may or may not have been a potted plant in the corner of a Soho members club, contradicts rumours of a royal courtship that were, it turns out, about as grounded as a dirigible made of marshmallows.
Let us be clear: The only thing royal about this pairing was the sheer scale of the delusion required to believe it. Ms. Grande, a woman whose vocal range could shatter glass at forty paces, and Mr. Slater, a man best known for being the third lead in a period drama about a postman, were never courting royalty. They were, however, briefly spotted in a Waitrose car park, which is the modern equivalent of being caught in flagrante with a Cornetto.
The denial came from a spokesperson who spoke in the kind of clipped, passive-aggressive tones that suggest a lifetime of fielding questions about misplaced adverbs. “There was never any romantic involvement,” they said, while simultaneously filing a restraining order against the entire concept of gossip. The royal courtship rumours, apparently, were the result of a single tweet from a man in Doncaster who claimed to be a “psychic custard enthusiast.”
This development leaves the nation in a state of profound confusion. Are we supposed to be sad? Angry? Indifferent? The Royal Family, who were about to update their official website to include a “Possible American Pop Star” section, have issued a statement of their own, which translates loosely to: “Thank goodness we didn’t book the caterers.”
Meanwhile, the true tragedy here is the lost potential for a state wedding. Imagine the spectacle: Ariana Grande in a custom Vera Wang tiara, Slater in a frock coat that looks like it was stolen from a Beefeater. The pundits would have had a field day. “But what does this mean for Brexit?” they would have asked, as if a transatlantic pop star marriage could somehow solve the Irish border issue.
As it stands, the only thing we have learned is that celebrity relationships are as fleeting as a glass of pinot grigio at a divorce party. And the only royalty involved is the tax you pay on her next album. Let us raise a glass of airport gin to the end of another beautiful delusion. Cheers.
