In a development that has sent shivers of both pure ecstasy and profound dread down the collective spine of the British public, Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce are reportedly set to wed. Yes, dear reader, the maestro of break-up anthems and the gridiron Goliath are to bind their souls in holy matrimony. This is not a drill.
The nation’s coffee shops are already running low on oat milk as the hysteria reaches fever pitch. Cabinet ministers have been hurriedly dispatched to assess the potential security implications, with whispers of a royal wedding-style operation being put in place. Because nothing says ‘love’ quite like a police cordon and a phalanx of sniffer dogs.
Perhaps the government will deploy the Navy? I mean, if a floating barge can welcome a beached whale, surely a destroyer can be repurposed for a passing pop star. The sheer absurdity of it all is almost beautiful.
The happy couple will likely exchange vows in a venue with enough metal detectors to make an airport look security-lite, while the rest of us watch from behind a fence, vying for a glimpse of a sequined sleeve. Meanwhile, the pub bores will be ready with the inevitable: ‘Did you know she only knows three chords?’ And yet, the nation will pause, because we are a people who love nothing more than a good wedding.
Especially one that doesn’t involve Prince Andrew. So brace yourselves, Britain. We are about to witness a spectacle that will make the Wedding of the Century look like a village fete.
I need a gin. A large one. With a side of irony.
