"Didn't she look lovely?" "Makes you proud to be British." 'That mallard's choking on a clump of non-biodegradable confetti." The royal wedding certainly gave us a lot to talk about.
There was the incessant media coverage, which did a great job of showcasing how many Middle Englanders will happily poke fun at the inadequates on shows like Britain's Got Talent, only to camp outside Westminster Abbey for three nights, dressed like Kate Middleton's engagement ring. ITV went for a light and frothy tone, whereas the BBC seemed to given Huw Edwards the wrong brief, since he spent most of the broadcast talking as though he was covering a national disaster.
We also got a healthy eyeful of the celebrity guests who make an event like this seem just a little more accessible. Victoria Beckham struggled to raise a smile, possibly because her ridiculous heels were twisting her leg into the kind of shape that only a skilled contortionist or that lank-haired ghost in The Grudge could manage. And Tara Palmer-Tomkinson proudly showed off the results of a sixty-minute makeover on her nose, even going so far as to wear a dangerously pointed Philip Treacy number that that made it look like she'd GeoTagged her own shattered septum.
Suffice it to say, this wedding was all about the headgear. For instance, Zara Phillips turned up in a titfer that could have doubled for the SETI dish from Contact. When the sun finally shone as the happy couple emerged from the abbey, it wasn't a break in the clouds, Zara had simply stooped to adjust her heel.
But the prize for fashion statement of the decade has to go to Princess Beatrice. Like Rumer Willis, the poor girl is stuck with a disturbing mishmash of her parents' features, having inherited the worst of both. With eyes so large they'd send a manga illustrator back to the drawing board, she obviously felt as though she needed to draw attention up and away. And did so with a piece of millenary that has already inspired its own Facebook page.
When we first got a glimpse of it, from the back seat of the limo that ferried her and Eugenie to the abbey, it gave her the appearance of an errant child who'd got his head stuck in the back of an ornate dining chair. Then she stepped out and the world gasped. Part Snow White's magic mirror, part facehugger, it was the kind accessory that didn't just say "look at me", it screamed "I dare you to look away".
Of course, the live broadcast meant that the commentators had to maintain an air of professionalism. Instead of blurting out "What the hell, did she answer the Call of the Cthulhu?", they were left to impotently discuss her pinky-beige ensemble. However, the Twitterverse exploded in disbelief that anyone would want to attend a wedding looking as though they ought to be mounted on a wood-panelled wall over a gun cabinet.
Yesterday was a pointed reminder that we're subjects, as well as citizens, in our own country. But at least we have a voice. And despite Huw Edwards and Simon Schama repeatedly asserting that "a day like today undermines the theory that we've become a cynical society", social media's record of the event tells a very different story. And it's fucking hilarious.