On the morning after the night before, following the afternoon of his wedding, Mike Tindall is pictured still wearing the clothes he got married in.
You can take the boy off the rugby field, but you can never take the pint of Skullsmasher lager out of his hand. Don’t even try it. Not while the free bar is still open, anyway.
Stay classy, Mike. Start as you mean to go on. The nation’s sympathy is on your side, even as you wince at the daylight and brave the fresh air outside Holyrood Palace, contemplating the dawn of your new life as a quasi-royal. And no, Michael James Tindall, it was definitely not all a dream. You really have married into the British monarchy. Scary Princess Anne truly is your new mother-in-law, you poor old sausage.
From now on, you will be expected to spend Christmases at Sandringham, extend your pinky aloft while eating crustless sandwiches and laugh politely at all Grandpa Phil’s amusing ‘Chinky’ jokes.
And not only does the bleak pain of Tindall’s post-wedding expression hint that the new groom has been hit hard with the hangover stick, it also suggests that somewhere in the gilded rooms behind him, with their fine Brussels tapestries and magnificent furnishings — in a palace where Mary, Queen of Scots married two husbands and history most plangent and bloody has been made — his modern, young bride is finally raising her head off the dance floor, where she fell asleep at 5am.
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