Gen Why?: Wedding fever doesn't afflict everyone

Weddings are meant to be blissful, momentous occasions, a time for family, friends, your accountant and virtually every acquaintance you don't actively hate, to gather and wallow in the joy of love, laughter and alcohol you didn't pay for.
It is both a time of reflection and a time to look forward with utmost glee to a life that is somehow drastically different now that you've spent a lot of money on cufflinks. It is also a time that would appear to be of extreme newsworthiness if your name happens to be William Arthur Phillip Louis Windsor or Catherine Elizabeth Middleton.
Having never been to a wedding, I cannot comment on the enjoyment factor they generate for everyone other than the happy couple. I have heard reviews ranging from delightful to being reminiscent of a three-hour long ear infection with confetti and a Wham! soundtrack. Yet despite the no doubt contentious gratification level experienced by the average wedding guest, recent news coverage would suggest that the royal wedding was not only the highlight of the typical New Zealand citizen's life, but will change the course of history, define the future of the entire Commonwealth and quite possibly uncover the cure for Aids in the process.
When the ground-breaking announcement of the grand union first hit our newsfeed in November last year, it was a feature, a light bit on the side for such hard-hitting news broadcasts as Breakfast and the current affairs themed infomercial, Good Morning.
It was comfortable there, loveable characters such as Pippa and the deranged woman who makes "nifty" things out of denim were free to discuss the dress, the celebrity guest list and other banal non-entities to their hearts' content, infecting only the minds of people willing to get up before twelve.
But then it got greedy; The Royal Wedding decided it did not belong among the witty banter and stain removal tips and clawed its way progressively up the news schedule until it reached the big one, achieving headline status on the 6 o'clock news every night for at least the last two weeks.
As if anticipating a cataclysmic event, every aspect has been comprehensively dissected and no news bulletin is complete without comment from a handful of obscure fashion types on their predictions of the dress and an exhaustive interview with some mad old royalist with unhealthy affliction for collecting puzzles of Diana's face.
Minor world issues such as Fukushima, Libya and the economy are forced to huddle, cold and shivering, in the shadow of the Kate and Will media juggernaut; if they're lucky someone might toss them a few seconds of airtime and a leftover scone. One of my more extroverted friends recently asked me what he would have to do to get himself on the news.
He was disappointed when I told him the only guaranteed ticket to newsworthiness was to either become a royal or accumulate a collection of Windsor-themed teaspoons.
The whole experience made me feel more than a little ostracised.
Was I the lone Commonwealth patriot who wouldn't be glued to the TV on Friday evening weeping tears of joy into my English breakfast and praying the tribe of imminent little Windsors won't have developed their dad's male pattern baldness by kindergarten?
It would appear so. My flatmate has had the TV booked since February; everyone from the checkout lady to the Sky TV telemarketer have asked after my Friday night plans in the vague possibility I might be doing anything other than spending quality time with Kate, Wills and a crippling amount of imperial sentiment.
I overheard two women in the supermarket. After scanning a magazine one said she said she was quite looking forward to the wedding even though she didn't really care about it.
Her friend agreed, describing the Friday coverage as a relief, a break from "all the bloody hoorah" happening in the rest of the world.
While I'm pretty sure the Prime Minister of Japan would like to think of his situation as a bit more than a "hoorah", I could kind of see their point.
If the nuptials of Kate and Wills are going to cover the nation in a blanket of marital fuzzies for a day, pick up morale, or even restore June from Kaiapoi's faith in humans under 30, maybe it's worth it after all.
As you read this you will either be basking in the balmy afterglow of the decade's great union or wishing the entire royal family would don their lederhosen, ship back to the homeland and leave our airwaves in peace. Whichever, I can only apologise for the streaker who ran through the crowd with a handful of teaspoons. I told him it would make the news.