Are you Fergie in disguise?

I'll be glad when this royal wedding malarkey is over.

My phone hasn't stopped ringing and Cherie Blair was banging on my front door half the night. I'm starting to wish that I'd never set up my website, ("ky" being the international internet code for the Cayman Islands, so not only tax-advantageous but rather sexy to boot).

It's not even as if I need the money. Ever since I ramped up the price of gold last year, I've been raking in the readies at a rate that even I find a
tad embarrassing. Naturally, the bullion bubble won't last for ever. Sooner or later, some highly paid analyst will grow suspicious of the rapid increase in gold's availability. People will start to examine their new ingots more closely and may find that some of the surface flakes off . . .

So why am I bothering? It's a matter of supply and demand. There are just a few thousand seats in Westminster Abbey and several million people around the world who'd like to sit in them.

A black market is the inevitable outcome, and I considered it my responsibility to ensure said black market was orderly. After all, it is a royal event.

Fortunately, many of the official guests are obscure beyond the point of anonymity, so it wasn't that difficult to obtain a couple of invitations that were meant for the high commissioner of some minuscule colonial oversight and sell them on to a deserving (if equally obscure) uninvited couple, such as our former prime minister and his wife, Gordon and Sarah Brown.

The Duchess of York poses a greater challenge. Why poor Fergie was left off the guest list is as mystifying to me as it is to her. It's not her fault she hasn't gunned down any unarmed protesters in some dusty Middle Eastern capital of late. And it can't be because the palace is worried about the impact Fergie might have on the buffet. Her eating is almost completely under control.

The only possible explanation is simple establishment spite. But the joke will be on them when I smuggle her into the abbey, disguised as the Archbishop of Port Stanley.

However, what I'm sure you really want to know is - was Alan, Lord B'Stard, invited? The answer is "of course". Nevertheless, I won't be going - Roman Abramovich's pleas for my tickets were too pitiful to ignore.

Besides, there will be too many "exes" at the abbey as it is, what with both Wills and Kate inviting old flames to their nuptials. So, while I have fond memories of Carole Middleton and how well she used to look after me in her days as a member of Concorde cabin crew (when I was poor and forced to fly commercial), I think it would be in poor taste to jump up from my seat by the nave, grab the future mother-in-law of the future king and give her a good snog for old time's sake. Although, now I think about it, in certain lights Kate does remind me of . . . me.

As told to Marks and Gran

This article first appeared in the 02 May 2011 issue of the New Statesman, The Firm