Frances Grant: Two weddings and a funeral

As gigs go, it was hard to choose between them: the magnificent and sombre funeral of the Pope or the stately and sober wedding of Charles and Camilla.

The Papal funeral was a rockstar event in terms of the house, with 300,000 of the faithful and counting - beat that, Windsors. And the postmatch clean-up was impressive, too. "Millions of bottles," noted one correspondent in Rome. Not surprising that some of the punters might have felt the need for a stiffish one or two, what with the send-off being three hours, and then some.

Home on the couch, my devotion faded somewhere in the middle of the litany of the saints. If all the ones created by John Paul II were to be included, this was going to take all night. The man could not be faulted for his ability to see the good in others. I nodded off about the time it became obvious that, despite the strong Latin component, the crowd wasn't going to turn on any Mexican waves or even serial genuflecting.

Saintliness wasn't on the agenda at the Windsor do. Instead, Charles and Camilla opted for the confessional note. Much was made of their contrite references to their past "sins and wickedness" in the pre-match, but in reality it was a bit of cop-out, with the whole congregation forced to go along with them in the prayer and admit the same.

Had one been in the congregation and led a blameless life, free of tampon-gates or saucy remarks at the polo, one might have been a tad resentful.

No misbehaviour either from the "handpicked" crowds waiting for the happy couple outside Windsor Castle, chosen, obviously, for their lack of keenness to go about casting first stones.

The most pressing question in the run-up to the wedding was whether Camilla could possibly scrub up well for the occasion. Where was mention of jughead Charles' challenged looks?

The heir to the throne may not be a full subscriber, but certainly could pass for a casual member of the Plugugly Club.

Television loves a theme and as a special downer before the gloomy, breast-beating wedding, was something masquerading as a documentary called Harry the Mysterious Prince. Yes, truly. As if we, the humble audience at home, are mentally incapable of distinguishing between a fog-brained, freckly teenager and someone like James Bond.

A bit thick? Probably. A good judge of fancy dress costume? Unfortunately not. A dash of temper? True. Talent for the tabloid headline? Yes. But enigmatic? Um, no.

Harry we learned wasn't as good-looking as big brother William but more sporty, fun-loving, immature and irresponsible. For this the royal watchers and expert commentators gave him a good tut-tutting.

But Harry can take heart from Camilla's big day. It's the frumpy, fun-lovers who get the biscuit in the end.

Wedding of the week, however, had to go to the nuptials of Epponnee Rae Charlene Darlene Raelene etc on the finale of Kath & Kim.

Our friends across the Tasman have been spoiled for royal occasions of late. First the Danish prince and Tasmanian Mary. Now the return of Australia's favourite pop princess, for a guest appearance with the country's favourite suburban nightmares.

The permed Minogue sported an impressive Fountaingate "eksent" and a white ensemble which, in the unforgettable words of hornbag mum Kim, (warning vulgarity ensues) left the "welcome mat" showing.

Forget the ostentatiously plain and unconvincingly repentant House of Windsors. Nobody does a royal wedding like the Aussies.