By Kevin Page
MOST Saturday nights at our house we watch a movie.
Invariably we get 20 minutes into the production before the fun starts.
And I'm not talking about tipping over the glass of wine perched precariously on the edge of the coffee table or spilling the chips on the carpet.
I'm talking about that time-honoured tradition whereby the lady of the house mutters two simple words: "What's happening?" or "Who's that?"
You blokes out there may be familiar with this occurrence.
From what I can gather - which basically means this is what Mrs P has offered as an excuse - it's because the lady of the house is busy providing the wine and chips and therefore misses the start of the movie or whatever it is you're watching.
I've given up trying to debate the point. I mean if you haven't worked the plot out by halfway through a two-hour movie that exciting twist at the end isn't going to mean a lot to you, is it?
I thought watching the royal wedding on Saturday would be reasonably self-explanatory. Unfortunately not.
Firstly, it was a long production, depending of course on what channel you watched it on, so we needed lots of wine and lots of chips. All of which were steadily consumed through the evening.
Secondly, one channel decided to use its own presenters who were, frankly, hopeless and irritating, deciding George Clooney and his wife's hat should feature in as many shots as possible. The clincher for me came when the studio guest practically wet herself in excitement at seeing Oprah in the crowd. Wonder what happens when she sees her on a magazine cover?
So we flipped channels.
"Who's that?" said Mrs P as the royals arrived.
Luckily, courtesy of a study I assisted on many years ago, I am reasonably well versed in the lineage of the royals and was able to tell Mrs P who was who.
Likewise I have spent enough time in doctors'/dentists' waiting rooms of late to scan through the gossip columns of various women's magazines to come up with plausible explanations when our new channel featured someone famous, and the inevitable queries followed.
"Oh, that's David Furnish - he's Elton John's husband. Well, yes, I'd imagine he is gay but don't read anything into the fact he's just given David Beckham a kiss.
"And, yes, that is Victoria Beckham. I agree her face does look like a wet fish. It might be her famous photo-shoot pout though. You've never heard of it? It was in all the magazines."
Fortunately, as the ceremony dragged on, Mrs P's questions reduced in quantity along with the amount of wine in her glass.
She figured it was time for bed when a loud sleep-interrupting snort erupted from deep within her nasal passages just as the Archbishop of Canterbury was asking if anyone had any objections to the marriage.
As I bid her goodnight I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if my very own princess had actually done that in the church at that particular moment. It's a priceless thought I shall recall at times of stress for a while yet.
I watched the whole thing. Saw the dress, saw the kiss, saw the parade, saw the horses, saw the stunned look on the faces of the establishment as some of the American input came to the fore.
On Sunday I went and played golf (badly) and arrived home to discover Mrs P had plonked herself in front of the telly to watch the replay of the bits she had missed.
"What on earth was that American preacher guy on about?" she said, obviously hoping I could elaborate.
A contemptuous snort erupted from deep within my nasal passages as I realised this was a question nobody could answer.
"Absolutely no idea," I said. "We got any chips left?"
■Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales and a firm belief that laughter helps avoid frown lines. Your own tales and feedback are welcome on firstname.lastname@example.org