Jim Kershner: Alarmingly, I’ve sealed my titular fate

I can’t believe I slept through the royal wedding.

I woke up, looked at the clock and it said 7:15 a.m. I blurted out a King George-like profanity as the enormity of the disaster slowly dawned. William and Kate had jumped the broom without me.

Will they ever forgive me? Only time will tell, but let me tell you, these Windsors don’t give up a grudge easily.

I had somehow snoozed my way right through every bit of pageantry, every shot of grand ladies in sombrero-sized hats and every earnest anchor-person discussion of whether to call the happy couple the “Duke and Duchess” or the “Prince and Princess.” (The consensus: “Duke and Duchess” just sounds too old and wrinkled.)

I feel so ashamed.

Kate and William are the ones who had to do all the work. They had to learn all the lines, practice the choreography and follow centuries of ancient protocol. All I had to do was set my alarm, haul myself out of the sack and sit in front of the telly with my hanky. And I couldn’t even do that correctly.

I intended to watch it, I really did. Decades ago, I had stayed up to watch Prince Charles get hitched to Princess Diana. That whole thing turned out exceptionally well. Except for the … you know … and then the … uhh … all the rest.

But the wedding itself was quite an entertaining show and I had managed to wake up for it with no problem whatsoever. I was younger then and had more wedding-stamina. I was able to call on reserves of willpower in order to do my royal duty. I never regretted attending (i.e., watching) that wedding, except, of course, during the entire Camilla thing.

This time, I truly was looking forward to “being there” for the royal couple (by which I mean, “being conscious”). I was keenly anticipating yet another triumphant combination of tradition, pomp and state-of-the-art stagecraft. I also had some professional reasons for wanting to be there. As a theater reviewer, I wanted to cast my seasoned eye on the props, the costumes, and most of all, the supporting performances of Harry and Pippa. Would they steal the show? Or would they embarrass themselves with Charlie Sheen-like outbursts, f-bombs echoing off the hallowed stones of Westminster Abbey?

Now, there’s no way for me to know. My alarm either failed to go off or I failed to set it at all, subconsciously sabotaging my own future standing with the royal family.

If only there was some magical way for me to relive that wedding, something like a DVR that could record the whole thing. Or, I don’t know, a technology called something like YouTube, which could instantly make the event available in its entirety, through eternity. Or if only – and this is the craziest idea of all – the morning news shows, the cable news channels, the E! Channel or BBC America would see fit to somehow replay the highlights, ad nauseam, for those of us who snoozed through our alarms.

No such luck. I’ve missed the wedding, period, and I’ll have to accept the consequences. The queen is no doubt coldly stripping my name from the rolls of the Anglophilia Club. Young Prince Harry is striking me angrily from the guest list for his own wedding of the century.

To Kate and William, however, I make this promise. I will at least send a gift. You guys registered at Target?