THE cake. The dress. The page boys. The bridesmaids. Her dad. Awww. Ooooh. Aaaah.

For those who are heartily sick of the coverage of the royal wedding (no capitals here, we're classless) and its minutiae - I'm sorry, but I can't help you.

It has been like this for weeks, of course. Much has been made since the happy couple announced they were to wed, of the apparent fact that most of us couldn't give two hoots about the nth in line to the throne and his American TV star belle.

And that may well be true. But tabloid saturation coverage of every aspect of the wedding in the past days and weeks either gives that view the lie, or is a desperate attempt to change our minds.

Or - given the age in which we live - it could be seen as an attempt to make it appear as if we are obsessed with the wedding and all things royal. A sort of fake news "we love you".

Anything is possible these days, a state of affairs that has encouraged the souvenir industry to go into overdrive.

Gone are the days when a commemorative mug and a special coin would suffice. Nowadays there is a dizzying and occasionally nausea-inducing array of tat - sorry, souvenirs - for royal wedding obsessives to choose from.

Royal wedding condoms are at once the saddest and most obvious example of crass exploitation out there, but while they may take the top prize for bad taste, there are plenty more items running them close.

'Wedding Rings' souvenir breakfast cereal - at an eye-watering $75 a box - is classic, if expensive tat, but so too is a custom 3D wedding heart fridge magnet ($55) the manufacturers of which have managed to make Prince Harry look more like Boris Becker, and his wife-to-be like Austrian drag act Eurovision winner Conchita Wurst, though minus the beard.

And let's face it, even the staunchest anti-royalist would not wish such fates on either Hal or Meg. Would they?

I must own up to indifference at such royal spectacles, while acknowledging the fact that some folk find them forensically interesting and tremendously exciting.

While clearing out my mum's bungalow following her death a couple of years ago, I experienced a shudder of horror on finding photographs of a younger me sat on the back of a decorated lorry, flag in hand, during a village procession.

This must have been June 1977, a celebration of the Queen's Silver Jubilee. I was 13 years old and the 'please kill me now' expression on my face says it all.

There are no photographs of me four years later, when Prince Charles married Diana Spencer. This is because - sandwiches, pop and dogfood in my rucksack - I took a friend's red setter for the longest walk of its life, from 9am until well past 7pm, covering who knows how many miles of the south Derbyshire countryside, to avoid the street party and the inevitable roving cameras.

Since then, I've grown immune to pomp and circumstance.

But, even to those strange folk chomping through their royal wedding cereal this morning, I say: Enjoy the day.