By all accounts it was a marriage made in tabloid heaven. An Irish boy-band singer - Bryan somebody - marries an English girl-band singer - Kerry somebody --in a lavish occasion for the great and the good, the fun-loving, self-loving, moderately talented and not-so camera shy.
For those possibly out of touch with events - don't you follow current affairs? - Bryan is a unit in West-something and Kerry was in Atomic-something, but something blew up there and, to be honest, I don't know what she's doing now except being a celebrity and getting married.
Through their spectacularly brief and rampantly successful careers these two 21-year-olds have learned the meaning of gravy. Rather than allow heartbroken fans and Meath farmers gawk at them in nuptial splendour, they reportedly bartered the visual rights of their big day to a glossy magazine - possibly the superb How's It Goin'? - for more money than either party would care to mention.
One can only imagine this exciting deal being struck with HIG? executives The lovestruck couple no doubted insisted that exclusive pictures of their big day was no laughing matter. After all, this would be a deeply personal moment, a chapter in their lives even more profound than going platinum in Jersey or getting on Top of the Pops.
Public service
HIG? could only plead that the duo owed it to their fans. Buoyed by legal and financial advice, the newly-weds were left little option but to concede that such a debt should be repaid. And with some dexterity on ready reckoners the best way to honour that debt was to sell to the highest bidder.
It's at such critical junctures that How's It Goin'? abandons economic sense and adopts the role of public service. It strikes a deal for a few hundred thousand euro so that the couple can stop worrying about their fans. Like a good maitre d', How's It Goin'? will look after everything so the somebodys-to-be can concentrate on themselves.
Veterans of boy/girl band warfare will tell you anything is for sale and everything has a price. Blame HIG? for a posse of "B" celebrity paparazzi having to camp in drizzle outside the chapel gates in Rathfeigh.
For much of Saturday the nation was agog with this love-in. The couple's equanimity towards fans and farmers alike, their self-inflicted exclusiveness and the courage of their guests in running the gauntlet of seasoned reporters: "Are you looking forward to today?"
Those inside the stone tent were allegedly having a great time; those locked outside were, in the parlance of Mick McCarthy, left urinating in the bushes.
Inevitably push comes to shove and How's It Goin'? was anxious to protect its investment. When the bride's tinted limo pulled up an hour late - even "B" celebrities have prerogatives - a stern-faced brigade of HIG? militia enveloped the vehicle in a big black drape to keep Kerry's dress a big secret to the outside world. Hello! I mean, Hello?
Snappers locked at the chapel gate were forced to try their luck from long range. There was widespread concern that the bride would never find her way out of the curtain or walk straight into a wall. Microphone leads were stretched to breaking point. War correspondents have seldom toiled in more horrific conditions.
Media siege
The bride allegedly made it into the church and the media siege continued. It was a tricky time with nerves frayed all round. With so many itchy fingers ready to shoot on sight it took timely intervention at the church gate by somebody-maker Louis something.
Louis knows how vital news is to a functioning society. He also knows that biology can catch up on a boy/girl band. They tend to get old. Their voices even break and the odd one might try a solo run as an adult. Just like Robbie Whatsit, the man who used to be a boy in Take This.
Louis knows this so well he's served jury duty on the TV series Popstirs. It's an emotional roller-coaster and the key requirement is that nobodies who want to become somebodies have to be able to shed tears, even when there's no pain. Last time I watched Popstirs I was overcome by their grief and switched to a light-hearted documentary about Chernobyl.
Maybe it was miraculous but the drizzle at Rathfeigh seemed to stop when Louis appeared. Nuggets of news were doled out to the breathless paparazzi, including a checklist of photogenic guests who would later have to manoeuvre their egos through the narrow streets of the village en route to a reception at Slane Castle.
Cameras rolling
What about the dress, Louis? What can you tell us about the dress? Pens were poised, microphones tilted, cameras were rolling. Louis considered the gravity of the situation and informed the nation that the dress was in fact white.
Considering HIG? was distressed that guests might take personal photos and breach their exclusive arrangement, this was a brave admission, a sort of gift to the public. Fans and farmers in Meath were allowed to visualise the dress for free.
The enriched and reportedly radiant couple hoped their special day would be as normal as possible. And presumably it was, apart from presidential-style security and the unseemly appearance of HIG? militia roaming the countryside with their big black drape.
Grieving nobodies in Popstirs will learn it thus. Minor celebrity, a new form of puppetry, means every day is a working day. In return, you get paid handsomely for showing up at your wedding.