Those loved-up crazy kids and their royal wedding. I’m a fierce republican and I will send them to the tumbrels when the revolution comes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a couple of hours of day drinking followed by an evening of dress-ups, celebrities and ridonkulous English nuff nuffs.

The wedding of Harry and Megs on Saturday night was surprisingly good fun. There are of course the professionally miserable hardcore buzzkills on both left and right, who went into the gig ready to tip industrial vats of concentrated snark and bile on the whole thing; the lefties because the royal fam doesn’t just represent the apex predators of a colonial system that ravaged half the world, they’re still living large on the profits. And the born-again Nazis because Meghan Markle is biracial and the idea of tainting the blood royal made their tiny little minds explode like a throbbing Godzilla pimple on the end of Hitler’s nose, squeezed in a sudden pincer movement between George Patton’s armoured division and the Fifth Soviet Shock Army.

But who cares about them?

I tuned in as soon as the ABC started streaming from Windsor, delighted to find Annabel and J-Fez had hooked up with a human peroxide bottle whose tendency to say exactly the wrong thing at just the right moment kept me from switching over to the commercial coverage, even when the ABC decided to cut away from Harry and Will’s first appearance to a curtsey lesson with the reanimated remains of June Dally-Watkins.

It’s all anecdata, of course, and there’s an angry, torch-burning mob of Guardian columnists and neo-Nazis outside begging to differ, but it felt that most of the peeps I was watching along with on the Twitters were also enjoying themselves hugely, and many were even a little surprised. But why the surprise?