A global audience 750 million strong watched the last great royal wedding of Diana Spencer and Prince Charles. Today’s royal wedding, with an estimated viewing audience of more than two billion, promised everything — fashion, celebrity, spectacle, kings, queens, castles, horses, Rolls Royces, princesses, princes and the combination of old world pomp and tradition with modern technology and Piers Morgan. The dusty old monarchy had nine of the 10 top trending topics in the world before the ceremony even began.

No regular weddings compare, not even celebrity nuptials. Even if Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie get hitched, they won’t drive nine miles per hour through the cordoned streets of London in bulletproof Rolls Royces. They won’t have boy scouts selling souvenir programs on the side of the road. Anderson Cooper won’t report live.

Things are just different. Most grooms wake groggy-eyed on their wedding day, drink a little coffee and try not to cut themselves shaving. Prince William woke up this morning and received the titles of Duke of Cambridge, Earl of Strathearn and Baron Carrickfergus.

Wedding coverage starts at 4 a.m. in pitch-black Ann Arbor. The birds aren’t even up. I flip between five channels, catching NBC doing the Times Square thing with a group of cute Canadian nurses dressed to the nines and calling themselves the Wolfpack (The Hangover was just released in Canada, apparently).

On ABC, Barbara Walters questions why director Guy Ritchie is invited but thinks nothing of the yoga instructor getting a seat in the Abbey. I flip to CNN where Piers Morgan dishes about cocaine nose jobs and calls the mayor of London a naughty boy. Anderson Cooper tries to keep things on track, but a lot of the time it’s Morgan cracking wise and Brits cackling into microphones.

A Canadian subject enjoys the royal wedding

I’m well aware of all the peripherals of the wedding, having authored the mega guide to the thing. I feel sorry for Kate. It’s her day, but it’s got to be tough to plan such a giant event and have everything go your way (I hear the Queen is kind of a control freak).

The bride wants to choose her music, the flowers, the center pieces, the cake, who to invite, who to snub. With a royal wedding there are so many more considerations. Where to seat peripheral governmental dignitaries? Do we let the Canadians in? What color sash do the rooftop snipers wear?

The day becomes about fashion. Vera Wang opines in-studio, getting a ton of camera time. The hats fascinate me. Floppy hats, hats with bows, ruffles, giant saucers, feathers, flowers, lace, piping, ribbons, tendrils, small hats, giant hats, hats that look glued on, hats that look like giant lady bugs, Captain America’s shield, cream, gold, teal, canary, violet, pink, red, black, green, navy blue. Tilted to the left, to the right, set back, pinned at the front of the head, some covering the entire top half of the face like a stylish English sombrero.

And that’s just the women. The best tweet: “Some of these hats are clearly meant to keep these women from chewing on their stitches.”

Guests process into Westminster Abbey an hour and a half early. Victoria and David Beckham arrive, she a radiant seven-months pregnant and he a fairytale prince in a cravat. The women are gorgeous, and the men look dignified at worst, many with a certain Mr. Darcyness to them. There aren’t a lot of mustaches, but those in attendance are majestic. Elton John walks into the Abbey like a Labrador with hip dysplasia.

Princes Harry and William arrive, and my first thoughts are: 1) It’s a shame about William’s hair; 2) Wow, Harry is going to be a hit at the reception tonight. Piping on pants has never looked so good.

The crowd cheers when Prince Charles and Mrs. Doubtfire drive past but go Beatles-crazy when the Queen zooms by wearing head to toe marigold. Even Cooper admits to getting a little flustered.

The bride darts from the hotel into her car.

“That’s a big train,” Morgan hollers. “Hair up or hair down,” someone asks. “We were told it would be hair down,” Cooper jumps in. “I don’t even know how I know that.”

The greatest mystery in the history of royal weddings is solved when Kate Middleton steps out of the Rolls Royce wearing Alexander McQueen. Kate’s sister is beautiful, too and, seeing her mother and her brother earlier, it’s clear that the Middleton family is either genetically altered to be beautiful or they're gorgeous robots.

Kate walks down the red-carpeted aisle of Westminster Abbey and that’s when I notice there are frickin’ trees in the church! Church attendance would increase considerably if they had better foliage.

William faces forward as Kate approaches, and it’s not until she’s right next to him that he turns and looks at her. I’m no professional lip reader, but I swear he whispers, “You look lovely.” Awwwwwwww. (Morgan later reports he said, “You look beautiful.” Way to show me up, dood.)

Back in Ann Arbor, the sun is making the black sky less black. The ceremony begins with a Welsh Rugby anthem (no joke), and they zoom through the open and get right to the vows and the exchange of rings.

I take note that there’s no ring bearer (my first duty as a member of a wedding party) — the Brits have clearly learned the lesson of my infamous act at the Markov wedding of 1982. At 6:20 a.m. Kate and William are officially hitched and Trafalgar Square goes wild. Thank goodness there’s no sign of the rage-infected (I’ve been dying to make a 28 Days Later reference!).

“And that’s it,” Morgan says, calling the ensuing hymn “tubthumping.”

There’s speechifying, the choir rejoices, and — I’m dead serious —  my cat starts purring very loudly for no particular reason. Maybe it was the little-boy soloist with the bad teeth and the Ringo haircut. Crowd shots show revelers waving flags and singing along to hymns, many holding copies of the royal wedding program.

The trumpets strike up God Save the Queen, and, in the coolest move of the day, the Queen is the only one who doesn’t sing (I always find it weird when people applaud for themselves when they’re honored for something — it’s even classier not to sing a song hoping you don’t die).

There’s more singing and timpani as the bride and groom fill out paperwork backstage and finally they walk hand-in-hand, she smiling at guests, he trying not to step on her train.

They break the threshold of Westminster Abbey to a cacophony of cheering and bells as streamers and confetti rain down like an FA Cup final. The bride and groom climb into the carriage, William donning white gloves and (thankfully, no offense Billy) military hat and they trot along the procession route waving at their adoring subjects.

“The British Monarchy is back,” says Morgan.

(Richard Retyi doesn't normally write about the monarchy for Lie to Your Cats About Santa but it's kind of fun. You can follow him on Twitter at @richretyi, read his co-blog at InBedByEleven.com or email him at richretyi[at]gmail[dot]com. He'll get back to his regular jackassery soon enough.)