Yeah, while you have been busily watching the news clips and reading the newspaper titbits about the event, I am here in flesh and blood, savouring the overwhelming richness and sniffing the glorious air of an Italian autumn night as Tom Cruise adds a third delightful sticker to his album of wives. A moment in time indeed.

I must say the organisers have made sure Tom’s one-million budget for the wedding have been well spent. As Gianni the limo driver navigates me past the milling Bracciano crowds, I cannot help marvelling at people’s innate imbecility. I am only here as a poor man’s Media observer, but when people start waving at me, I cannot help waving back, not so regally but confidently enough to make them think I am indeed one of the groom’s invited guests, possibly an illustrious one from the vain world of planet Hollywood.

Some even shout compliments – or are they expletives? – at me, but I pretend not to understand. I think a couple of old spinsters have just screamed in my direction, only to realise they have just been victims of one of the roaming army of pick-pockets. But it is fun making them think what I think they are thinking. My mouth aches from an excess of toothy smiles. I ask Gianni to do the same, for he is of course privy to the whole put-up job.

My arrival is greeted by more curious reactions from the imbeciles that throng the Bracciano Castle precincts. Some take pictures with their mobile phones as I am swiftly escorted into the amazing 15th century building. I wonder who people think I am. A long-faded film star from the past? A famous footballer everyone has forgotten? A relative of either the groom or the bride? I try to look as mysteriously intrigued by the whole scene as the teeming people want me to.

Inside, things become somewhat hotter, but much more relaxed. As one of only a few unaccompanied guests, I have to think quick. What do you normally do at weddings? Ah, yes, you take a few steps forward, another few steps back; then shift a few steps eastwards and back, a few steps westwards and back, making sure you look the part of an important guest who is looking for old friends here and there in the huge, chandeliered major hall. I spot David and Victoria Beckham.

“Hi, David,” I tell the soft-spoken Adonis who looks stunned and quickly checks his bodyguards are within reasonable distance. I notice he is drinking Bailey’s, while I can swear Posh is just cradling a glass of water. He has somehow caught my surname and switches to the pidgin Spanish that has seen him debunked to substitution at Real Madrid.

“No, no, no,” I chuckle back as politely as possible, “I am not Spanish. I come from the island of Malta.” David Beckham has always loved Malta and his face lights up at once. Victoria remains oblivious to both me and my Maltese origin. Just as we are about to strike up a conversation, David sees an old friend, John Travolta, thrusts his glass of Bailey’s into my hand and walks over to the star of Saturday Night Fever. In any case, it is Saturday night with a Bracciano fever.

“Oh, no,” I hiss to myself, “he did this to my daughter too some years ago when, still a snotty teenaged football wonder, he was visiting the Manchester United Supporters’ Club in Malta. I don’t think she’s washed her hand since.” He comes back with John to introduce Posh to him, as if I do not exist at all. So I slam the glass of Bailey’s onto a marble mantle and walk on.

I brush past Will Smith, whispering loudly as always, but it is much more exciting brushing past Jennifer Lopez. Thank goodness her hubby does not notice. Us Latin-surnamed tend to be highly volatile and temperamental. Brushing past Brooke Shields a few paces away, though, feels strangely obtrusive. She has just readjusted her ample backside to compete with J. Lo’s famous hardware.

Then it is time to play with the imbeciles. So guests take it in turns to imitate the lovely bride’s parents by looking out of the castle windows and cause an instant furore. Every time someone does so, the apparition is greeted with shouts and hoots from the crowd of imbeciles outside and myriad paparazzi cameras flash.

“What the heck,” I reassure myself, “if they can enjoy themselves in this manner, why not I too?” So I walk haughtily to one of the windows and, still fondling my crystal glass of double Scotch, I peep out into the scene below. Again, I confuse a lot of people. The paparazzi are furious. Who the hell is this guy? They were as perplexed watching me arrive in the black Mercedes as they are now trying to decipher the silly facial expression I have reserved for my look-out session during the wedding of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.

As I retreat from the window, I bump into Andrea Bocelli. My fault, of course. He could not have seen me. So I apologise in my bruised Italian to which he reacts warmly. I utter the word Malta to which he reacts even more warmly. I know he is coming over to sing for us, but I dare not ask for how much money.

The evening for this lone, unrecognised guest goes on pretty much in the same vein. Jim Carey and his wife Jenny McCarthy stride past. I swear he intentionally made a farting noise. But finally I get to meet the star and groom. He obviously does not know who I am and what I am doing here. It must have been a misprint on the invitation list. But he is nobility itself and bravely refuses to ask me how I have managed to slip in. Perhaps talking to a taller man, let alone a woman, still inhibits poor old Tom.

When it is time to sing good luck to the happy couple, we all join in, film stars and famous footballers, models and mesmerising conoscenti, hangers-on and the unfamiliar faces. I am bound by the Official Secrets Act not to divulge what came out of the huge wedding cake when Tom and Katie plunged the knife into it. But I plan to do so in 25 years’ time when the information becomes public domain. Promise.

By Maltese Lija standards, the fireworks display is nothing to write home about, but we all wow and howl with delight as the little colourful bangers reach the Bracciano sky. The crowd of imbeciles outside – some of them even blissfully being interviewed for local TV to say how much they have been disappointed at not seeing the happy couple and most of us star guests – realise for the first time this evening that they have been had.

We walk back to our limos and go into rewind mode past the imbeciles. They had them too nearby in Rome, centuries ago, when the gladiators took on one another and the lions. Gianni, my driver, gives me a knowing wink. He too is a fake for the evening.

I am back in Malta to find the Prime Minister is still laughing his way about the mess. His jaws must ache sometimes. While Bracciano had the Cruises, we had to be content with the Brigitte Nielsens...