I do… or, I do not.. Do. (part 2)
Inviting a divorced man to a wedding is akin to inviting a vegetarian to a pork pie festival. Here is a continuation of my bitter musings… or as I like to call them…
My narrow minded, broad spectrum of hate.
The big day.
The bride hasn’t really slept. She’s going over in her head the inch thick, trowelled on layer of make-up that will hide her imperfections. Even though her betrothed has seen them and judged them a thousand times. She wants everything to be perfect, including her very flawed husband to be. Who, for ‘the most important day of her life’ she has left to dress and groom himself…. And most importantly arrive on time.
She see this as the biggest commitment she could ever endure. Years previously they have produced child and bought a house jointly. But still, this piece of paper they’ll sign IS the biggest commitment.
The groom had slept soundly, he’s played poker and drunk whiskey with his closest friends and when they’ve departed for bed he’s knocked out a few shuffles to redtube.com in a last frenzy before he totally devotes himself to the women with whom he’s fathered a child and cohabits.
It’s the day of the wedding. Everyone is nervous. The groom waits eagerly at the alter. His best man offers words of encouragement and failing this a hip flask full of whiskey.
The bride is fashionably late. She’s spent the last 24 hours getting ready. Her awful looking, very uncomfortable bridesmaid’s eagerly await her arrival so this sordid affair can all be done with and they can slip into what they actually want to wear. The best man is eying up which one he wants to pork in the back room of the working mans club (the setting for the reception.)
She finally arrives. The traditional music of unchained melody bellows out of the customary iPod. People cry on mass. Hysterically. The father of bride gets angry because people are “looking at him funny.”
Speechless…. Sorry speeches. The father of the bride… too emotional and incoherent. The best man fancies himself a skillful raconteur, yet gives an incoherent, disjointed, In-joke related speech about tame encounters… leaving out the juicy bits so as not to offend the out laws, who are well versed in debauchery and recount tales of outdoor shenanigans and how their beloved daughter was ‘definitely not a mistake.’ The GCSE English, grade C, pays off.
A toast ends the agony and the only things to suffer are the meal and the drinks. Many men congregate outside to smoke a ‘fine’ cigar… they inhale with bitter faces resembling a girl a gnoshing an infected cock. A ritual that is heralded as a right of passage. Preferably a cigarette is inhaled with gusto whilst observing the cacophony of coughs and chokes as the men fail to portray a aristocratic gentleman.
Soon the night is drawn to a close…. The music subsides in traditional fashion with a Frank Sinatra number and everyone retires. What goes on behind closed doors remains an enigma.
Everyone reels the next day as they fly of to Costa-packet. They’ve just spent the equivalent of a deposit for a substantial house on a day in paradise. They continue to claim riches from the state, unknowly immune to the divorce that will bitterly end their happiness will cost, on average, double the amount they’ve just spent for the ‘most important day of their life!’