Not even kidding, it’s like every day is straight out of a Film Noir movie, the part just after the private d*ck has found out the sl*tty dame killed his brother and ran off with the money and he gets drunk off his face and wanders through the streets, swinging off streetlamps and such. You know what I’m talking about. The ‘drizzle’. A word that could only be created by a people so used to the gray, monotonous downpour just this side of actual RAIN that they have to come up with an all-encompassing term to encapsulate not only the physical, but also the psychological effect of such a depressing climate. It’s like you’re being gently p*ssed on from a great, great height by someone who just wants to gently p*ss you off.
Few weeks ago I’m at Wedding #45 (to protect the identities of those concerned, weddings will simply be numbered from this point on. The Bride will be B and the Groom is G. Ever since Tits McGee got mad about me mentioning her in my intro. So sue me. I didn’t think she’d actually read this cr*p. She’s already married, what does she care.)
So, #45 is a July wedding, right? It’s beautiful – I’ve been to this venue before, they’ve got a stunning landscaped garden with bushes I could cause trouble in (and have) and views to make Jack Donaghy weep. 30 Rock, you insular cretins. Look it up.
We arrive in the baking sunshine – as the weatherman promised – and all’s looking swell. I’m downing Pimm's (the best thing to come out of this country since America) like it’s my job, thinking I’ll get to take a nice little nap during the ceremony. (It’s an outside ceremony. In the sunshine. After 7 glasses of Pimm's. Napping is basically obligatory.) But just as we’re taking our seats in preparation for my much-needed snooze, the CLOUDS roll in. We’re not talking your normal British namby-pamby gray clouds with your gray linings and the gray mist-drizzle. Nah, these motherf*ckers were BLACK. Like, apocalypse-is-nigh, hold-on-to-your-nipple-rings kinda black. Ruh-roh Scooby.
B appears, glorious in white, beautifully contrasting with the obsidian overcast looming behind her. Everyone’s doing that nervous rustle, like I remember from college when lecture was about to end and you’re trying to pretend you’re still paying attention but you’re actually closing your laptop and putting your heels back on. This sh*t’s gonna blow.
B makes it all the way down the aisle. THUNDER ROLLS. I’m second row, so I can hear the registrar quietly suggest we all head inside and continue there. But B, the sweetheart, shakes her head. No. This show must go on. Plus, there’s no contingency plan. No umbrellas, no room inside big enough to fit everyone, no nothing. If this ship goes down, not even the rats are gonna make it out.
“Do you, G take this woman to be your – BOOM!!!!” The skies open. I’ve been staring upward for the last seven minutes, watching for a hint of rain, but there was no preparing for this – people are literally screaming their faces off, as grandma’s hat goes from floral to fecal in a matter of seconds. I’m on my feet and pushing through the crowds, having planned my escape route carefully – there’s a small gazebo by the house I’ve seen the staff coming out of with the Pimm's. Shelter and booze. I’ll be just fine.
Problem is – a few other people seem to have had the same idea. Elbows flailing, I barrel into little bridesmaid Pigtails, sending her hurtling into the flower-bed. No time to help the stragglers, I kick her outstretched hands out of my way and leap – only to be snagged by the roses and brought tumbling to my knees. My dressed is f*cked, obviously, but a quick glance back confirms it’s no way near as bad as B’s situation – looks like she decided to go mud-wrestling with her mother-in-law-to-be. Maybe that wasn’t accidental.
I let out a fierce battle-cry as I push on, feeling like an Amazonian warrior-princess as I hack down one of the groomsmen with my clutch and shoulder-check some dude in a kilt. I’m winning. I’m F*CKING WINNING!!!!!!!
CRASH. I didn’t totally take into account braking-distances when the paving is wet. Slamming hard into the side of the gazebo, I can feel the pegs give way just as a couple of angry wet men in suits follow suit. The most confusing cacophony of sounds EVER occurs as the gazebo collapses under our collective weight, sending trays of glasses flying, pitchers of Pimm's crashing to the floor and freshly-plated lamb shanks flipping into the air. Well, sh*t.
Lying on my back, covered in mud and chewing on some stray asparagus, I watched the clouds roll on through my blurry contacts.
Wedding #45 – raging success.