A: Too ugly;
B: Too poor;
C: Too rude;
D: Too old; or
E: All of the above.
You reach a certain age when nobody you know is getting married.
They’re getting divorced or dying.
When I look at all the smiling faces in wedding photos on social media and in newspapers, and then pass bridal party photo shoots on the banks of the Goulburn River, there’s a little part of me that says: You crazy, foolish, mad people — don’t you know? Why are you doing this?
But of course, they know — and they go full steam ahead into marriage because they’re in love, their friends are all doing it, their parents did it, they want to dress up and it’s fun.
Despite the dreaded statistics, the social consequences, the caterer’s bill and the lifetime vow of commitment — let’s face it, a wedding is fun.
Hands up how many people know a good wedding story?
Judging by the content of social media Epic Fails videos — just about everyone.
Brides who trip up or throw up, grooms who fall asleep or rip their pants, cakes that fall apart, melt or blow up, kids that scream or poo themselves and slide around on ice-cream, aunties that argue and fall off chairs, uncles that fight and get arrested — they’re all part of wedding lore.
As I said, everyone knows a good wedding story. Here’s mine.
The wedding was a swanky affair — London bankers, top hats and tails, Rolls-Royces that weren’t hired, marquees packed with long tables full of champagne glasses, a string quartet and nothing as cheap as a video camera.
Things started off on the wrong foot when the mother of the bride thought I was the chappy running the disco because I wore a red leather tie, crumpled white Miami Vice cotton jacket and pointy boots with three-inch Cuban heels. Yes, this was an ’80s wedding.
A large lady fell off a wobbly garden chair right next to me and because of my boots, the finger of suspicion pointed at me.
Large orange women sneered through chiffon scarves.
Their suspicions were confirmed during the best man’s speech when I tripped and collapsed into one of the enormous tables laden with champagne glasses because I’d had no breakfast and no time for lunch as a result of free champagne.
I was dragged out by my pointy feet and left to sleep it off in a locked bedroom somewhere.
When I woke up it was dark, and after banging on the bedroom door I was let out for a stroll around the moonlit garden.
I’d missed the entire day — speeches, dancing and the salmon mousse.
During my moonlight stroll, I noticed people in expensive hats quietly vomiting in bushes and flowerbeds.
The salmon mousse was tainted — the entire wedding party was poisoned, and because I was walking around looking pretty good in pointy boots and not vomiting, again, the finger of suspicion pointed at me.
So maybe that’s why I haven’t been invited to a wedding for a while. Memory is long in wedding lore.
John Lewis is a former journalist at The News.
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