The Wedding Part XV - Photos

Written on 15 March 2019

Kelly

I think I nailed the walk. The smile. I really hope I captured the importance of the situation.

The wobble is over, and Katy is where she needs to be. By Tim’s side having confetti thrown over her. What a perfect ceremony. I mean, I wouldn't have had a man wearing crushed velvet officiating, and I definitely would have had the bridesmaids stood up with me. Girls together.

What do I do now? We had such a tumultuous morning she didn't tell me what I needed to do. Tom is beckoning me. Why the heck is he wearing jeans? And where is Pete? Poor Tim, he's chosen his groomsmen so poorly.

Photos! Of course photos. And the dapper man is coming with us. Oh my, he's got his arm round Tim! It's Tim's dad! No offence to Tim, but how is his Dad so attractive?

All the classic combos. Bride's family. Groom's family. Both families. Bridesmaids. Groomsman (singular) bridesmaids and groomsmen. The whole wedding party.

I don't know how I end up next to Tim’s Dad, but I know he smells like old spice and whiskey, which sort of works, and I know that throughout the final few photos he's rubbing my lower back. I also know that, in spite of the creepiness of the situation, I quite like it.

The Wedding Part XIV - Inner Hugh Grant

Written on 14 March 2019

Mitch

Do I say something? I mean, it's not a lawful reason for why the two of them shouldn't be wed, per se, but how about destiny being a good reason? How about fate? Can you at least pose a question? Shouldn't she be with me? I could channel my inner Hugh Grant. I strongly believe we've all got a little Hugh Grant in us. Why not use that? My word she looks beautiful. He looks like a mess. I mean, a blue suit? Have you never heard of tails? She shouldn't be with him.

Emily is watching me intently. She can't know, can she? Women always seem to know everything when it comes to matters of the heart. Best way to throw her off the scent is to cry. Then it just looks like I'm happy for her. Though, isn't it too late? If I let them sign that register that's it, right? Or is it? Annulment? The day is young? Cry. Cry for your friend. You're just so happy for her.

Wait. Wait. They're kissing. It's over. People are whooping like a bunch of flipping monkeys. Oh, this is a little too much. Clap. Clap you moron. Here come the tears. There go the hands. Here she comes, the one that got away, with her new husband.

Emily looks pissed.

The Wedding Part XIII - Seal It With A Kiss

Written on 13 March 2019

Katy

Oh, I do, do I? Why am I already thinking about annulments? I do, apparently, so let's spend the rest of our lives together. Seal it with a kiss. Suck his tongue down. Make great aunt Mildred blush. Maybe I should pull him off right now. Nothing says happily married like the groom busting at the altar. Smile. Smile. Smile.

The Wedding Part XII - Father Of The Bride

Written on 12 March 2019

Keith

She looks absolutely breathtaking. Wow. I look like an enraged potato. Her mother isn't bad, except for the dumbo ears and the bulldog overbite, but flipping heck our daughter did alright for herself. Wow.

To be honest, I was dreading this part. How do you look dignified next to a beautiful young woman in white when your suit barely fits the extra stone you've put on in the last 3 weeks and it's 34 degrees outside. The shirt is already basically a swimming pool. Flipping disgusting, this getting old mallarcy. I have to go to the chemist for my deodorant now. shameful.

But I must admit, I'm so proud of her. So so proud. She's always been headstrong, to a blooming fault when it came to partying, but she's never been much hassle, really. She's just been our Katy. She is a beautiful woman. So wonderful. Am I flipping crying? That's curious.

There's her groom. Tim. Nice but dim. Is his best man wearing jeans? And what the fuuu. . Flip is the celebrant wearing? What, is he going to pimp my daughter out?

There is an unbelievably strong part of me that wants to grab her and run away from this shambolic altar. It might just be father's pride or whatever the flip, but she's too good for this. Too good for this dingy little room, too good for the plain-as-paper fella sheepishly grinning at her. Too good for all of these gawping morons I'm paying for to be here. She's too good for me, and my wife, and England and this universe really.

But she's smiling. Smiling at Tim. It's time. This is what she wants. Kiss her on the cheek and let her go.

The Wedding Part XI - The Aisle

Written on 11 March 2019

Tim

Please show up, please show up, please show up. I don't want to be alone. Does Dad have his hand on Aunt Mildred's knee? Stop getting distracted. Please show up. Urgh. Snow Patrol. I hate this song. But she loves it, and I love her and that's all that matters. Don't listen to what I said earlier, I'm desperate to marry her. Fuck knows I'm not going to do any better.

No, don't think like that. I'm not settling. I love her, I love her, I looooove her! Wasn't she supposed to have come in by now? This is Pete's fault, he was supposed to work the music. Where is the twat? Gretchin is there. Mind you, she looks pretty pissed. And attractive. God that dude is punching above his weight. FOCUS! YOU'RE ABOUT TO GET FLIPPING MARRIED FOR GOD'S SAKE.

The doors are open. Here come the bridesmaids. It's going to be alright, it's going to be alright. Okay, Kelly definitely checked out my Dad then. FOCUS!

And here she is. She looks amazing. Amazing. Why can't I think of a word other than amazing? She's smiling, sort of. It's going to be okay. It'll be fine. Here comes my wife. . .

. . . Wife

. . . Wife

. . . Wife

The Wedding Part X - Floppy??

Written on 10 March

Pete??

Umma wur um ee??? Ez des my beeed??? Pour ickle blend ist looks oll sad. Werz Gretchin??? She gotta no y da boi ist oot. Flapping abowt oll shrivey. Shivery. Clotes?? Why ar moi clotes?? Gretchin tookem!!!

Soot?? Why soot?? Hehe looks lyk person. Flat person. Iz deez ma clotes? Y suit tho?? Wotz today? Y m I in zis room?? Today today today. Pens iz still out. Lol. Floppy floppy.

Wayt. Wayt. Usher. Ma nam iz Usher. Ya remond me ov a gal. My gal. Gretchin. Usher nd Gretchin. Wayt. Usher. Y usher? Gusher hehehehe. Cmon floppy get into it. Wayt. Usher. K so hotle? This iz hotle? And soot iz ladeled nect to me? Usher. We'd. Wed. Weed. Weeding. Tim. Usher. SHEEEEEET.

Soot goes on. Bye bye floppy. See yooz later, floppy. K, so, drive? Could do? Need keeeees. Keeeez at recepton. Oooh Land Rover. Usher wants Land Rover.

Where to go. Git ur sheeeet togeter Usher. Wots real name? Gretchin? No, Gretchin girl. Shez so lovely. K. Pete? Letz go wit Pete. To a hotel for wed. Take me ta Tim, trustee st3eeed.

The Wedding Part IX - Matriarch

Written on 9 March 2019

Mildred

I've been to some stinkers, but I reckon this might take the rosette. The best man turned up after I arrived, wearing jeans! There was no usher, some poor lamb from reception showed me to my seat. Plus, the groom looks like a chuffing blueberry, the priest, celebrant, whatever, wore a suit my boy used to wear to discos 40 years ago. Everyone looks miserable. I suspect our Katy isn't too happy about all this.

Still, I'm the matriarch, I've earned the right to have a moan. I've also earned the right to a drink. I thought these godless affairs were supposed to feature a tipple from beginning to the end? I wish she was getting married in a church. What a drab little room this is. How is she supposed to glow when there are no windows?

The worst one was definitely cousin Pru. Her third husband wanted to watch some damn football match, but the reception at the reception (ha) wasn't good. So the daft tosspot decided to climb the roof and have a fiddle with the aerial. Still, I'm sure she got a good deal on the church for the funeral. A special two for one offer for idiots who break their necks on their wedding day.

What is this drivel? It sounds like an orchestral version of Let it Be. Oh cripes, that's exactly what this is. What's wrong with the original? I'll never understand millennials.

That must be Tim's father. Dapper chap. He absolutely reeks of whiskey, which must mean he has some. Yes, I can see the bulge of the flask in his jacket pocket.

“Mind if I have a wee tipple?”

“Not at all young lady.”

What an outrageous flirt.

The Wedding Part VII - Crushed Velvet Suit

Written on 7 March 2019

Tim

Okay, still no best man, still no usher, Dad is on his fifth pint at the bar and Mum is having a self-congratulatory breakdown about what an amazing job she did bringing me up. So far so absolutely fucking disastrous. Guests should be starting to arrive, and I need to meet the celebrant. These are the times I miss Katy the most.

Still, no point in me sitting here and hoping it all sorts itself out. Plus, if I just sit here I'll start wondering whether I actually want her to show up. I really can't think about that anymore.

Mum has barricaded herself in my bathroom to “fix her makeup” (I can still hear her sobbing) so I shout to her to let herself out when she's ready, and to maybe avoid Dad at the bar, and I head to the foyer to meet the celebrant and maybe bribe the receptionist to do some ushering.

The celebrant is wearing a crushed velvet suit. He's wearing a fucking crushed velvet suit. He told us, he was explicit, that he'd wear something formal. This suit wouldn't even be formal at a playboy mansion coke party in the 70’s.

“Ah, young Tim. Ready to go?”

“I guess. Is that what you're wearing?”

“It is. Can you believe this is the suit I wore to my own wedding?”

“Yes.”

We talk through the order of service, he checks the correct pronunciations of the reader's names, and I ask him politely to wait while I find my usher and best man.

“If you've lost them already, then you're going to really struggle with young Katy.”

I mean, he said it as a joke, and I fake laugh, but I also want to push him down some stairs.

The Wedding Part VI - The One That Got Away

Written on 6 March 2019

Mitch

Cleanse me you beautiful West Country water. Drive away any impure thoughts. You are a happily married man. Well, a married man, and I'm darned if I'm going to end up like my Dad.

The hair dryer is going. Do I have time to crack one off? I feel like if I crack one off then my physical and emotional energy will be placated and I won't say or do anything stupid. The door is unlocked, though, and it's just like Emily to walk in unbidden. She'd give me shit for the rest of the day. ‘I caught Mitch pulling himself off in the shower earlier. Apparently, he is revolted by my pregnant body’. She'd say that to fricking everyone.

All I can think about is Katy in her dress. The one that got away. My lost love. The girl I have cracked off thinking about more than anyone in the world, bar that picture of the tennis girl my brother had on his wall. I imagine ripping off her wedding dress and. . .

“How much longer are you going to be?”

“Almost done.”

I'm not, but fuck if she's going to allow me this one pleasure on my long lost love’s wedding day.

I could tell her how I feel? Katy, not Emily.

Dangerous move.

Text her now.

Don't be an idiot.

I decide to think about sport instead. When my imagination is getting a bit carried away I always think of a field goal in American football. Play clock runs down. Centre back to QB2. Place. Kick. Net. Arms go up. I'm soft again.

Don't do anything stupid today Mitch.

The Wedding Part V - Shower

Written 5 March 2019

Gretchin

I've got him as far as the shower, but he's decided to take a little nap in the tub. Nothing for it, I switch on the shower. Amazingly, he doesn't wake up. I tilt his head down so his mouth doesn't fill up. I mean, he deserves to drown, but I could do without a manslaughter charge. Not a great look for paralegals.

There's a knock at the door. I shake my head at my idiot boyfriend, and open it up. Arthur and Alice are ready to go.

“You guys good?”

“He's not. Passed out in the shower.”

“Ha. What a fucking lightweight.”

Alice starts fretting about being late. She's convinced Katy doesn't like her already, and that we have to be on time. I tell her he can't go in the state he's in unless we want to make a rather inappropriate impression on the wedding party.

So I. . . We. . . make the executive decision to leave him to his inebriation. I switch the shower off and Arthur and I carry him to bed, Arthur giggling at his limp penis, lolling absurdly to one side. We leave him a note, some taxi numbers, some cash and also drop him a text on his phone.

And as I leave him there, spread eagle and snoring, I wonder whether he's going to be more angry with me or himself?

If it’s me, then I'll cut his saggy balls off.

The Wedding Part IV - Dapper Gentleman

Written on 4 March 2019

Kelly

Oh my god, I really hope my wedding day isn't so. . . Complicated.

Katy's mum has sent me to get more Prosecco, even though the fridge is absolutely stacked. In my dressing gown no less! Poor Katy, I think the nerves have got the better of her, but I'd really rather not be going to the bar when my hair isn't done and my dress is under strict lock and key.

People are looking at me funny. I hope there are some friendly faces at the bar. Might be a little too early for guests, but you never know. This is a bit out of order of Katy's mum, to be fair. I am her oldest friend. Sure, I've only met Tim a handful of times, but I'm positive that they're absolutely made for each other. I should be there to tell her so.

The bar is empty but for the barman and a dapper looking older gentleman, dressed eccentrically, with a pint in his hand. He smiles at me, checking out my gown. I smile back.

“Bridesmaid?”

“Yeah, I've been sent on the prosecco run.”

He laughs, running his spare hand through his thick, salt and pepper hair. He is rather gorgeous. I order the bottle and he asks me if Katy is ready. I would never betray my best friend, so I nod yes.

“Any nerves?”

“The usual amount.”

He laughs again. For some reason it doesn't occur to me to ask who he is. The barman plonks the bottle in a bucket, and I scoop it up, smiling again at the gentleman.

“See you out there.” He winks at me. Gross.

I smile in spite of myself, and head back towards Katy's room. Poor girl. I'm going to make sure I'm ready for my wedding. One hundred per cent.

The Wedding Part III - Girl Chat

Written on 3 March 2019

Keith

This whole thing is a farce. £23 grand, plus whatever the flipping bar tab is. My future son-in-law insisted on paying half. No, I said, I'm the father of the bride. That's the tradition. He paid for the flipping food and it still cost me £23 grand. All that money, yet here I am sat on the flipping floor in some grubby flipping hotel whilst my daughter cries away a grand’s worth of make-up.

It came from nowhere. One minute we'd popped round to see how she's doing, maybe have a glass of the Prosecco I paid for. She was fine, happy, laughing, I'd even call her giddy. Then she suddenly popped a leak, out of nowhere. Now Janet is trying to calm her down, and I'm staining my trousers because it's a ‘girl chat’. I can't even go back to my room, the wife's got the flipping key card. Oh good, now apparently I'm not allowed to swear even in my flipping head.

Knew something wasn't right. Flipping knew it. They've been weird since Christmas. The courteous thing to do would be to cancel with plenty of time to spare so I could claw back some of my flipping cash, but no. Flipping millennials.

“She's going to be okay. Just a few jitters.”

My wife emerges from the room. With the dignity of someone who's just left the bedside of someone terminally flipping ill. I drag myself off the floor and follow her back to our room. What a fucking brilliant fucking fuck up of a flipping day this is going to be. Fuck.

The Wedding Part II - The Groom

Written on 2 March 2019

Tim

I kind of, sort of, a little bit hope she doesn't show up. I mean she's threatened it enough times, and I've calmed her down, assured her it will be fine, but honestly I sometimes think I'm just trying to save face. Would it be so bad if she didn't show up? I mean, I’d get all the sympathy, and I'm sure there was something in the wedding insurance about getting your money back in the result of a jilting.

I've been ready for a while now, removing and replacing my jacket as the summer heat and the air condition jostle for supremacy. The room is pretty hotel-like, not to say it's bad, it’s just a bit, you know, hotel-like. I'm not sure what I was imagining for my wedding day. I guess something more special. Mind you, I'll be in the honeymoon suite this evening, with its copper bathtub and four poster bed. Shit, I'm staying in that room even if she doesn't show up.

I stayed in this twin last night with Tom, my best man, who is currently treating himself to a little massage. Apparently he was nervous about the speech, the bastard. Here I am wondering whether my fiance is already on a plane to Turkey, and the twat is concerned about how his attempts to humiliate me are going to go down. Tim and Tom. Best pals. Abandoned less than an hour before my wedding.

There is a knock at the door, and I'm absolutely convinced it'll be Sadie or Ruth or her Dad here to tell me it's off. My heart jumps.

“Who is it?”

“It's Mum. I want to see my little boy in his lovely new suit.”

Brilliant. Just what I need. I open the door and she immediately starts blubbering at the site of me. She keeps telling me how proud of me she is, as if convincing someone to marry me was, at one point, an almost unthinkable prospect. I try to move my shoulder so her running mascara doesn't get on my suit, checking my watch as she hugs me.

The Wedding Part I - Pregame

Written 1 March 2019

Gretchin

I want to be desperately honest from the start. I didn't even want to come to this wedding. I've met the couple, what, three times? The girl, Katy, seemed sweet, but God only knows why she's with Tim, a man so bereft of personality he makes my partner seem like Freddy flipping Mercury in comparison.

We've only been together 17 months. Honestly, I don't know why I'm with him either. He often feels like a panic buy, like my mother's crusade to have grandchildren finally ground me down and I latched myself on to the first bloke with half-decent looks and a steady job. Admittedly, our kids would be pretty gorgeous, but if they're anything like him they'd also be bores. They'd dress as Harry Potter on world book day.

We drove up with Alice and Arthur. Arthur had his license suspended for running one too many red lights, so I sat up front with Alice listening to her drone on about Love Island, whilst Arthur and my beau sat in the back “pregaming” all the way to Devon. We had to stop three times for them to take a piss and to top up their supplies, leaving us minimum time to actually get ready.

We’re staying in a ‘quaint’ B&B with plenty of ‘character' meaning it hasn't been refurbed since the 70’s, and nothing works. The receptionist so obviously despises us she doesn't even bother to hide it, casting Arthur and my partner stern glances whilst they struggled to stand and Alice waffled on about how ‘gorgeous’ the place was, in that grinding home counties accent.

Our taxi is in a couple of minutes and things have taken a turn for the worse for my fella. He's lying face down on the bed butt naked snoring like an absolute champ. Honestly I want to be just about anywhere else. I think about retiring to the bar, buying the grouch behind the counter a couple of sherries and watching her rant.

But even if he's a fucking idiot I don't want him to miss his friends wedding, so I slap his bear ass as hard as I possibly can, and point his drunk, angry carcass to the shower.

Molly Moggins

Written 28 February 2019

Hi guys,

Thanks so much for feeding Molly Moggins while I was away. Honestly, it was so kind of you to give up your time, and rest assured she is incredibly grateful.

With that being said, I have noticed she is more melancholy than usual. Since I've been back she's only been outside three times. Usually, she goes out at least four times a day without fail. She's also sleeping for an average of seven minutes longer per nap, and is eating her food 17% slower. To top it all off, she's letting me stroke her seven times on average before trying to bite me. That's down from ten!

I don't wish to cast aspersions, especially when you've all been so kind to help out. So if one of you wants to volunteer any information into why Molly Moggins is behaving like this then please do.

Obviously, I will not hold anything against you. If you stood on her tail, or dropped her, or ignored her it's absolutely fine, I just need to know the root cause of her misery so I can remedy it.

Also, did someone steal my laptop? I'm not mad if so, I'm sure you just borrowed it, but I do really need it back.

Thanks again, though, you really are amazing pals.

Love,

Shelly and Molly Moggins xxx

Roof

Written on 27 February 2019

I was called out to a routine domestic disturbance in Fulham.

Usually, this would just be some old lady complaining about the “ethnic music” coming from the one of the towers. So I was pretty surprised when I pulled onto Francisco Road to see a young shirtless man on top of number 57, despite the glitter of frost sparkling the rooftops, throwing roof slates at a man below.

I shouted at the man, who was hiding behind a truck, what the hell was this about.

“Gone mad in the cold.”

Strange response considering it was 2 degrees, hardly the arctic. The man on the roof threw another tile, smashing it on the pavement.

“Right, well, okay, so, I haven't paid him and I just fired him and he's obviously not happy.”

Yeah, that makes more sense. Anyway, I decided to climb the ladder in the garden, away from where the debris was being thrown, and engage the man in conversation.

He calmed down after a while, instead sitting down still shirtless and bursting into tears. He told me he had no visa, his family were living from paycheck to paycheck, and this job worked because, until recently, his boss hadn't asked any questions.

But the home office had been in touch, threatening him for employing illegals, which meant he couldn't pay his workers and had to get rid of them.

I felt bad for the guy, but I'm a cop, and the man had broken the law. I think he appealed, but him and his family were gone before the end of the year.

I didn't think much about the man over the next few years, until I saw a picture of a war zone in the papers. There he was, shirtless again, lying dead among the rubble.

Paradise

Written on 26 February 2019

I came here with him. Several times.

Paradise.

The first time we saw that sunset together, our first time away, we stood in silence, holding hands, in awe. We happened to be on the beach when the sun was going down.

We told each other we loved each other, and as cheesy as it sounds, it was special. So special.

Three years later we were back, but we were still young and still desperately in love. He put together a picnic with champagne and sandwiches he'd asked the maid to put together. And we snuggled up under the blanket, and as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon he pulled out a ring.

And we came back three more times. Always happy. Always in love. Our lives outside of those moments became more complicated, more dramatic. Redundancies, family bereavements, children, or lack thereof.

But those moments. Always perfect. Always perfect.

And now, years later, he's back home with her and them, and I'm back here with ghosts.

And as the sun reliably dips once more I try to let the oranges and blues and pinks envelope me. But, honestly, I just feel sad. This view, this sunset, is no longer for me.

Butterfly

Written on 25 February 2019

The butterfly struggled and fluttered, but the swimming pool was winning the fight.

The butterfly moved slower as its wings became increasingly waterlogged.

Belinda watched this all happen from her sun lounger. She kept on meaning to save it, but she really just couldn't be bothered.

Eventually the pool man came round and fished out the butterfly. It fell apart in the net as Belinda sipped her ice cold mojito.

Sevvy The Critic

Written on 24 February 2019

The industry had blackballed him.

After the fracas caused at the press screening of The Abstractor, when he poured an entire bottle of red wine on Jeff Goldblum’s wife, Sevvy was banned from all press screenings.

Still, his reviews were still incredibly popular. They could be nasty, like when he called Tim Burton ‘someone causing a nuisance in a high end toy store’, but he always explained exactly why. And no one was more passionate about the medium. When Sevvy loved a movie his adoration poured out of every sentence in a way that would actually enhance the movie. A rare talent. But he was a total asshole, that was for sure.

So, he kept his job, but was forced to go to preview screenings with the general public to write his reviews, which he was apoplectic about. He demanded they send him screeners, but all the studios refused.

And he became a story himself. He would lob popcorn at anyone who talked, stood up, sniffed, talked or moved during the film. He would berate punters for laughing at jokes he didn't deem as funny, and he would openly scoff when the film wasn't doing it for him.

After a while, people would come to viewings to watch Sevvy watch the movie. They would deliberately antagonize him into throwing popcorn and openly laugh at his pronouncements.

And he became a joke, a caricature. His reviews stopped being taken seriously, he lost his job and ended up touring the country as a professional heckler. Sevvy died suddenly aged 56. A talent so misused he was a perfect allegory for the movie industry as a whole.