220809 keeping it in the family

I got to the wedding, which was a small miracle.

I was introduced to the brother of the groom, who looked more funeralesque than best man, but sharp with it. The brain whirred, but ground to a halt. If you read the last instalment, you will be familiar with the ‘noise art’ poem ‘love is love’. I took one look at the French odyssey before me and decided I should retire from bloodsports and focus on getting through the day alive instead.

In the ceremonial room I bonded with as many distant relatives as possible, forming a human sympathy shield to protect me from myself.

The boy I lost my virginity to was now a man standing gazing at me at the front of the congregation, his bewigged girlfriend oblivious in many ways.

Next to him stood Mr Sharp. That sounds like a maths teacher. No, the inglourious basterd known as ‘Romain’. Next to them both stood an oversized oil painting of our victorious queen. Oh how I love a ceremony.

A few rotten-toothed old pals from our hometown dragged themselves in from way back when, and we were set to go.

A hideous almighty noise droned throughout the room, and it was time for Mr Ego to enter. With umbrella and ridiculous hat I could only thank the lord, once again, that twas not I marrying this twat.

I shed the proverbial tear, then realised I was being summoned forth, and there was nowhere to escape. The groom had wanted to coach me beforehand as it was his masterpiece I was about to murder, but I seethingly refused. ‘Just improvise’ he quaffed in his heavy French accent -I’ll throw myself out of the fucking window, I thought.

It was bad. But it was better than any other sucker in there would have done. Whilst screeching in a part of the ‘performance’ my voice quivered in a vibrato tone one could not mistake as pre-suicide nerves.

It ended. I was taken back to the moment after my Michael Jackson dance at lovebox festival, when I assured myself that we will all be rewarded for our dutiful acts…..

And that I did. Cruising down the Camden canalway, one could not refuse the gallons of free champagne – normally I’d go and get poked in the bushes for an hour or so, but nowhere to run to this time…….

So I spent the afternoon being told off by the father of the bride for corrupting his sons, and bonding with the mother of the man in black. They had to separate us in the end, after posing for a photo where we proudly displayed the V sign. And that’s when I realised I loved Freud. Come to mummy mon petit amie, come to maman.

Although I had predetermined that I couldn't be arsed with competing for a manly prize on this day, I found myself slow dancing to that unforgettable tune ‘unforgettable’. That’s when he licked my face for the first time.

Round and round on that barge I went, and every few minutes he would walk by and lick my face and walk off again.

Turns out I didn’t really need to compete for him as half the congregation were lesbians, apparently clamouring after my good self!

Some Italian felt up my arse for the pictures, and then my first love decided to declare his undying love for me – in front of wig-woman. I thought I’d better make the most of both worlds and kiss them both as much as I could at once.

Thank god for that! We were allowed off the boat and scavenged the streets of olde London town, mixing with lecherous after-work suits. And all the while he keeps on telling me he wants to lick me all over.

This scares me. I am not a larder. And what’s wrong with a good old-fashioned poke?

So it’s all the usual french romantic stuff. Which I have either transcended, or given up on. If memory serves correctly the shower, window, floor and even the bed were consummated. And he was a big fan of arse club that the young boys seem to belong to nowadays.

And I was turning thirty-two on Sunday, so I thought what the heck, and let him stick his finger in. What’s the worst that could happen? You should do something new every day I’ve heard, and if you can’t beat em, join em.

Though he did beat me, with his belt.

So all round, not a bad innings, and then the phone went.

The bride and gloom had bonked each other into oblivion and the groom had decided we should all go out clubbing in Soho to celebrate. Bravado. Ego. Can’t-be-arsed-to-go.

On the way there, my knowledge failed me and we had to hail a cab. Staggering around the near-empty streets on the lookout for a hail, a cycle-rickshaw wheeled past with two occupants.

‘If he doesn’t satisfy you tonight love, you can come home with us!’

Honestly, you can’t take me anywhere. But I realised that the teenage jeans I just bought from a sweatshop outlet have their desired effect, and I shall use them, oh how I shall use them.

So now I was sitting in a bar in Soho with a newly married couple, the groom’s brother, and yours truly. Suspiciously like a date. Don’t do that kind of thing, and rarely after I’ve received my reward.

With horror I realised I had bebonked both the bride and groom’s brothers, and now had to sit and play happy families with the remainder. Brotherly love……..what would Fromm say?

The next morning, as I ejected myself from the hotel, I found myself in the early sunlight supping on a pre-hangover filter coffee in Russell Square. Beloved London. Magical City.

Time to reflect on the faux-romance. My head felt happy but wonky, and then I realised I had broken my shades at some point and a jagged edge was protruding into my brain.

Class. That’s what separates those frogs from us pommes. And nothing like a wedding to bring people together and set them apart.

A bien tot! x