Will 2016 be the year we finally get to vote on same-sex marriage? Yes? No? Maybe? Probably? Will I vote in support of same-sex marriage? Oh, well, yes, I suppose so. No one should be denied access to the pomp and the silly little ceremonies and the funny clothes and the first dance, last dance…oh please, just get me out of here and thanks for all the nice alcohol.
Repeat after me: I, Ricky French, do solemnly swear, that the thought of stepping on a boisterous whoopee cushion as the first ring slides on, has crossed my mind on more than one occasion.
What’s with it? You might surmise I’m stuck irredeemably in the grips of singlehood, or that I don’t have a romantic bone in my body. You’re wrong on the first count, and the jury’s out on the second. Yes, my partner/girlfriend/spouse/whatever you want to call her and I discuss the issue sometimes. We usually discuss it at weddings, where I turn to her in the middle of a particularly cringe-worthy moment and whisper seductively in her ear, “I’m sorry, I just can’t do it.’ She agrees, or at least she tells me she does. Apparently every girl grows up wanting a lavish wedding. I’m lucky I don’t have a daughter, then.
The irony of course I that I always have a great time at weddings. After doing an impression of the Roman centurion trying not to laugh in Monty Pythons’ The Life of Brian during the corny rituals I really loosen up. It’s always fun looking around at guys dressed like football players on their way to court and trying to guess which of them will end up vomiting in the carnations first. You get to catch up with people you haven’t seen for ages, and you get to sit at a table with your own swish little name tag on a piece of cardboard; how cool is that? A good time will often be interrupted by an awful speech though. The last awful speech I heard was read off an iPad. Where’s the romance, you ask? A toast to the bride and groom! And another! Oh well, one more can’t hurt! The sooner the cover band starts up the better. Give me someone to heckle more than the bride and groom. The cover band always looks happy. They should be; they’re being paid a fortune. Everyone associated with the wedding is. I chatted with a wedding photographer. She was travelling the world, shooting one wedding a month and spending the rest of the time snowboarding and eating crayfish (although not at the same time).
If I were to get married, it would have to be along the lines of one of the ‘alternative’ weddings I’ve seen. Our friends were married at Melbourne’s famous dirty rock ‘n’ roll venue, The Tote. Bride and groom wore Chuck Taylor sneakers and no one mentioned our God-damn lord and saviour. I could dig that. My uncle got married in his backyard. It was a fancy dress wedding. He was a Mexican, she was a dominatrix. Entertainment included BMX stunt riding by the kids, a game of soccer, and underwear jelly wrestling in the paddling pool. When they signed the papers at the registry office he was dressed as a convict and shackled to her with a ball and chain. The whole thing cost $164.50, excluding jelly. For reasons still unknown, the marriage didn’t last.
My favourite wedding memory though, dates back to last week. A beautiful seaside setting. A jetty sunning itself on an emerald harbour. The white chairs, the flower girls, the flash car unloading a gorgeous bride to begin her walk down the aisle. The groom waiting for his love to arrive at his side, ready to be joined together, forever. And at that moment, behind them on the boat ramp, the biggest bloody Marlin you’ve ever seen, hoisted up on a hook, its insides sliced open, fishy red gizzards spilling over the ground.
‘Do you want a photo with it, mate?’ a voice said. And the fisherman said, ‘I do.’
