The Clooneys and the Elton-Johns were not the only people attending a wedding last week, yours truly was also present at some family nuptials just a few short days ago.
Our little gathering unhappily lacked a gospel choir and a black pastor, that would have been both inconsistent and presumptuous in truth, given that this was a pale and orthodox Western Christian event in the heart of the fair shire of Lincoln.
However a couple of choruses of ‘Oh Happy Day’ and a rambling soliloquy relating to ‘Brothers and Sisters feeling the Spirit of Lurve’ would not have been amiss yet regrettably, it was not to be.
In truth, I actually failed to spot even one ethnic in the congregation for which I must apologise fervently before our Theresa beats me to it, as she so often does.
I also failed to identify any pederasts amidst the flock, although one man was overly complimentary on my silk magenta pocket handkerchief, a tad unnecessarily so, in my opinion.
To my regret, no army of uninvited relatives pitched up with trolleys piled high with cheap luggage and nobody sold their unique story to the Lincolnshire Echo along with a photo agency deal.
On checking social media afterwards I was devastated to find not one single item of our wedding paraphernalia being offered for sale on eBay and there was not even one unseemly squabble on Twitter between any of the bride’s family.
No one attempted to sell their children to their in-laws for a few thousand quid, massively poor judgment on their part, in my opinion. Indeed I would have settled for far less, back in the day, for my undisciplined rabble.
Much as I searched, and believe me I searched, I failed to find any topless or pornographic photos of the bride online and I am mortified to reveal not even one of our group was refused entry to any night club in the Grantham area for possession of a knife.
Sadly also there was not even one single cannabis farmer in our group, something I intend to rectify once I get those high intensity vapour lamps I ordered recently.
In truth, the bride rather let herself down too, she could have saved the day by pledging the remainder of her life to fighting the feminist cause.
She could have committed to knitting socks for Somalian fisherwomen as long as she would live, she could have passionately embraced her desire to save the endangered mothers of the Vine Weevil, their small, helpless children desperately need to eat to survive and racist begonias, as we all know, are only a social construct of the patriarchy.
She could have made a statement, a statement that would ring out across the world, instead of which she just said something about love and cherish and blah blah, whatever.
However at the point I realised that there was no organic lemon elderflower cake I simply broke down, I couldn’t believe that we had missed such an obvious opportunity to signal our virtue to the world, I mean, who has regular wedding cake these days, there’s just no call for that sort of rationale.
Overall I feel our humdrum gathering rather let the new, improved wedding concept down, it is simply inconceivable to have a normal, regular wedding today, I now realize that it requires at least a circus, clowns, trampolines and lashings of trash, I burn with shame.
You’ve possibly seen the BBC programme Room 101 featuring Frank Skinner, (The mama looked down and spit on the ground every time the BBC name gets mentioned).
Now I quite like Frank, he is not only a reformed alkie but he is also not quite an uber luvvie and he is genuinely spontaneously funny, unlike his old mucka, Baddiel.
When the revolution comes I will probably allow Frank to live, for Baddiel I will still consider pleas of mitigation from his friends and family, I am after all a merciful man and not some tin pot tyrant.
The premise of Room 101 is that each week various slabs nominate items or concepts that they feel are a disservice to humanity, things that therefore should be banished, put into Room 101.
Not at all a bad notion in practice and it has its moments, but all too often it just finishes up with people who park inconsiderately or eat taramasalata.
I think I will liven it up significantly, I will juj it up a bit, as chubby little Jamie Oliver would say, he’ll be on it for sure and chubbly, lubbly, jubbly, that will be a good episode.
You will all want to watch once I am Media Controller for the new GPBC, the new national broadcaster that will be set up once we are in power. Oh yes, meet the new boss, same as the old boss, ain’t that always the way.
I will keep the same format and Frank will be on a rolling weekly contract, subject to performance, there will be a twist however, the losing slab is the item that goes into Room 101.
No longer will it be their pet hate that is dispatched, instead if they fail to convince, it is they who must face the thing they abhor the most and they must face it for a lifetime, their attendance will naturally be compulsory, meet the new boss etc.
If they fail to convince, if their case is not well argued then they will have to listen to Country music or watch Bono on DVD on a never ending loop, they will have to wear cowboy boots until they die and even be cremated whilst still wearing them, they will have to read Harry Potter stories to their children whilst hung over or they will be surrounded by crying babies every time they are forced to go into Starbucks.
I believe this will up the game quite considerably, there will be a genuine edge to the format and some far more heartfelt and sincere performances.
Once they compete, not for a fee but for their own sanity, for their very lives, I assure you it will be riveting viewing.
I might even make viewing compulsory, I’ve not decided yet. On the basis that absolute power corrupts absolutely it probably will be compulsory.
“I’m sorry Claudia but you are going into Room 101” Frank says with his chirpy grin, “You didn’t argue your case well enough, you will have to go to the dentist once a day for the rest of your life, even if he regularly molests you.”
Kerchunk, down goes the orange, mascara smothered one, down forever to the tender mercies of Mr. Rosenstein BDS.
In time, once the new format is established I may even ‘suggest’ new concepts, fresh ideas our slabs will have to argue against.
This form of participation under duress worked well for Stalin so why not for me, meet the new boss.
Of course I don’t want to be remembered as a despot by history, it is merely that I have had a lifetime of putting up with the banality of the State and its media trappings. I’ve endured an existence of suppression, at times it felt like a thousand years of defeat, as if my very soul had been entrapped.
Once I am free I will first need my revenge and once I feel justice has been served I will be a benevolent commander of the media, I’m almost certain of that.
“Welcome to Room 101 and tonight Frank’s guests are Nish Kumar, Marcus Brigstocke and Susan Calman.”
“Tell me, first of all Nish, what don’t you like about our Controller’s chosen subject, Sunday magazine colour supplements?”
“Well Frank (giggle) I hate how these magazines portray a false sense of aspiration for the middle classes (corpse), I dislike intensely the fake concepts they portray, that somehow one’s life is idyllic once one is in possession of the requisite brand of pot pourri and some scatter cushions” (giggle and corpse).
“It seems to me they reduce one’s existence to merely the primal basis of irrelevant possessions” (giggle, hide behind hand and corpse).
“You’ve argued your case very well Nish, what about you Marcus?”
“What I think, Frank, is that these colour supplements create a disquiet amongst many people, that people become dissatisfied with their lives, they become obsessed with the pursuit of extraneous objects in the mistaken belief that somehow their lives will improve.”
“People need to see that they have to actually change themselves before they realise what is important in this life.”
“That’s a good point Marcus, what do you think Susan?”
“Well, hoodie hoodie doodie mumble mumble an’ that Frank, hoodie doodie speaking as a lesbian, doodie hoodie, I think Frank.”
“Just to interrupt you there, you can’t play the overweight gobby lesbian card, not any longer, sorry Susan.”
“I don’t know if you are aware but I had to send Sandi Toksvig to a Danish youth club that only has one Coldplay CD and that is for the rest of her life. Do you even realise what that will be like for her?”
“Hoodie doodie doodie, Frank.”
“I’m sorry Susan but you have been the least persuasive of my guests tonight, I’m afraid you’re going into Room 101 but you’re not going alone, you are going with a lifetime subscription to the Sunday Telegraph Magazine.”
“There’s a great feature in the next issue on stripped pine flooring, discount vouchers for a range of new Annie Sloane chalk paints and some innovative ideas for turnip smoothies, enjoy.”
“Nish, Marcus, our Controller requires that you appear again next week, I know you won’t want to miss that and our other guest will be Josh Widdecombe. The Controller’s topic will be five things you despise about Socialism, lots to talk about, we’ll see you then and God bless the Controller, good night.”
If you haven’t yet used the audio file to listen to the featured articles please do try it. Whilst the automated reader does lack some emphasis in the required places, that is part of its charm. Just be grateful you don’t have Stephen Fry reading it instead.
It is indeed a great way to listen whilst you attend to the ironing or just tidy up behind the fridge. It gives a BBC Home Service feel to our impertinent scribblings and is actually rather pleasant, I normally listen whilst relaxing with a pot of Twinings and some buttered crumpets to get that authentic experience.
I have also promised myself I would again use the phrase, ‘fuckity fuck off’ just to hear the audio file man say it out loud, this I have just done and you can listen to it too! It’s childish and immature I grant you but technology is still a marvel and a joy to me, I expect one day soon we will even have a man on the moon.
This will be the last of my current series of Septic Eye, unfortunately I have some things to do in the ‘real world’ over the next few months. A very dear friend is about to lose her mother to an insidious and terminal cancer, two people I have known for most of my adult life that I want to offer some small support to now. An unseemly battle for inheritance seems likely to follow and so it goes.
All the things I knew for certain, fifty odd years ago, seem to have unraveled slowly, indeed it seems I actually know and understand less each day in this brave, new, upside down world.
However, I find I still have many things to do and a few people may also need my instruction in the subtle art of fucking off.
Thank you for all the kind comments to date on my ramblings and I hope to see you all again in a while. To borrow the alleged last words of Pancho Villa, “Tell them I said something.”
© Viciousbutfair 2018