Both myself along with London Me Up lifelong member and contributor Mr. Gazz Wood share a common trait. We have divorced parents. Gazz is one of those people who enjoys talking about it with people whose parents are still together. He likes watching them grow steadily uncomfortable as they subconsciously compare their own, now blissful seeming childhood to how they assume his must have been, because of the breakdown of his parent’s marriage. Personally I don’t enjoy people getting uncomfortable whilst talking to me as much as he does, my conversational partners are uncomfortable enough for other reasons. However I have to wonder the effect of seeing one’s parents’ vows of matrimony, shredded like a labour politician’s expenses claims sheets will have on a child. Growing up, your parents’ (possibly along with any auntie/uncle, grandparents, and/family friends) relationship is the only thing you have to learn from about what grown ups are supposed to be like together. If your first idea of a relationship involves constant battling, arguments, shouting, and anything else… why the hell would you want one of those?

I guess I have Hollywood to thank for more than I know. Theirs is the only other influence on my tiny, impressionable childhood brain I can think of. Watching films (as well as US and British TV), I would be treated to the perfect ideals of marriage and family. I would come to learn that getting married, having children, and spending a life with someone is seen as not only a good thing (at the time it would have been news to me) but, the ultimate goal.

This ‘Hollywood’ ideal of marriage however, comes with all new problems of its own. The ceremony is treated as the be all and end of all of both any relationship, and any life! In TV and films, if you’re not married by 30, there’s something wrong with you. You’ve either got problems which you’re forced to overcome, or you’ve spent too much time concentrating on something else (usually a career) and therefore are seen to have ‘missed out’. Now fair enough… although I don’t feel like I’ve either missed out, or like I’ll never get married… I’m not 30 yet. Not close. But will/would I?

Being dragged and pulled one way, whilst tugged and pushed the other, I seem to have landed emotionally cleanly in the middle (No need to worry Mum & Dad). What luck. I don’t (yet) have a great need to get married and settle down before my skin starts to sag. As even though I’m young, modern cinema will suggest I should. Yet on the other side of the coin, I don’t fear the bouquet. I think marriage is a great, fabulous thing. Admittedly, I can understand that there isn’t really a quantifiable point to it. What changes? Nothing. You’re still together. You still don’t want to break up. But if you do in the future, you still can without too much more effort. So what is the point? I’m not sure. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. There’s a feeling of finality to it. A feeling of… ‘I can say I’ll love you forever, but only this will prove it’, even though you can’t.

It’s for this reason that back in December, I was ecstatic to be invited to my first wedding since the age of 7. I only had one extremely poor, scratchy memory of the day. Standing in a purple/cream ensemble at the front (page boy) holding a cushion with a ring on it, not really knowing what was going on, and to be honest quite nervous. I was certain I would piss myself in front of everyone I was that nervous – which didn’t do much for my nerves. If I knew I wouldn’t get the chance to be at one of these for another 18 years, I may have taken more in.

So come the day, I was like a Hippo in a Frog pond. I had no idea what happens at these things, and became convinced it was one of those things you just know and it’s not OK to ask. I wasn’t even sure of the dress code. To make matters worse the Bride and Groom, along with their respective families were all complete strangers to me. I had one chance and one chance only for a first impression. One foot wrong and it was less Wedding Crashers and more ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity Fuck.’

The location was South London. Not too far away, but still involved a bit of travel. Because the Victoria line would be off all day (imagine the cheek of having a wedding somewhere you can only get a train to, from a station served by 3 tube lines. 2 are completely off, and one half off on the one day you want to get married. Stinks of selfishness, but apparently it’s their day, and they get what they want). So a hotel it had to be. After running all over town, 4 tube and 4 train journeys (to avoid the roadworks), and plenty of running with a case and suit bag later, I was thankful for the opportunity to shower and change into some clothes that weren’t sticking to me like I’d just taken a bath in Golden Syrup.

We made it to the Registry Office with roughly 16 seconds to spare. Enough time to tuck the shirt back in and tighten the tie. With my pocket handkerchief straight, I walk in bang on 2pm. Of course most people don’t show for another 15 minutes and almost miss the thing, but thankfully the Bride (Helen, not Uma Therman) is on time and she struts in to music to ease Joe (Groom)’s nerves. I’m sure, no matter how confident you are, there’s always that nugget of doubt and ultimate, feral fear that comes over you, waiting there at the alter (or ‘table’ if it’s not in a Church). If he was feeling it, it didn’t show. After a short ceremony, we were filed politely outside for 45 minutes of photographs.

I reckon I’ve got the hang of Wedding photography… you do all the stock stuff. You do the Confetti Shot, all the girls/boys, couple with parents/other family members, and couples. After that you just start making up combinations until everyone gets bored.

“OK… next let’s have the bride’s brother’s date, and that Romanian immigrant cleaner… C’mon love, get involved, it’s their happy day you moody bitch!”

It’s like thinking of new crisp flavours. Pineapple & Bacon? Why not!

Wave goodbye to the car with pink ribbon hanging off it, and off we pop to the reception. Which is in a library. What kinds of places are receptions normally held in? I don’t know, but once we’d gotten over the initial, ‘We can get a book out if it’s a bit dull’ joke, it turned out to be the perfect venue. Actually it looked more like a standard Church Hall… just an open space with a stage for a band and Ceilidh dancing. A champagne reception and sit down buffet are followed by the tables shooed to one side and a cry goes out to the crowd to get onto the dance floor. Obviously I’m the first one there (and the only one for a good 30 seconds). With 30 odd girls busying themselves with kicking off their heels, just to give them enough purchase to drag their men behind them into prime position. After the weak men had been dragged, and the strong men had all simultaneously escaped to the toilets we’re still 1 couple short. That is, until some woman (who, because she’s got her hands wrapped around a microphone, suddenly thinks she’s Martin Luther King) starts running the show and encourages one guy to concede to his female friend (there’s no way she’s his girlfriend. That pairing’s as believable as Megan Fox and Shia LeBeouf, or anything else in Transformers). As I notice the boy is wearing a rather striking blue shirt, I start to applaud and offer screams of encouragement “C’mon BlueShirt!” As Luther King and the crowd all follow in luring BlueShirt, he can’t resist and concedes defeat.

10 or so more and more complicated dances later, and my back’s starting to attract German beach towels onto nearby chairs. That is until an extremely apologetic girl gets a bit too close and tips her entire glass of white wine down my back. She looks down, horrified at the mess she thinks she’s made. ‘Surely there wasn’t even that much in the glass’ she must think, as I pass it off ‘that’s fine, really don’t worry about it.’ People probably still think it’s all sweat, but I can at least now pretend it’s not.

Once everyone’s nicely sweaty and gasping for water, a strange spontaneous game of musical chairs begins as two thirds are stacked away. Anyone over the age of 60 who’s sadly too slow to grab a chair is forced to sit on the steps outside as we’re treated to the cutting of the cake, and first dance.

From 9pm onwards I am engaged in a classic dance off. What type of dance off could be more traditional than the wedding dance off with people who have no idea they’re in one? So I’m doing spins, dips, kicks, and flicks… but surprisingly for people who haven’t noticed, my opponents are following my every move. Worse still, following it with something better! It’s time to Drop The Bomb on this baby! I think. Without hardly a moment’s hesitation, I go for it… a full on, dedicated, Dirty Dancing lift! You know the one. Girl runs towards the guy, leaps onto his hands as he lifts her up by the stomach and she spreads her arms into the Eagle position. I 360 for a few seconds, then ease her back down. We look across to our competitors, and… although they don’t seem to have been watching, or have noticed at all, we know they’re hurting inside.

That dance floor was ours for the rest of the night.