A SPOT OF WEEDING PART TWO

Well the day had finally arrived. And didn't they look glorious; Knoola was a peach and Rimmer sported a rose-red waistcoat that made him look as cool as a "cool as fcuk" t-shirt. Actually, I could have sworn I saw that very slogan embroidered in gold on the crimson motif. St. Mary's Church Leixlip (above)was where I saw Rimmer and Knoola tie the knot - or rather, where I saw Rimmer get married to Knoola's arse, thanks to a strategically placed floral display. What a place to get married! A beautiful 12th century church,since been endowed to the Church of ireland: As I whispered to Crapman's mam before the ceremony: "Not bad for a pagan church, eh?" And I took Protestant Communion (hey, if it's good enough for Mary McAleese, it's good enough for me) but I have to say it didn't taste like the Christ I know. Protestantism is obviously Christianity for vegetarians. I mean, where's the meat? If I'm going to go into a church the least I expect is a good feeding. What do you get in a Baptist church, "Christlite: Twice the jesus with half the fat"? or in a Presbyterian: "I Can't Believe it's not the Son of God."? After seeing a sign advertising "Gluten Free Hosts Available" (see below)outside a cathedral in Cork a few weeks back, I've begun to question if political correctness and modern ritualistic cannibalism can possibly co-exist.

Ahem, I rant.
Anyway, after damning my soul for all eternity by partaking in a glorified Black Mass (I'm only joking all you Lutheran heretics, please don't impose any punitive penal laws on me), with Knoola and Rimmer officially hitched, we got down to the serious business of eating, drinking and obligatory humiliation of the cuppy happle. Johnny Ramos and I were - as Knoola put it - "like the gay couple at the wedding". Damn I knew I shouldn't have written "I hope you find the eternal happiness that we have found" on our jointly-bought wedding present. And he never even bought me a drink. Men!

After we all good-humouredly made a tit out of ourselves on the dance floor, I tactlessly did impressions of both Stephen Hawking and Christy Brown. The only laughs I got were because of the fact that I was using my right foot instead of my left one for my unconvincing Christy Brown. Dearie me, after taking the mick out of the eucharist and two famous cripples I am SO going straight to hell, and if I wasn't I am now, for using the word "cripples".

So before I get myself into more trouble I'll simply raise a glass: Here's to Rimmer and Knoola, may they have plenty more fun weddings in the future.

Feck, I did it again.


...Hmmm, I must learn more about this...

A SPOT OF WEEDING: PART ONE

The ancient philosopher Homer once said: “Webster’s dictionary defines a wedding as: ‘the process of removing weeds from ones garden’.” I don’t need to tell you that this was the wise Homer, that that bloke that spouted out that Odyssey yoke In Hellenistic times. Recently I saw this episode of The Simpsons taking careful note, knowing that the weeding of Lulee and Rimmer was just around the corner. Johnny Ramos came back into town for the grand occasion; he hardly had time for the tire rubber to squeak onto the runway before he was whisked away to the ‘Nock for Awn-ya’s birthday dinner in Lali’s. Now, for those of you who don’t know, Lali’s is a spot of extreme historical importance, as it used to be the “Flanagan’s” newsagents from yore. I saw a 1930’s historical photograph of Portmarnock’s seafront some years ago where the only two buildings that matched the modern landscape were the thick-walled 17th century Martello Tower - designed to withstand a cannon volley and centuries of meteorological battery from the Irish sea - and, you’ve guess it, Flanagan’s. Growing up, it was not so much a newsagent but a Museum of Products Past, with many of their dolly-mixtures dating back to the time of the building of the Martello Tower. I can see them now, the soldiers cooped up in their battlements sitting wistfully on their barrels of gunpowder, drawing straws to see which one is going to leg it down to Flanagan’s to get a fuck load of blackjacks. Well perhaps not, but all I’ll say is that when it closed about seven years ago, they were still selling Marathon bars and New Coke.
Anyway, all I’ll say is that when the waitress came around to take my order, I resisted the temptation to say “A ten-penny mixture and a Curly Wurly.” It just would’ve been plain sad.
Juan lavished gifts upon us, giving Awn-ya and Lulee aprons (a brave move) and gave me and Crapman undies (a brave and somewhat disturbing move). I gave her some cleansing products and a pair of socks (an extremely boring move), and we all sang her “Happy Birthday” very badly (a cringing move).
We left at about midnight, not wanting to outdo ourselves. After all, we had T minus 37 hours to the big gardening… er, I mean wedding.