Space Nuptial

Because I'm a huge romantic, I hardly batted an eyelid when upon my return from Oz, I hear that my old mate Barto has finally met a girl and fallen in love. Maybe I may have batted a tiny bit of an eyelid when, only a few weeks later, he tells me he's getting married. And as the stories of his wild woman Charlie surface, I think some eyebrows were raised and eyelids batted considerably more than mine were.

Ours is not to reason why, I reckon. Judgemental ain't my thing...Life really is too short, as the saying goes, and I'm all too aware of that. I'm staying in his flat at this point, whilst he is shacked up in a Chiswick love-nest with his lady. And then they move back over to Crouch End, and I witness first hand how truly in love my friend is and how charming his lady friend is (I also get to hear how much in love they are - a vocal and very verbal testament to their passion can be heard nightly, and I take to wearing industrial strength earplugs).

And after much planning, lots of ups, maybe a few downs, and a whole heap of invitations later, we're all racking up in Dorset for a rock 'n' roll wedding to remember. Guests included family, old friends, the assembled cast of the Crobar, famous rock journalists and musicians and...fanfares and drumrolls...The Mighty Hawkwind.

No need to waffle on, I'll tell this one in pictures:

Laurel and Hardy

Charlie & Grandpa Colin

Mr & Mrs B

Confetti, not dandruff

Doctor, Doctor

Never The Bride

None More Heavy

One thorn, two roses (he's going to be a DAD!!!)

Napalm Death's finest (he's going to be a DAD too!!!)

Wedding Crasher

The 'Wind Cries Hairy (ouch)

Space Cake

Him, Her, Hawkwind

Hitched In Highgate

One morning on my recent trip to NY, at about 5am, my phone started ringing. No chance, I thought. I'd already had my credit card company calling me at 6am a few days before to tell me that someone in the Phillipines had cloned my card and made a fraudulent purchase (probably for a stack of Viagra or some Rub-It-Big cream). So I let it ring and went back to sleep.

The call was an invite to a wedding. Chris and Catherine met over phone calls during one of Chris's cases (he lawyer, she insurance). He liked her voice. He invited her out. They met for drinks. They fell in love.

The big day was at Lauderdale House, a lovely house in Waterlow Park, on the edge of Highgate cemetery (I walk through this park on my way to visit the stiffs, or when I go to the Heath). Many of the usual suspects gathered for a quick drink in the pub, then cabs to the house. What a sweet venue. And when the moment came, Catherine came in and she really was absolutely glowing. I've never seen her look quite so lovely. Aaaah, the power of love...

Anyway, once all the "I do" stuff was out of the way, it turned into a completely stunning day. Top crowd, great food, excellent speeches (Tim B had picture props for the best man's speech, much was made of the gay bar stag night...), FREE bar (hoorah), top tunes (some interesting moves towards the end of the evening), and a really good laugh. Happening of the day had to be the bouquet throwing. Right at the end of the night, all the single ladies were asked onto the dancefloor. I tried to skulk away, but was pushed on by various well-meaning friends (bollocks). So I stood right at the back of the clamouring female crowd...in front of me was Washy, 6 foot tall male, to my side was Mr Randall. The bride pitched the floral prize...and it sailed straight over Washy's head and fell at my feet. I was sorta bending over to pick it up to give to Mr Randall, so he could give it to the lovely Silke (they'll be next, I reckon), when the most hilarious 70s slapstick moment occurred. Mr Randall clearly thought he could win this fair and square if he managed to fall on top of me after some rugby-hand-off style move and make a grab for the posy. I hope no-one saw my knickers in the mayhem, as I have a feeling it wasn't the most graceful landing...

Before

Randall trying to make it up to me