There is a man a few tables away that has caught my attention. He is a flagrant violation of fashion, a delicate fusion of goth and businessman. Did I say delicate? When I say goth I mean the type of goth that is borderline punk rocker., not that I'm any expert in goth classification. His hair is a bizarre blow dried mop, half bouffant, half lemming, half Boris Johnson. Maybe I should have used thirds.
He is clad in a smart black suit, black shirt and black tie, relaxing in the lethargy of a lunchtime pint, apparently oblivious to the seismic upheaval going on in my mind. Stoical, a vacant face, eyes masked by huge dark sunglasses (you're indoors you idiot), he carries a dignified air but also looks little uncomfortable, probably because his clothes are SO DAMN TIGHT!
A stick insect would have struggled to fit into those trousers, his shirt is so stretched he nearly poked a passing diner in the eye with a nipple, his tie is so thin that a spider would have used it in his web, the knot of his tie is the size of a stunted pea, his shoes are so pointed that a jester would have mocked them.
I'd better stop, he's looking this way suspiciously and appears to be muttering, probably along the lines of I wish that damn knigget with a laptop would stop scrutinising me. He's not one of you guys is he?
Showing posts with label goths. Show all posts
Showing posts with label goths. Show all posts
Monday, 20 April 2009
Monday, 16 March 2009
Goths and Cucumber Sandwiches
The wedding took place in a beautiful Norman church deep in the heart of Norfolk. Deep in the Norfolk countryside. The mud on the path to the church was pretty deep too. The heels of the stilettos sank deep in the mud. Deepness all round really. The guests staggered, slid and stumbled their way to the church.
The groom's family were a cucumber-sandwich-eating, Earl-Grey-drinking, doilies-throughout-the-house contingent from Hertfordshire, representing English polite society in its purest form. Think tweed suits, broad fancy hats, court shoes, pince-nez.
The bride's family were a skull-ring-wearing, alternative-lifestyle, couldn't-give-a-monkey's group of Goths from Norfolk. Think clumpy boots, long coats, skull rings, dressed all in black. Every male Goth had long below-the-nipples black or red hair. They made Ozzy Osborne look like a Take That fan.
You have to admit it, this congregation had a certain élan. The Hertfordshire family sat on the right, the Goths on the left. You could feel the divide. Prim old ladies sitting nervously, sneaking glances across the aisle at the skull rings. Prim old ladies do not like skull rings. They prefer giant opal rings of the size that could crush a man's skull with single strike. One of my biggest fears is being knocked off my bike by an old lady's giant clunking opal-ringed fist.
The groom was waiting nervously at the front. He received a phone call to inform him that his ailing mother was on the way, she was being brought by ambulance. Shortly after this a whisper makes its way to the front. "She's here," was the hushed message.
The music started, congregation stood and turned round, the groom's mother was making her way down the aisle in a wheelchair with a drip in tow. The organ was rapidly hushed, the congregation returned to their seats, it was a tragic moment. By no means am I mocking the groom's ailing mother, but it was a tragically comic scene. Five minutes later the bride arrived, her bridesmaids clad in mustard yellow medieval gowns. The organ started again, the congregation stood up...
The reception took place at a roadside cafe, but there was no roadside cafe food. Instead a cheap and scant buffet was laid out, consisting primarily of pork pies, cocktail sausages and quiche. There was a stampede to the buffet resulting in a number of scuffles. I understand this completely. Cocktail sausages should always be the cause of unalloyed jubilation. I do worry about the cocktail sticks though, in the wrong hands these could be extremely dangerous. If an adolescent hamster got hold of one he could use it as a javelin. My hamster is incalculably selfish and puerile and I wouldn't trust him with a cocktail stick for a moment.
The bride and groom's first dance was to Black Sabbath. The prim old ladies did not join in. The goths were in their element.
The drama at the buffet was eclipsed by the events as the evening drew to a close. The bride's sister lap danced her boyfriend of two-weeks in front of her just-divorced ex-husband, who responded by slapping the her, who in turn attacked him with her stiletto.
It was, without a doubt, the most bizarre wedding.
The groom's family were a cucumber-sandwich-eating, Earl-Grey-drinking, doilies-throughout-the-house contingent from Hertfordshire, representing English polite society in its purest form. Think tweed suits, broad fancy hats, court shoes, pince-nez.
The bride's family were a skull-ring-wearing, alternative-lifestyle, couldn't-give-a-monkey's group of Goths from Norfolk. Think clumpy boots, long coats, skull rings, dressed all in black. Every male Goth had long below-the-nipples black or red hair. They made Ozzy Osborne look like a Take That fan.
You have to admit it, this congregation had a certain élan. The Hertfordshire family sat on the right, the Goths on the left. You could feel the divide. Prim old ladies sitting nervously, sneaking glances across the aisle at the skull rings. Prim old ladies do not like skull rings. They prefer giant opal rings of the size that could crush a man's skull with single strike. One of my biggest fears is being knocked off my bike by an old lady's giant clunking opal-ringed fist.
The groom was waiting nervously at the front. He received a phone call to inform him that his ailing mother was on the way, she was being brought by ambulance. Shortly after this a whisper makes its way to the front. "She's here," was the hushed message.
The music started, congregation stood and turned round, the groom's mother was making her way down the aisle in a wheelchair with a drip in tow. The organ was rapidly hushed, the congregation returned to their seats, it was a tragic moment. By no means am I mocking the groom's ailing mother, but it was a tragically comic scene. Five minutes later the bride arrived, her bridesmaids clad in mustard yellow medieval gowns. The organ started again, the congregation stood up...
The reception took place at a roadside cafe, but there was no roadside cafe food. Instead a cheap and scant buffet was laid out, consisting primarily of pork pies, cocktail sausages and quiche. There was a stampede to the buffet resulting in a number of scuffles. I understand this completely. Cocktail sausages should always be the cause of unalloyed jubilation. I do worry about the cocktail sticks though, in the wrong hands these could be extremely dangerous. If an adolescent hamster got hold of one he could use it as a javelin. My hamster is incalculably selfish and puerile and I wouldn't trust him with a cocktail stick for a moment.
The bride and groom's first dance was to Black Sabbath. The prim old ladies did not join in. The goths were in their element.
The drama at the buffet was eclipsed by the events as the evening drew to a close. The bride's sister lap danced her boyfriend of two-weeks in front of her just-divorced ex-husband, who responded by slapping the her, who in turn attacked him with her stiletto.
It was, without a doubt, the most bizarre wedding.
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