The ancient institution of marriage has been attracting a lot of heat recently, with various figures attempting to drag it kicking and screaming into disrepute and/or the 21st Century (depending on your religious and political viewpoints). But Elton John, Kim Kardashian and people seeking EU passports step aside, Christian zealots simmer down, because a woman from North Dakota just changed the game.
Thirty-six-year-old yoga teacher Nadine Schweigert recently married herself. As in: Yes, Nadine Schweigert married Nadine Schweigert, not that she was the vicar or the "celebrant" or whatever who wed herself to another, separate human being. I'm not quite sure of the legalities of the ceremony, or if she did that schoolboy trick where you turn around and caress your own back so it looks like you're making out, but somehow shawty is now married to herself.
Now, you may be sniggering and caling some New Age, Moby bullshit on this, but that's because you're narrow-minded and you don't understand the concept of love. If you think about it, the longest relationship any of us can have is with ourselves, so why not honour it through matrimony, rather than live in onanistic sin?
Maybe it's time for me to tread where so many (or maybe just "some") women have failed, and try to make an honest man out of myself. Then I began to consider the practicalities – if the wedding was purely up to me, if there was no need to compromise, I could have one hell of a party without any doves or Disney castles or Kenny G or whatever it is that girls want when they're devoting the rest of their lives to someone.
So I began to plan my own dream wedding, to myself.
Sadly, the Church of England still refuses to recognise the love between a man and himself, and until somebody launches a celebrity-led campaign, I think I'mma have to go unorthodox. If the house of God won't buy my love, then maybe the house of the public will. Move the benches into the middle, get Graham the landlord a dog collar and a bowl of dirty water, turn the fruit machine off and hey presto; it's Westminster Abbey with a dart board and scampi-flavoured crisps.
Whatever the goddamn hell I wake up in, really. Who have I got to impress? An obscure great aunt who's only there to taunt me with the inheritance she'll never bequeath me? No way, Jose. It's my party and I'll dress like a benefits cheat if I want to, which means slippers and my hangover shorts.
Difficult part this, easy to get it horribly wrong, but hopefully the groom will be fairly sympathetic to anything I come up with. And if the witnesses don't like it, fuck 'em; it's my wedding (I'm beginning to understand how bridezillas are created now). I wanted something concise, honest and funny enough to keep the bridesmaids and five-year-old boys from falling asleep, so I came up with these simple words:
"I, Clive Martin, take you, the concept of Clive Martin, to be my friend, my lover, the father of my children, the son of my parents and the hidden metaphysical voyeur in my real-world sex life. I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of short-term loan websites. In times of want and wanting no more, in times of sickness and being really sick, in times of alcohol-related joy and in times of alcohol-related sorrow, in times of failure, however rare they may be, and in times of triumph, however rare they also may be. I promise to cherish and respect you, to care and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and stay with you, for all eternity, as I really have no other choice bar shooting myself in the face like in the end of Fight Club."
Richard Curtis-esque, I'm sure you'll agree.
The First Dance
Seeing as it'll be a one-person dance, it seems that a slow waltz to Evergreen by Will Young isn't really gonna work. I need something that a (very drunk) man can dance to on his own without looking like a loser. And there's only really one option for that: minimal house. Something teutonic and hypnotic, that I can nod my head and sip a champagne flute to simultaneously. Nothing expresses the ecstasy of marriage and hints at the passionate sex to come like a 12-minute long Wolfgang Voigt remix. Altogether now! "Dun-dun-dun-dun…"
Think I'm shelling out £800 on a load of freshly caught scallops so that a bunch of fat second cousins and one-time workmates can get gastroenteritis and sue my ass all the way to Athens? Fuck that. At a stretch (and I mean if I'm in a really good mood or really drunk), I might chip in for a KFC Bargain Bucket. Otherwise it's the Iceland defrost sushi platter.
The Wedding Night
Well, that's between me, myself and my Travelodge bill.
Follow Clive on Twitter: @thugclive