And lo, my friends, the Big Day™ had finally arrived – the key fulcrum of the trip, the incontrovertible catalyst of our whole Australian voyage was upon us: The Sydney Swans were playing Essendon in the AFL playoffs!

Sadly, despite the size and heft of the mighty SCG, we were unable to source any tickets, so instead we had to make do with attending one of the great Australian weddings. Kylie and Jason? Forget it. Toadfish Rebecchi and Dee Bliss? Pales, pales I say, in comparison. No, no, dear reader – today was the day of the ‘Wedding of Pane’, and it was, all jesting aside, quite magnificent.

*

The day started for we groomsmen across the city in Glebe, by the harbour, where we wrestled ourselves and the World’s Worst Groom into wedding attire – him into a fabulous navy two-piece; ourselves into the tan suits of which we do not speak.

The four chosen horsemen of the tanocalypse were as follows: The World’s Worst Best Man, who had, true to form, shaved his head and grown out a real ‘Pablo Escobar’ of a moustache for the occasion; Big Dave, still enormous, still using Aussie slang from the very top drawer (such as, for example, ‘cackle berries’ – trans. eggs); der Kaiser, an old pal from Cambridge who had been in attendance on Captain Tom’s boat and the ‘Opera Bar’ night, but for whom I’ve only just thought of a nickname which might do some semblance of justice to his Bavarian majesty; and myself.

Together with the WWG, we feasted on bacon and ‘cackle berries’, all the while fussed over by the proud parents of the WWG and photographed extensively by a lady photographer who quickly became my bane and my nemesis. (I don’t enjoy having my picture taken, no siree, Bob.)

Garbed and washed, fed and ready, we knights in camel armour boarded a pair of London black cabs and made our way across town to the venue: the Old Darlinghurst Gaol within the National Arts School.

[A fitting place for a wedding hahaha, because…because ahaha, marriage is…is a bit like a prison ahahaha…grief, this blog has gone off the rails…]

The place looked simply fantastic, the ceremony itself taking place in a leafy, sun-dappled courtyard, just beside the Cell Block Theatre where a riotous reception was later to be held. It being more of a humanist, state ceremony kinda thing, obviously the marriage itself would be null and void in the eyes of both God and this blog, but I only saw fit to tell the WWG this truth a couple of times or so.

Guests began to roll on in around two-ish, including so many of our old friends – The Eagle, a Gay Arctic Monkey, Chatham House Rules, Sam Seaborn and Marcia Clark, the Von Trapps and one hundred and eighty others, all looking infinitely pleased to be there, and to share in the coming moments…

For then…for just then the World’s Best Bride arrived – looking, it scarcely needs to be said, every inch the movie star. The vows were both amusing and touching, the bridesmaids radiant, and the WWBM managed to convey the rings across without arsing it up – a miracle on a par with the Sydney weather, which was simply perfect. There was even a bit of politics splashed in to boot – both in the readings (albeit more from the Platonic guff about moon children than the rather sweet Dr. Seuss nonsense about the adventure of life) and also in the fact that we all blew on paper kazoos when the government-mandated ‘between a man and a woman’ nastiness was recited.

And après ça, wouldn’t yer just know it, but Paul (WWG) and Jane (WBB) became ‘Pane’. There was a kiss (tasteful, only slightly French), rapturous applause and then it was done. Drinks were served and we groomsmen went towards them like dromedaries in the desert spying an oasis. However, hauled back so we were by the accursed bridesmaids and photographers. It was time, apparently, for photos…oh so many photos…

*

Seemingly hours later, dazed and parched, we tan monstrosities were released. We hustled into the Cell Block Theatre, where food was beginning to be served and the reception was accelerating in our absence towards ‘attack speed’.

Now the following hours were as much fun as one might conceivably have without being arrested and sent down for two weeks without the option – so, accordingly, the coming account will perhaps be a little lacking in structure and exact details. That being said, there was, in no particular order and with no particular punctuation, a great deal of the following:

Wines drunk both fizzy and flat, red and white and pink and speeches long and speeches shorter with great gags and touching accounts and fine foods, Mediterranean inflected, and more wine and beers, finally beers, and the best groom’s speech yet seen and an even better bride’s speech, pre-recorded, magnificently done, and a ten out of ten band and American Pie and dancing wildly and bridal karaoke and more speeches and scatological stories of true romance and revelations detrimental to Australian national security and beauties and ogres and more wine and much more dancing and ripped trousers mourned and well-insulted suits and romances old and new and stolen bottles and inebriation triumphing over inhibition and wine flowing and shapes throwing and good friends made and old friends held and drinks and stars and fire and purloined sunglasses and entrances poorly choreographed and gossip and intrigue and police interventions and wines and dancing and so, so much fun had by all.

Eventually, finally, we were kicked out of the prison, our most enjoyable sentences now at an end, ‘Pane’ ferried off to their fancy post-nuptial hotel.

[God willing, we had by this stage poured enough wine down Paul’s throat that he was unable to perform any ‘acts’ in the marriage bed we all might later regret – post-marital sex being a leading cause of so many of the world’s ills, as we and St. Augustine know so well.]

The time had now come, of course, for an after-party. As such a significant percentage of us were at this stage several hundred sheets to the wind, we needed to go somewhere pretty darn trashy – hence us trekking over to ‘the Sheaf’, which was even more Wetherspoonsy than a Wetherspoons, save the fact that no genuine Wetherspoons would ever have the abject temerity to charge a fellow $10 for a schooner-full of lager.

After this trial, half a dozen or so of us found ourselves at an after-after-party, which left a little to be desired, so The Eagle and I made our way home, only to find Chatham House Rules and a Gay Arctic Monkey eating pork sandwiches, feeling a little aggrieved that they had, respectively, been kicked out of/never even allowed into the Sheaf.

Next-level splendid as the day had undoubtedly been, it was, we all concluded – even a GAM, so deep in his cups that only the top tress of his tousled barnet could now be seen – time to head to Bedfordshire.

*

Another hangover, another unfeasibly early checkout. Joy of joys, my brothers and sisters, joy of hell-damned joys.

Bags packed, heads clouded, we all stumbled down the road to ‘the Commons’ for yet another fine breakfast, which went a little way towards restoring our tissues. Sam Seaborn and Marcia Clark went off to ditch their suitcases – they’re off to the Great Barrier Reef and then to the Outback, lucky buggers – while we inebriates four went direct (sort of…buses are difficult beasts) to the handsome home of the World’s Best Bride’s parents.

Here there was a fond reunion indeed for many of the wedding’s (and this blog’s) major players. A lovely spread was spread out before us, stories were swapped and a thousand laughs were laughed. One by one, however, as the afternoon drew itself out, sad goodbyes had to be exchanged. Some (Sammy S and Marcia C) were off to Cairns, others to Melbourne, others to who knows where? All good and great things must end, my friends, and it did indeed seem like this sensational spell was drawing to a characteristically pleasant conclusion.

All that was left to us was an exceptionally indulgent Uber ride all the way to the far south of the city and our group’s final lodgings – in the sleepy beach suburb of Maroubra.

Our evening there was, quite understandably, a chilled one, with yet more takeout Thai food, a pattern beginning to emerge here. As for the night, it was the first for a good long while that I had had a bed to myself, free from Gay Arctic Monkeys and snoring Canadian-Iraqis. I slept long and I slept well, dreaming of weddings and of good friends and of the very best of times.