Blog On The Motorway Swan diving off the tongues of crippled giants

Marzipan

So I opened up the topic for today's post to the hordes of twitter, hoping for some subject I could really get my teeth into, so to speak, and some smart alec suggested the topic of marzipan, the almond based sugary topping of a thousand wedding cakes.  I don't even like marzipan. 

About a year or so ago, I found myself attending a wedding, one of those horribly expansive and expensive deals which leave you wondering why the couple involved didn't just go ahead and blow the money on something more lasting, like a house, or coke and hookers.  I managed to get myself out of the service itself, but was left with my name down to attend the 'shebang' afterwards.

The problem with the service itself was that it was in one of those giant tents that people put up in a large expanse of open ground.  I believe they are called 'Marquees'.  This in itself is not a problem at most weddings, but this wedding happened to be in Sunderland, one of the windiest places these fair isles have to offer.

As I arrived with a friend, we watched at the bride's family exited their cars gamely attempting to keep their hats on their heads while their dresses flew up exposing aged wrinkled leg flesh.  One old man was walking with a cane at such a stoop that his body nearly presented itself as a perfect circle.

Once things moved into the marquee though, things didn't seem so bad, occasional gusts working through cracks in the walls sending occasional napkins into the faces of children and adults alike. The room was starting to develop a blitz mentality, the gentle bonhomie bringing everyone together with a chortle and a smile as only the weather and queing can.

The bride and groom were absent from proceedings up to this point, and given that food appeared to be a long way off, I needed a fag.  I sneaked off from my table (contents: one old deaf lady, one rosy faced drunkard who was already smashed, myself and the dullest couple alive) and discreetly made my way to what appeared to be a door at the back.  Quietly as I could I unzipped it and made my way outside.

Unfortunately as I did so, the wind ripped the plastic from my hand and charged past me in an almighty surge, knocking one old man off his chair and sending unguarded hats into the air. Plates flew from the crockery stand and the trolley carrying the elaborate wedding cake hurtled at speed towards an unguarded door.

It struck the door, which gave easily under the force, and the cake went hurtling into the empty room.  Except that pretty immediately it was obvious that the room wasn't empty.  Writhing on the floor were two half clad mid-coitus figures, both suddenly covered in a melange of cake and marzipan coating.  As the woman picked herself up, marzipan coating her breasts, which were poking out of the wedding dress she was wearing, the main marquee fell silent save for the rustling of the wind.

As one, the whole crowd turned towards me and fixed me with a look that showed just what distate and contempt they held me in.  Somberly the happy couple brushed themselves down, the groom picking out marzipan from his trousers as he pulled them back up.  They left the room in sheepish silence, trying to avoid the eyes of their parents.

I hadn't even managed to light my cigarette.