Couple get married

Regular readers will know that my patience has limits. Although I have dedicated my life to the pursuit of journalistic excellence, I must confess that the persistent exigencies of the vocation sometimes become tiresome.

It was, therefore, entirely intolerable when an excellent and extravagant lunch with my old school chum Lord Rubpubbly of Thetford was savagely cut short by a breathless missive delivered by The Rockall Times office boy Dave.

This spotted and inconstant youth informed me that I was to proceed post haste to the local village hall wherein the nuptials of a Derek and Charlotte Walsh were being celebrated that very morn.

Ignoring my protestations that a lavish platter of quail and roast boar would brook no interruption, the audacious whippersnapper solemnly delivered an outrageous type-written summons from my editors demanding that my "arse" be put into some sort of "gear". Apparently, this was to be done "now", rather than "later" and I was to "lay off" the brandy and cigars.

Declining Lord Rubpubbly's kind offer to give the whole lot of 'em a sound thrashing with his hunting crop, I concluded that the exercise might have some merit.

I myself have never formed a matrimonial union. Any woman's expectations of married life would surely have been dashed on the rocks of my saintly devotion to my art. Similarly, I have eschewed several opportunities to produce an heir. Every child seeks to escape the shadow of its father, but when that shadow is cast so long and so profound, it would surely be an injustice to subject any offspring to a life of obscurity.

No matter. I have been otherwise blessed. Those of you who recall the triumphant matrimonials of King Faisal IV of Islamamamamamabad might recall that it was I who bore the ceremonial sword of the prophet Nigella — an honour so great that the citizens of that great city are required still to honour me with an annual tribute of shot silk and leopard skins.

Some years later, I was charged with the task of arranging the "stag-night" of my own second cousin Prince Sikorski of Krakow. That particular carouse, as history records, resulted in the total destruction of seven inns and the later production of three illegitimate heirs to the throne.

But perhaps my most significant wedding moment occurred at the nuptials of Texan oil heir Christian C. Whiteboy III and home counties debutante Petronella Chlamydia Worell-Thompson.

Readers of more humble origins are invited to imagine the scene: the flag-draped fore-deck of the battle cruiser USS Oliver North, moored in San Francisco bay; two hundred prancing cheers leaders accompanied by the band of the US Marine Corps; a rousing aerial display by the F-16s of the California Air National Guard; the great and the good of American society gathered in breathless celebration of this transatlantic union.

"Well Andy," thundered Christian with a wink and a hearty slap on the back. "When are you going to get hitched?" Chuck — as I am permitted to call this Texan man-mountain — was doubtless referring to a brief yet torrid romantic liason I had previously enjoyed with Bilharzia, the bride's sister.

Gratefully accepting the cold Bud which is de rigeur at any high-class American social event, I began to explain that although Bilharzia's merits were as legion as her favours were freely granted, the road to journalistic immortality was one which a man must travel alone.

"You're not a faggot, are you Andy?" guffawed Chuck, before pulling a bill-fold from his Levis and offering a thick wedge of greenbacks. "Here you go, go ride a San Francisco steer."

We laughed, and shared a few more Buds while Chuck carefully explained the vast expense he had lavished on that evening's gala dinner. "The cook, you see, is French," he enthused. "From France. You might of heard of that, Andy. They say that you and they is kind of neighbours, what with both being part of the European part of Africa. So, you see, whereas down in the Lone Star state a man's menu will come in God's own English, when you pay 30,000 bucks for the best goddam French cook that money can buy, you don't just get your genuine French food, you get cuisine, Andy. That's French for expensive, godammit."

While Christian's uncultured approach would be grossly out of place at the gatherings I am accustomed to, the New Land is a country of little depth but equisite extravagance. And when in Rome, as a wise man once said.

I will confess that the embossed menu card impressed even myself — a man accustomed to sharing with royalty the most exotic of foreign fare washed down with finest vintage wine:

• La Bud froide
• Le Steak Texas
• Les pommes frites
• Le milkshake
• Le pie pecan

The evening did, indeed, promise much to satisfy the most discerning palate. What, we asked ourselves as we stared out over the 14-inch guns towards the Golden gate bridge, could possibly mar a day so perfect?

Indeed, the USS Oliver North had anchored some distance off shore. Not so far, naturally, that the ordinary citizens might not enjoy a glimpse of the water-borne carnival. Far enough, however, to ensure that teams of amphibious paparazzi should not invade this most private of affairs.

Sadly, the SFPD had not counted on the fanatical determination of one group of redskins who had decided, we later learned, to sink the Oliver North and at a stroke terminate an entire oil dynasty.

Apparently, Chuck's great-great-grandfather had purchased two million acres of prime Texan real estate from a starving band of savage indians for the not insubstantial payment of one tin of salmon, a small mirror and a Spanish conquistador's helmet. The land at that that time was worthless, covered as it was with buffalo.

One hundred years later and the Whiteboys had — by the sweat of their brow — cleared the land of vermin and established the biggest cattle ranch north of the River Plate. Only years later did they reap their just reward for their labours when they discovered that the property contained the biggest reserves of oil west of the Gulf of Arabia.

There then followed years of riches beyond the dreams of avarice, marred only by the occasional Supreme Court challenge to the Whiteboys' dominion by "Native Americans" demanding just compensation for their lost reserve. And now, the last legal recourse exhausted, a kamikaze team of tomahawk-waving injuns had come to collect a payment in blood.

I was, I recall, deep in the bowels of the Oliver North when the alarm sounded. I had retired to the galley and was discoursing with the chef the finer points of jus de fromage when a blood-splattered junior pastry chef staggered screaming from the meat store. "Indians!" he gibbered. "Hundreds of 'em!"

Despite my initial scepticism, my journalistic instincts told me to at once improvise some form a weapon from a fondue set and form the catering trolleys into a defensive circle. It was as well for us that I did. Instantly we were encircled by a raging mob of whooping redskins.

I can only say that were it not for Hollywood, I would not be writing this piece today. For, despite their vastly superior numbers, our assailants chose not to attack directly but rather to go round and round in a circle while we picked them off with skewers. After an hour of merciless slaughter, the cavalry arrived in the form of the defensive line of the San Francisco 49ers and the battered remnants of the tribe made good their escape.

The intial euphoria of triumph was, however, short-lived. The chef had received a mortal pie-dish wound to the upper body and the tons of prime rib and chipped potatoes were ablaze in the cold store. "Monsieur Sikorski," coughed the dying chef, his words mingled with blood. "I entrust this great undertaking to you. Vive la France!" And with that he died.

A quick examination of the available stores revealed the seriousness of the situation. Five loaves and five tins of sardines in olive oil were all that remained. Gathering my team around me I set to feverish work. Twenty minutes later we were able to provide an improvised buffet for the five thousand guests, most of whom did not even realise how close they had come to hunger. The day was saved, the union sealed and we could all sail off happily into the sunset.

In recognition of my services the US Navy named a ship in my honour. Each and every year the USS André Sikorski drops anchor off Plymouth and I attend a banquet on board at which — amusingly — loaves and fishes are served.

Things did not turn out so happily for Chuck and Petronella. Some years ago Chuck's company was acquired by an American energy corporation. There then followed an orgy of mismanagement and debauchery of an almost Babylonian scale. Chuck is currently sharing his chow with the state penitentiary's most notorious multiple-murdering rapists. Petronella has filed for divorce and is living in a one-bed flat in Basingstoke.

Meanwhile, the cuisine at the reception of Derek and Charlotte Walsh was not French, nor was American beer served. The blushing bride's mother wore a hat and several people made speeches. The bride said: "It's like a dream. It's the happiest day of my life." Indeed.

Previous insights from our Senior Reporter:

Vicar opens fete
Council unveils bench
Woman has baby
Youth steals phone
Royal exits gracefully