New Punk Apple Throwing

David D Unpopular with a matrimonial dream

Only upon being asked, can one discover the incomparable misfortune that comes with the role of “best man” and the attending of a wedding ceremony in the Rhondda. The Rhondda is probably the worst place for such an event to take place; with its sloth population the chances of finding just one human being are at best slim, so you’re advised to stay at home on such occasions. Already all I can think of is leaving this circus soon to be filled with mates of blokes and Barbie and Ken like characters.

Oh to glow with the light of a fake tan at a wedding party. Here I am, best man in this spiritual desert, and I really wouldn’t have had any complaints about being second best guy, or something.

It’s coming to that fateful time now where I give a speech, and my heart is ticking like an atom bomb with an axe through it. I can see it now… as I take to the front and loosen my tie, he’ll come over and say “I saw this band last night, they played loads of stuff that you like” which is highly unlikely considering the places he attends, full of SAS (Kings Of Welsh Sloth) members and people sporting shit arms, bad tattoos, and this prompting will lead me directly into questioning why he actually asked me to be best man in the first place. All hell will break loose.

The place will no doubt soon start filling up with the sort of people who argue on New Year's Eve and fight every time they are preparing to go out; leaving them depressed way beyond tablets before they go forth to party. They’ll be in their element here, talking of their problems over alcohol and fags, the Boys’ Club mothers away in a corner slagging off other people’s kids who are a little more talented than theirs. They talk about their kids' reactions to certain foods, including the infamous orange pop and green Smarties. On hearing such things I’ll have the urge to recite the question “is your kid hyper-active or perhaps is he perhaps a twat?” and just as I think it doesn’t get any worse, here come the people that take a serious interest in David and Victoria Beckham and listen to G4 in their cars. If I’d have known they were coming I’d have slashed my wrists.

At this moment in time I would happily be sentenced to a gig where the Monophonics were playing dual sets, and I’m thinking a worthy scheme like Operation Less Pricks could save me. It’s a pipe dream though, and floats away on the lipgloss of a passing horse. The mingers are truly in their paradise.

The speech is upon me now, but what do I say? Shall I lie to keep family and friends happy? Or tell the truth to amuse myself? The latter seems much more appealing to me and the creative senses start tingling. But of course I won’t do it.

Oh yes, the speech will start off as the families would expect, I’ll go on about how I’ve known the groom all my life and how we’ve been best friends and stuff, but then maybe it’ll take a turn for the worst. To everyone’s surprise I’ll start laying viscioius asides on groom and hapless bride. The groom gets it for his weekly topping up of tan, his ridiculous pink shirt, hair highlights and the diamond earring in each ear not to mention the chain around his neck. Soulless people and their fucking crosses for good luck, so sad, all the dreams that we had. Then the bride gets it for the fact that she’s taken a liking to this personality that could be found in a different size and shape down a sewer. My friends, I can hold it no longer.

The families now get it, not least for their love of cars and respect for celebrities. Next Mr Mainstream Alternative in the corner gets it for thinking that his musical knowledge is superior to everyone else because he listens to Zane, a deserving smack on the chops before the onslaught goes on, targeting the place’s finest guys, gals, slags and scumbags till everyone’s been dealt with.

Alternatively of course I could have got on the phone to a pal to break me out of here, Operation Less Pricks would only be too glad to help, but as I walk onto the end of a right hook I begin to dream instead. There’s a band, a weird and wonderful bunch of characters who live in a midget town under the Topman bargain rail. Instead of me standing there giving my speech, they regale the people with music and tales like they’ve never heard before. They’ll win over the crowd with mysterious sounds coming from instruments of all shapes and sizes, homemade apparel emerging from immaculately shabby boxes, the colour making everyone smile. They’ll think for the first time since youth, realizing what they’ve become and the need for change. The lovers, the dreamers and Flipron will then drag us all out of the dark, the SAS and slags fading to minorities like stars in the ether. Tight pink tops will be laughed upon accordingly and by happy agreement special tubes will be fitted everywhere, so if anyone tenses their biceps when taking their drinks the tube will come down on them, shooting them out of the building into orbit.

The dream ends and I come round, only it’s an alternate world. I’m now the plastic groom on top of the wedding cake, and my bride’s hand emanates an icy chill.

© 2007 David D Unpopular

David D Unpopular is of no relation to John D Traynor (pictured), but aspires to one day meet him.

John D Traynor is not a wearer of pink shirts. These pictures are fabrications.

© Miwsig