More of that civil partnership ceremony, then. (Part 2, if you’re counting.)

Now, where was I?

Ah yes. On Clapham Common, looking hot in a suit (comparatively), being distantly ogled at by an attitude boy (arguably), while waiting to board a be-ribboned Routemaster. Hell, I’ve been in worse places on a Friday lunchtime…

Since being de-commissioned, it would seem that your classic Routemaster has already become something of a head-turner. Oh, the looks we got! And toots too, if you please! It can’t just have been the suits…

Upon arrival in Brixton, our designated Head of Party led us briskly round the corner from Lambeth Town Hall, and right up to the side of The Fridge: a crumbling former theatre turned nightclub, which used to host the legendary Love Muscle on Saturday nights. What, were J and M to be hitched by top 1990s hostess “Mama” Yvette on the main stage (“Oh my God I caaaan’t belieeeeve it…”), amidst a bevy of galumphing, funkless strippers (“Ooh, look at thaaaat one…”), to the strains of “Santa Maria” and “He’s On The Phone“? No, it was just our Head of Party on homing pigeon auto-pilot, leading us into the wrong entrance. About turn, back around the corner…

…and into the ante-chamber, where champagne, canapes and grooms awaited us, M’s electric blue patent leather shoes even extracting the best from the municipal turquoise carpet. He always did have a good eye for tricky detail.

Taking our seats in the council chamber, the strains of Grace Jones piping us in, we were tickled to find ourselves faced with individual voting consoles.

“If you know of any just cause or impediment…”

“…please press the red button now.”

It’s the joke which had to be made.

Vows were recited and rings were exchanged: M taking possession of J’s late father’s wedding ring, with the full blessing of J’s family. (I nearly lost it completely at this point.) More music: Harry Connick Junior during the signing, and Pink Martini as we filed out for photos on the stairs. Back aboard THE LOVE BUS, and off to…

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