The bogan bride, shortly after cementing the ring to her finger, begins to consider the import of her decision. She’s getting married! Dedicating her life to another human being, building a life together – house, children, the works. But more importantly, she has a wedding to organise!
It can be daunting for the bogan – where to start? Invariably, she turns to the same oracles that have answered her questions for much of her life. How many gut rolls does Britney have? Is Amy Winehouse back on the horse? And how the hell do I go about organising my wedding?!
Flipping through the magazine, she spies the latest celebrity event; Rove and Tasma, resplendent in their finery. She is aware that Rove was married on a remote Western Australian beach, but her new mother-in-law has recently found God, so it is best that the event takes place in a church.
However, as the bride-to-be flips through the pages of ‘candid’ photos and exposed snatches of celebs alighting from limos, she realises she wants to be classy. So she goes to the newsagent and forks over around $200 for six issues of ‘Aussie Bride’ magazine or some such – her new bible.
Page by page, the dream wedding takes shape. There will be matching lavender ties on the groomsmen, perfectly accompanying the bridesmaid’s dresses. The bridal train will be six carriages long, the better to conceal a substantial caboose (better hit the Sureslim to take care of that), and because longer is better. The same values system applies the bridal vehicle. A wedding of this magnitude requires nothing less than an adapted military vehicle. Yes, a gangsta black stretch Hummer limousine is what Posh and Becks would want.
The reception would be something special too. Caviar was ordered, and the money had already been paid by the time someone discovered it was fish eggs. Not to worry, the guests could wash it down with some champagne. The bogan has discovered an expensive but remarkably successful ingredient that makes indifferent bubbly taste twice as exquisite – a Moet label. The entire afternoon will be overseen by Danny “DJ” Johnson, spinning his favourites while wearing sunglasses. He assures the groom that his iPod wedding playlist can generate “My Sharona” and “Call on Me” up to three times per hour.
Meanwhile, the bogan’s love of politics is resulting in friction. The bridal party is a seething mess, the likes of which is only currently found at the Liberal Party headquarters. The bridesmaids dresses are all wrong. The fat one looks frumpy in it, and the skinny one wants to choose something more strappy. In a heady rush of self-importance, the skinny one storms off, abandoning her post. She is replaced by a portly understudy, who looks worse still in the newly strapless number.
This turmoil takes its toll on the bride to be. Realising that her magazine did not prepare her for this catfight, the bridal freakout occurs. Months of avoiding solid foods at her dressmaker’s insistence has rendered her unstable. She medicates her anxiety with a panic binge consisting of carbohydrates, glucose, ego-centrism, and streaked mascara. The big day draws ever nearer.