Yesterday evening, a bohemian vegetarian café in Harrogate saw my inaugural attempt at reading my prose in an open mic night. This literary virginity lost when orating a 1000-word narrative parodying my wedding ceremony, in 1988.
As I have shared some of the unreliable memories beforehand via blog, not a 100% new monologue. However, following a stringent editing process prior to attending the event, my plotline included several previously unpublished scenes.
With the work being performed predominantly in front of strangers, I spent significant time rewriting large segments of the yarn.
Yours truly rewriting, adapting, shaping and editing the original words to such an extent at one stage it was completely bereft of vowels. The version containing only consonants, although possibly suitable for a Lithuanian audience, clearly not fit for purpose for an English crowd to follow.
Consequently, at this juncture, I returned to the old drawing board. Which is like the new drawing board only with a trinity of arms instead of three legs. Witnessing me almost completely rewriting the comedic, mostly fictional, tale of my wedding ceremony.
The evening was organised and hosted by my writing workshop tutor/mentor Jackie; a clambake witnessing around thirteen performances from ladies and gents with a likeminded love of penning creatively. This baker’s dozen of orators treating peers to an gripping and eclectic mix of prose styles.
Concentrating heavily on delivering the words correctly to some extent blocked out audience responses whilst reading. However, my piece seemed to be well received; consequently, at its denouement I left the mic in reasonable spirits… One woman so enamoured by my piece she felt moved to approach me, on returning to my seat, asking“Do you know what time Sainsburys supermarket in the town centre opens tomorrow?”… Joke!… People were very supportive of each other’s efforts.
Seriously, though, I thoroughly enjoyed this new way of platforming work I love creating and spend so much of my time producing. So much so, if Jackie has reader vacancies for the next event in May, I would be up for another performance.
To close I attach the parody prose I delivered during yesterday evening’s open mic:-
Ceremony – By Gary Strachan
It was a sunny September morn 35 years ago when I nervously strolled down the aisle of a County Durham church, in the parish of Birtley. The kirk, situated in my wife-to-be’s less than scenic hometown, reputedly built by the Normans… By the look of it the builders Norman Collier, Norman Hunter and Norman Wisdom.
The Best Man (my brother Ian) and I arrived slightly late at the church. Our tardiness the result of our kids timepiece still showing British Summer Time, instead of local Birtley Summer Time… For some reason the northeast town employing a time zone 10 minutes ahead of the rest of the UK.
Mercifully, though, our poor punctuality hadn’t resulted in my bride-to-be beating us to the church.
Arriving ten minutes later than intended, after parking the car, Ian and I proceeded at swifter than normal pace up a gravel path towards the church’s entrance. The kirk’s opening bearing huge lumber doors adorning a ‘Enter at your own risk’ sign.
Venturing towards the doors in our light grey top hat and tails, we bypassed weathered, seemingly gravity defying, gravestones. The stone edifices tilting towards us as if bowing in reverence.
As we neared the entrance, we passed a group of larks perched on metal fencing either side of the path. Although unlikely, the group appearing to afford us a guard of honour.
While passing these deferential avians, I am sure I heard one of them mutter to another “I’ll give it six months!”
Once inside the church, my pre-service apprehension wasn’t helped by the organist playing the stirring but macabre musical score from The Omen movie as we meandered altar bound.
Edging closer to the vicar, my angst augmented further when witnessing an ex-girlfriend on the fifth row holding aloft a ‘Kill the Heretic’ placard.
Nearer the front of the church, I caught sight of my mother-in-law to be. I gave her a disingenuous smile; she growled back, and it suddenly dawned on me why The Omen score was being played.
The vicar was an eccentric man who, due to his infatuation with musical show Starlight Express, wore roller-skates during the service. A quirkiness which I was told unsettled some of the congregation.
Personally, though, I was unfazed by this eccentricity… I was just relieved it wasn’t The Lion King musical he was obsessed with.
Still ambling toward the altar, I witnessed the clergyman fighting valiantly to keep his balance. A consequence of his skates appearing to have taken on a life of their own. His balance not aided by endeavouring to calm his pre-ceremony nerves with a large glass of communion wine.
The fact our Ian was procrastinating by nattering with assembled guests also seemed to pushing the vicar’s nose out of joint… This wasn’t a surprise, though, because he was doing my flaming head in as well!
My brother’s soundbites with guests included inappropriately asking a female member of the congregation “Do you know the difference between a man’s appendage and a chicken leg? ….. If not, do you want to come on a picnic?!”
The women laughed nervously at Ian’s joke. The vicar, though, looked unimpressed at his wife being subjected to such an unchurch like gag.
When we finally reached the church front, I apologised to the clergyman for our tardiness. He smiled wryly, replying “No worries… Oh, and by the way, have you ever seen Starlight Express?” I gave a nervous laugh and shook my head before returning to the groom’s main task on these occasions of perspiring uncontrollably.
Assuming Starlight Express was an astrological newspaper, my brother idiotically responded “No, I’ve never read it your Majesty.”
When the guests were finally settled on their pews, the organist struck up a rousing rendition of ‘Here comes the bride’. At this I turned my head to look back down the aisle.
My view a veiled shadow of white sweeping majestically down the aisle towards me. This almost celestial sight causing my heart to skip a beat and raising a proud smile on my still perspiring visage.
However, this verve only lasted fleetingly as when this vision got to within a few yards of me it became clear it wasn’t my wife to be. Moreover, a neighbouring beekeeper in full bee keeping regalia.
The fella had dashed in to advise the vicar that my wife to be, Karen, maybe a little late due to his bees attacking her dad at the church gates. This calamity, we learned later, a consequence of him foolishly wearing his favourite honeycomb scented aftershave.
Several minutes of confusion and uncertainty followed… However, after a stiff whisky and with stings attended to, Karen’s dad was ready to proceed. Subsequently, the service commenced.
Following the bee attack, the service went off without incident…. Although Karen and I were perplexed the hymns we’d chosen for our betrothal had been mysteriously replaced by a medley of songs from Starlight Express.
As the service came towards its conclusion, Karen and I were pronounced man and wife. After signing the register, we proceeded back down the aisle to stand for the traditional photos. The wedding party striving manfully to avoid being mowed down by the out-of-control clergyman on skates at the church entrance.
Outside the photographer asked Karen and I if there was a nearby picturesque location where we’d like our official wedding photos taken. A not insignificant conundrum when your wedding is in Birtley, where pleasing views are of a premium.
After much debate our photographic memories of the day were captured outside of the Komatsu crane construction factory. The venue beating Bimbi’s chip shop and Birtley swimming baths as the borough’s most aesthetically pleasing locales.
Waiting to be congregated for the group photos, our Ian amused himself by throwing his top hat in the air with a view to landing it on his bonce. I watched on intrigued; part of me wishing I could join him, as opposed to making small talk about forklifts with the Komatsu employees.
Once the photographs were finally completed, we headed towards the cars for an onward journey to the Red Lion Hotel, Chester-Le-Street. A hostelry we’d booked for our reception.
Prior to jumping into the wedding car to join Karen, I shouted to my brother, who was climbing into another car, “I’ll see you at the Red Lion, Ian!” He smiled back at me, winked and shouted back “No you won’t!… I’m going on a picnic!”
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