This is a mildly modified version of an earlier post that I thought merited another outing.

During one of my frequent bouts of insomnia, I was wandering the televisual airwaves and found a documentary that looked promising. I like documentaries, whether they be about that nutcase who climbed the Matterhorn wearing rollerskates, or life in volcanic vents in deep oceanic trenches. This one looked exceptionally promising, if only because it would probably get my blood pressure up and provoke me into shouting ‘Oh for f**** sake!’ at the television. Its subject was a woman who is a wedding planner.

I have a real problem with wedding planners. It strikes me that being a wedding planner is one of the most parasitic occupations in the world, playing as it does on the insecurities of people who are already nervous enough. No planner ever goes for cheap options, I’ve noticed. ‘It’s your big day, your once in a lifetime chance to really shine.’ This latter contention, of course, flies in the face of divorce statistics. What it is is wedding planner jargon for ‘Don’t be a cheapskate! The more you spend at the florist, the more commission I get, so dig deep, you miserable Scrooge! What, you want your friends to think you’re a goddam pauper?’ Anyway, I poured a glass of wine (which I suppose is a bit naughty at 2:00 AM, but hey ho) and settled down for some spirited yelling.

It got even better, because I had misread the title. This was about a wedding planner for pet weddings. I’ll repeat that just in case you missed it. This was about a wedding planner for pet weddings. I’m not making this up. Pets getting married is weird enough (how do they exchange vows?) but getting a professional to organise the event? Only in California, I thought. Alas, no, this was in Reading in the UK.

The lady dog (or bitch to use the term breeders work with happily, but the planner coyly refused to use) was a Yorkie or a Pomeranian or one of those other bloody irritating small breeds that tend to snap at your ankles. You know the ones. ‘Ooh, she’s only being friendly.’ I’m also only being friendly when I punt them 100 yards across a field so they don’t have to walk. Saves their little legs. Said eminently puntable dog had a wedding dress made to measure, covered in Swarowski crystals, with matching crystal encrusted legbands. There was a diamond and pearl collar and matching tiara. I was so stunned I couldn’t even shout.

There was a marquee. This was so big it had to be set up in a friend’s garden, and it had a wooden dancefloor. Endless discussions about the food, not only for the pampered little canine nonentity, but for the human attendees too. For goodness sake! What sort of nutjob would even countenance going to a pet wedding? Why weren’t they screaming at the demented owner, ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ Fine friends they turned out to be.

The proud owner of the little tyke went all gushy. ‘It’s cost thousands of pounds. Thousands and thousands.’ At this point her eyes welled up. ‘But she’s worth it. Every penny.‘ Just how deluded can you be? It’s a dog for goodness sake. Life expectancy of most of those little breeds is about eight years, so she can expect to have to do this all over again. That will put even more money in the pocket of some rip-off charlatan wedding planner who knows damned well that dogs are happy with an old bone and some fox shit to roll in, but insists on a gourmet meal. Bloody hell! A wedding cake for a couple of dogs? What is the world doing even thinking of that, let alone making one?

I nearly forgot to mention the part that really made me wonder if I’d been transported to an insane asylum somewhere. There was a chocolate fountain. My personal view is that these are tacky and vulgar in the extreme. My view. But what on earth was the planner thinking of having one for a dogs’ wedding? Dogs can die if they eat chocolate because of the theobromine in it. You can get doggie chocolate, but then the humans have to tolerate something that tastes as if it’s been regurgitated. I don’t eat chocolate at the best of times, but I sure as hell wouldn’t eat any from a fountain where some bloody great boxer dog had slavered in it.

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