There was a good deal of comment that the presiding priest at Prince Harry and Meghan’s wedding asked if anyone saw just cause for the couple could not be joined in holy matrimony. It was a regular feature of weddings in “my day”; I haven’t been to a wedding for some time and it seems the custom may have been discontinued. So I thought it may be appropriate to re-run this column which I wrote back on February the 24th 1999. You may find it hard to believe, but every word is true.
Marion and I tied the knot on Masterton Show day in 1963 at around 5 o’clock in the afternoon, and after the nuptials we were greeted by my butcher’s shop staff dressed as undertakers, complete with top hats, forming a guard of honour at the church door.
They and some friends had also sent off the taxis and had replaced these with horse and gigs. We were then paraded down the main street, now full of people coming home from the show, bagpipers in front, the undertakers next and the horses and two gigs with the bridal party bringing up the rear. My new bride, who hailed from Eketahuna, didn’t know what she’d struck.
I was determined to get even at the future weddings of those who had perpetrated this and I didn’t have to wait long. Lew Milne was to marry Alison Cooke in Greytown. I was to be a groomsman. Lew was a stockbuyer for Borthwick’s and he had organised the horses and carts for our wedding from Tom Hood at Kopuaranga. Retribution was in sight.
It had always occurred to me that it would be exceptionally funny if somebody responded when the minister intoned the words: “If anyone can show any just cause why these two cannot be lawfully joined together, let them now speak or hereafter forever hold their peace.” Mind you, it’s quite difficult to find anyone who will actually make a response.
Locally no one was game.
I had a friend in Wellington named Ian Dawson who owned the Sorrento coffee bar and managed The Libretto’s, New Zealand’s foremost rock band at the time, and I rang him to see if he could find an outgoing Wellingtonian who might be able to assist. He rang back and said he’d found someone, but the price would be quite high. I agreed to pay whatever it cost.
The wedding was at 4.30 p.m. at the Methodist establishment at the north end of Greytown. The groom and we groomsmen were resplendent in white ties and tails and the little church was packed; standing room only. When the minister, I’ll never forget his name, Reverend Hornblow, made the statement I was anticipating “If anyone can show any just cause (etc.) speak now or forever hold your peace.” there was the usual pregnant silence.
Then suddenly a dapper little chap in a dark suit and thin black tie came running up the aisle; “Stop the wedding, stop the wedding,” he cried. The atmosphere was electric (electric atmospheres, pregnant pauses, don’t you just love the English language?) My expensive actor person got to the startled couple, looked them up and down and said, “Oh no. Sorry! Wrong wedding” and ran back out the other aisle.
At this juncture I expected the congregation would burst out laughing, the wedding would continue without further delay, and afterwards I would be congratulated by all and sundry for organising the ultimate practical joke. Not so. Close family members of the bride suffered discomfiture; some quite seriously. Nobody laughed, not the least the Reverend Hornblow, who stumbled through the rest of the ceremony as though it was his first outing. There was a pall over the breakfast and I was sent to Coventry by most of the guests, though I must say the bride and groom took it in good humour.
On the Sunday I sat down and wrote a long letter of apology to the brides’ parents. The Methodist vestry held an emergency meeting on Monday and considered taking me before a church court to discourage other misguided humourists from attempting the same prank. However, they saw the letter I had written to Mr. and Mrs. Cooke, assumed I was repentant, and asked that a similar letter be sent to them, and all would be forgiven. I couldn’t write that second letter quickly enough.
The Sunday News in Auckland ran the story, describing me as having “a curious sense of humour,” whatever that means. They asked for comment from prominent clergy in that city. Most were strongly condemnatory.
Jokes I played at subsequent friends’ weddings were low key and more acceptable all round.
The dapper Wellingtonian who had made the foray up the church aisle was a regular patron at the Sorrento coffee bar, an Argentinean named ‘Chico.’ They never did send me the bill. I’m not sure whether they forgot or if they felt sorry for me for all the trouble I had got myself into.
I’d like to think it was the latter. Though to be fair, I probably didn’t deserve the sympathy.
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