So who wants to get married? I DO! First off, because I’m a big old sap of a romantic. And secondly, because I’m fucking lucky enough to be allowed to!
Well… after I get divorced anyway.
That’s right, I’m a gay divorcee and it’s a royal pain in the ass!
It was 2009 when my ‘husband’ and I were civil partnered. We chose to marry at a town hall, which had just kicked up a massive fuss in the news because some bigoted bitch registrar publicly refused to perform any gay civil partnerships in her establishment. And get this – her main wedding room was where Culture Club’s Do You Really Want To Hurt Me video was shot… What a WASTE of gay history space.
After several days of very long waits on phone lines, we were informed that – regardless of the current issue – we were only allowed to marry in a borough we both lived in, and would have to move to another part of London if we wanted to get married at the time we had wanted. All because of one bigoted old trout.
Holding out was going to be very tough. Not only did we have family booked to fly over for that time,
but my husband’s work visa (he was an Aussie) had also ran out, meaning he was unable to legally work at all until he got his citizenship. So I, being a good husband-to-be, was working enough hours for both of us at the local pub, as well as trying to finish my first book with a hideous deadline the publishers had given.
Eventually the evil registrar was replaced. But not before she swore that same sex marriage was an abomination and would bring and end to the civilised world. I know, right? The SHADE of it all! Sorry, I’ve been watching LOADS of RuPaul’s Drag Race, so you must excuse my new drag words. Anyway, after some hideous suit fittings, a party venue that got shut down and my future mother-in-law going all Maleficent on our asses, wishing us nothing but DOOM, we finally got civil partnered.
And the day turned out wonderful.
We weren’t allowed to walk down the isle to Like A Prayer (by law, any mention of God or Jesus was not permitted at a gay wedding), but at the last minute we replaced it with Time After Time. All in all, with so many wonderful friends and family, it turned out to be a dream wedding. And I, a usual rock-faced Romany, cried for most of the day. Partly through exhaustion, slightly from disbelief that I’d finally landed a keeper and, secretly, through relief that I’d never have to date another dastardly dickhead ever again.
Little did I know…
The curse of old mother-in-law came to pass, and my husband left me to move back to Australia within a year. And just as I actually started to get along with his mum too! Oh, what a world, what a world.
One thing I did learn, though, was that a certificate actually means sweet FA when it comes to marriage. An old man once said to me, ‘If they don’t make you feel dirty, it ain’t never gonna work’. I’d agree to some extent. But I’d also add that laughter is a must. And the knowledge that you can ALWAYS rely on and trust each other.
You won’t be ripping each other’s clothes off forever, like Carrie Bradshaw and Big would have you believe. A relationship expands and changes as time goes on, and you become family. And this is the most incredible part of it.
There are far too many who’d sooner run for their lives than truly risk their heart for someone. Love is about give and take. Many people forget that – and take for granted those who make the effort.
My husband had his reasons to leave. And, in hindsight, to free me was the best thing he could’ve done for us. A piece of legal paper won’t keep you in love if it’s not right.
Who knows, maybe one day I will again… But better! I may even go for Liz Taylor’s record. Thirty-one husbands, wasn’t it? n