Fortunately, I was not naked. Unfortunately, the bishop was still talking. “God is love, and those who live in love live in God and God lives in them.”
And then somehow by some bullshit cultural magic, everybody was chanting again. Something something grace something something send your Holy Spirit something something that we may worship you now something something. The only bit I was really confident I got right was the amen at the end, and even that was pushing it.
“In the presence of God,” continued the bishop, “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, we have come together”—crap, had they only just got to the we-are-gathered-here-today bit—“to witness the marriage of Alexander Antony Fitzrovia James Twaddle and Clara Isabella Fortescue-Lettice, to pray for God’s blessing on them, to share their joy, and to celebrate their love.”
How was there so much of this? How could there be so much of this? I wouldn’t have minded, but I’d never seen the slightest shred of evidence Alex was even remotely religious. So all of this pomp and weirdly specific theology about the union between a man and his wife being in a very real sense the same as the union between Jesus and the Church felt like empty ritual. Except no, it was worse than that. Here in this, well, this cathedral, it felt like a ritual celebration of power and establishment and orthodoxy. I’d heard it said that the Church of England was the Tory Party at prayer, but until I’d seen a wealthy nincompoop marrying an earl’s daughter in front of an actual bishop, I hadn’t quite realised how literal that could be.
Come back, drag vicar, all is forgiven.
By the time we got to the bit where the bishop was like, “First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry to declare it now” I was half-tempted to leap to my feet and yell He can’t marry her. He’s already married to me just to make it stop. But I didn’t because despite outward appearances and years of practice, I’m not a complete bellend.
Then came the vows. Which at least didn’t include the creepy honour and obey bit, although I was disappointed to discover that apparently I do had been replaced with I will and even more disappointed to realise the ceremony ended not with You may now kiss the bride like in the movies but with yet more audience participation. The bishop asked the entire population of Sloane Square and a bunch of weirdos who worked for a poo-bug charity if we would support Alexander and Clara in their marriage, now and in the years to come, and we all dutifully chanted that we did. Or rather, that we would.
Honestly, I felt kind of gross. It wasn’t the God stuff. It was the way everyone else took it for granted that this was…universal somehow. That we were all united in this single idea of what marriage was and should be.
And then just when I thought it was over, there was yet more Bible. And not the lightweight love-is-cool and Jesus-is-groovy Bible stuff. Proper Saint-Paul-to-the-Ephesians Bible stuff. Proper we-are-Christ’s-body-and-women-should-be-subject-to-their-husbands Bible stuff. And nobody seemed to notice or care or realise how totally incompatible it was with the scene in front of them. Because not only was Miffy perfectly capable of looking after her own life and career but Alex was the last person that anybody should be subject to on account of how he was—even by his own accounting—a massive duffer.
At last they let us out and we joined the rest of the guests in milling politely in front of the cathedral, while Mr. and Mrs. Twaddle-Fortescue-Lettice posed for endless photographs. And finally, mercifully, we were permitted to return to our vehicles.
I had never been happier to get in a minibus in my entire life.
Thunking my head against Oliver, I tried not to lapse into immediate unconsciousness. “Thank fuck we’re done with that.”
“Really?” He glanced down at me. “I thought it was rather nice.”
That hadn’t been the answer I was expecting. “Nice? It was wall-to-wall Jesus and heteronormativity.”
“Well, yes,” he conceded. “But that’s what most weddings are like. It’s traditional.”
I wasn’t sure It’s traditional was quite the catch-all excuse Oliver seemed to think it was. “Don’t you find those traditions a bit, you know, alienating?”
“Why would I?” He gave a shrug that I found genuinely a bit off-putting. “I’m not religious, but neither are most people who get married in churches.”
“No”—I was probably too tired to be having this conversation because my voice got sharper than I wanted—“but you are gay.”