Coked-up Weddings: a British Tradition

A Match Made in Heaven

At a traditional British wedding, cocaine is a key ingredient in the celebration of two people’s love. Now, before you turn your functioning nose up at the UK’s only culture, nobody snorts blow before the nuptials. We are not a nation of untamed sniffleupaguses rampaging through chapels with gak-matted proboscises. I’ll have you know, we snort blow immediately after the nuptials.

I would argue - and did, quite heatedly, with my brother’s then-fiancée, as she milked the moral high ground of that makeshift altar - a liberal sprinkling of nasal confetti can relieve all the stresses of the Big Day.

A dance floor without anyone dancing is just a floor. The conga line that never was. The bride winching up tired uncles from their trifle slumbers. The muffled encouragement of a white-van DJ, powerless against the downward pull of novelty boozes. Weddings without uppers are often downers. These muted bashes make a powerful argument for a white wedding.

The leading killers of dancehall vibes are: fatigue and inhibitions. Two limitations that your average Joe Blow is biologically incapable of understanding - same with sugar-rushing kids. Each buzzing away on their powder of choice, cokeheads and children are the lifeblood of any post-church disco.

In the awful light of day, the schnozzle brigade stick out like sore thumbs with elongated tooting nails. These sights for sore noses are sequestered off at the naughty table, shifting in their carefully allocated seats. Each presenting a chatty case of the post-wedding jitters. Watch a sniffhead recoil at the arrival of a Beef Wellington.

Minus the cheat code of youth - or the best-known chemical approximation - a day’s eating and drinking will drain the chacha from anyone’s slide. Given the proper motivation, a fading millennial can drain a free-bar until the father-of-the-bride is destitute. Compared with the clusters of table-wine casualties, the whizz kids are a picture of clenched composure. As a wise man once said, coke is the Gentleman’s Secret.

The throwback mischief only intensifies the fun. As the bride’s gramp whistles through a laboured piss, the groomsmen play frozen statues in an overpopulated cubicle. Ultimately, anyone with a nose for packet doesn’t care - and, anyone without, doesn’t notice. “Gosh, they are a lively bunch, aren’t they?” smiles an oblivious nan, watching on.

In my coke-prone mind, a new husband waving off a bump of free gear is the purest expression of love imaginable. That is the kind of commitment we can all aspire to.

Although, many a fiendish hubby has gone radioactive groomzilla. Trading in the most romantic night of a lifetime for a few lines of bob. Making stilted love with a wedge of soft putty. Staring sinkhole-deep into his wife’s eyes. Ne’er was as sincere a word spoken as the snivelling apologies of a high, impotent groom.

In reality, a wedding is one of those rare, enchanting moments where not a single thing could make the occasion any more perfect - with the notable exception of a gram, of course.

So, please, for the sake of your marriage, for the sake of your future children, for the sake of the country, I implore you, make that special day as special as it can be, please, let your loved ones do coke at your wedding.

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