The Engagement Party
Proudfoot & Piasecka
Saturday 16 December
“Y’know, ‘those who can’t do, teach’? Well, those who can’t wed, plan.”
Mary Fiore, The Wedding Planner
‘The Engagement Party’ celebrates the coming together of two star-cross’d cheats and their six love-labouring weeks côte à côte in Studio 15. To be (or not to be) joined in holy matrimony over their shared interest in Wagnerian ritual, Sex and the City (The Movie), and the discovery of the Las Vegas of Scotland.
Proudfoot and Piasecka invite you to quaff down a ‘champagne’ cocktail, take your aim at an ‘authentic’ love-themed piñata, gather ‘round the anvil (chorus), and meet the ‘priest’ who will forge their love on their forthcoming special day. They’re wedding in another name but it still smells as sweet.
An art love comes true.
The Engagement Party
Gretna Green, our bolthole at the border. Story-laden flatlands.
The old coaching route now overlined with the A74
I’m weighed down with you
Bogged land, soggy with yearning.
I wish I had a wife to clean my clothes and cut my hair and feed me love.
I miss dates, forget to shower, leave emails unanswered. I tell a friend to meet me one day, only to postpone to two weeks later.
I don’t have sex.
I wish I lived in Las Vegas, I’d get married every day to two different partners, I’d have a small farm and many legitimate children. The children would watch Pinky and The Brain in the way I watch the news and we’d all believe in metempsychosis, the transmigration of souls.
There would be no bouquets in our kitchen but wheatsheafs, braided into halos and hearts, tacked on the wall and wound to her soft neck and perfumed head. Or winged ponytail appendages for my
While I’d tie my knot so many times I’d have no hair left.
I’d sit in my library with ladders and admire soviet art, narrative, talismans. I’d have horseshoes nailed above my hearth spelling out a bigger horseshoe and giant legs– suited with cashmere blue socks – hanging from the ceiling. A goliath I couldn’t be, limb-loosened in desire I couldn’t have.
I’m big money though. Big money in copper coins. Strewn in queenly quantities across the bed, prepared with pink quilts and yielding cushions. With a basin at the bedside for gathering them back up once my cravings are sated.
What lies between the hammer and the anvil?
The dark pools of frosty relations and a lack of filial ties.
My priest will be your priest. We’ll have paper garlands, balloons, wine and cheese. The canapés will be served by waitresses on roller blades in oversized clothing.
You will bitch about my wedding.
Yet its scale will melt your heart for I have fled evil, I have found what is better.
It may be too cliché to say I’m in love but I’ll wear my bridal dressing gown day and night and we’ll eat pancakes in the mornings. A happy wife is a happy life.
Butter making today!
A mouse that drowned in cream because it stopped swimming,
Something of a metaphor for perseverance.
£1.75 metallic lonely hearts falling in plumes, curdling with the mice
And in the crevices of the wooden trunk
Holding the anvil aloft,
too delicate for blows.
As a toybox child I yearned to be free, juice lemons, and grow to be nine feet tall even though I didn’t know that the foot measure isn’t actually a foot.
And feet aren’t all the same size.
Eros – limb loosener – come savage my feet. Take the whole ass to Achilles too.
Maxwell’s Silver Hammer is my least favourite Beatles’ song. I prefer Verdi or Wagner or Gottfried Benn.
Once upon a time getting married only involved the man going to the woman’s residence. He’d then take her home and they were married. This was the 12th century.
One day the church, wishing to strengthen its standing, flex some muscle, and keep some records for the looming birth of the nation-state decided that, to be considered valid, all marriages would have to have their consent.
And thus appeared the mighty marriage certificate. Backdated to please your parents or legitimise your children like mine on the farm.
Basically because the offspring of the aristocracy were often the targets of “bigamists and penniless opportunists”.
As an offspring of the aristocracy, I can happily say we are the bigamists and opportunists, just the ones with the money to write the history books. I’ll make sure you get a first in your exam.
In Gretna Green I read out early lonely hearts stapled to the wall.
We have a repentance stool and think the bed trick quite neat.
Marriage is invalid if conducted in the hours of darkness.
I’d like a little turtle dove to stand beside me with a veil on and little kid gloves on.
Greasy hair to gauzy face
Tongue shattered; handfasting
An un-upholstered love
We’ll ignore the glaring truth of my marriage and conduct The Affair in the light of powder-blue mornings, untouched gin fizzing on the bedside table.