I know, I know... No doubt you have seen all of the announcements in the Clarion, and I might have mentioned it once or twice in some of my brilliantly insightful and witty restaurant reviews, but...brace yourself women of Britain... I am no longer available - I have got married. The radiant creature you see above is the new Mrs Giles London - may I introduce to you Mrs Hortence London, nee Vosper-Thorneycroft-Himmler of Esher. This delightful picture was taken on the morning of our blessed nuptials by the official photographer, just as little Horey (as I call her) was putting on her make-up. We had first met just a few months ago, at a champagne reception fund raiser for the Conservative Party. Horey was running the whole shindig, and had specially dressed up as Eva Braun. I had been getting into the spirit of the whole thing and had dressed as Ernst Röhm. Anyway, several crates of Bollinger later, I flashed her some of my Wankler reviews and we ended up having a quick Anschluss in the back of a Tiger Tank parked on the lawn. And, as they say, the dye was cast!
I wanted Filly to know the bad news - we hadn't really spoken for a long time. So I phoned her on her mobile, but a cockney sounding chap answered. He said she was busy sterilising some bottles, whatever that meant, then a baby started crying and he hung up. Bizarre.
Now what is the most important thing about a wedding? That's right, the Hen and Stag Nights! Hortence decided that she and some of her old chums from Uni were going to go over to Nuremberg, for some reason that escapes me at the moment, and this they proceeded to do whilst dressed in a bizarre combination of clothing that seemed to mix lederhosen and Abba, circa Waterloo. Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander so to speak, so I decided to get hold of all my great mates for a wild lads night! Well, it would seem that most of my great mates have either moved, or changed phone number. In the end my Stag Night comprised of me, my father and old Uni chum, Auberon Milk-Pudding. I am at pains to say that it wasn't a great success, Dad left for his club at 8pm and Auberon only drinks tomato juice. I was drinking most of the terribly exclusive and expensive Chukkh'up lager from Bengal that I had ordered, while the band I had booked kept launching into "The Boys are Back in Town" by Thin Lizzy every time someone came into the saloon bar of the Bog Snorkeler Pub in Soho. No one else I had invited came. Then Hortence came storming in, back early from Nuremberg and very drunk. As she crashed through the doors, Auberon nudged me and said:
"Isn't that Hortence?"
To which I replied: "She looks quite calm to me..." Horey heard this, so poor old Giles was condemned to a night on the couch.
We were wed on May 29th at the little Saxon church of St Scholl of the Callous Toes in the picturesque Cotswold village of Little Snoring on the Wold. The honeymoon was spent in Berchtesgaden where Horey insisted I wear jodhpurs and riding boots. What a kinky wifey I have!
So to all the delicious totty of England - despair! Giles is free no more. But I can still bash out a restaurant review for you whenever you want. Drop me a line to the same old email address: firstname.lastname@example.org and let's eat!