Sunday, 28 August 2011

Still stuffed.

This weekend has been a touch of a fizzer. Vicky and I scoured Fremantle in search of alternative wedding ceremony venues. We didn't have much luck. To sum it up for you, the alternative venues that the City of Fremantle have suggested for us, to compensate for their bungling of construction timetables, are:
  1. A decrepit, vacated office building.
  2. Yet another beachside venue currently adjacent to construction work.
  3. A squarish patch of grass between two major roads, overlooked by a disused warehouse and home to some of the local drunks.
  4. A nature reserve contaminated with asbestos.
  5. A lovely riverside park underneath a highway traffic bridge. 
Bravo, CoF! You have truly excelled here. Unfortunately, I have some small problems with all of the above. Allow me to spell them out below:
  1. I don't want to feel as though I am going to work on my wedding day, especially if my workplace has rotten, asymmetrical, inconsistent carpeting; paint peeling from the walls; a funny smell; and rooms too small to fit most of my guests in easily enough.
  2. If we wanted to get married on the beach nearby a construction site, we would remain at bather's beach, thank you. It is much, much closer to our reception venue, has a lovely sheltering limestone art gallery to host the nuptials, and comes with fewer grots. 
  3. I think I would feel slightly cheated to pay for the use of some moderately-tended lawn sandwiched between busy pedestrian and automobile traffic and open to all. I'd also feel slightly guilty to inconvenience the delightful tramps who may live there. 
  4. I am deathly allergic to dying of asbestos-related diseases. The ineffective intermittent quarantine fencing doesn't really make for pleasing photographs either, I'll wager. 
  5. In the hopes that the ceaseless roar of traffic overhead wouldn't drown out our heartfelt vows, this venue would be just about perfect. Sadly, I have this ridiculous hang-up about feeling like a common troll while loitering under a bridge. Furthermore, to do so would lend additional weight to Vicky's argument that we ought to have troll-doll wedding caketoppers. This won't do. I've already bought the princess Lego piece that looks like her and I'm not having my money wasted.
Luckily, we are fine-tuning a Plan B. Is it possible to get married on a boat? Even if the boat is not at-sea?

Friday, 26 August 2011

the carnage

Here is how the kidogo arthouse looked when we booked it for a wedding do (aka "the good ol' days):

Here is how it looks these days (aka "things aren't as good as they used to be"):

Sure, we were planning to get married inside the building, rather than out, but you can see why we are mightily cheesed off. It's a bit much to aks our guests to come prepared with helmets and blundstones and fluro vests, mind the portaloo on yer way in, that's a dapper guest.

Sunday, 21 August 2011

Matt's pre-wedding gentlemen's wingding for gentlemen

Still distraught at the discovery that our wedding is doomed, my mind has desperately turned to happier notions and other excuses to drink to excess. If it does turn out that the world will end on my wedding day (literally, rather than figuratively), I am going to have a smashing party with my chums beforehand.

Accordingly, I want to host a "buck's party" at a croquet club. We can carouse and smash balls around a bit. What's not to like? I'll let the invites explain:

Hullo chaps,

I'll be getting married soon and, to honour the rich tradition of marriage, I will also be keen to follow the tradition of pre-wedding libations with my gentlemen friends. This will allow us to talk freely about the stock market, shoe buffers, bespoke tailoring, the declining work ethic among today's domestics, and tits - all without "women" nagging us to suck in our manly guts.

Croquet seems to me the most conducive
 activity for such larks. We can quietly while away the hours knocking balls around with mallets, drinking snifters and laughing heartily. Then, when thoroughly sick of the game, we can go to a pub.

I'm not sure which club to go to yet. Como and Vic Park are the front-runners. Como looks to have better bar facilities but Vic Park might be easier for you fellows to get there and away with beers under your belts. I'll have my dogsbody look into the matter and report back soon. Derek, hop to it, will you.

The important point is to clear all other appointments from your daybooks and put this in.

Thank you and good day.

Matt, esq.


Playing croquet will also give me an excuse to dress like the dapper character above. I have heard that some to-be-grooms are often forced to don horrid attire, such as latex bodysuits, womens' underthings or a chicken-feather suit. Needing to dress so as to meet the croquet club's dress code will mean that all those things are out of the question, thank heavens. I don't want to look stupid.

I'll also need to buy a bowtie. Let the research begin!

Saturday, 20 August 2011

Things Could Be Worse

Although the City of Fremantle is trying its best (by doing its least) to ruin our nuptial splendor (details in yesterday's post), it's worthwhile to remember that Things Could Be Worse: 


 - but we are nevertheless still interested in any alternative wedding ceremony venue suggestions.

And there's an upside to our wedding coinciding with Armageddon, too.

We can get t-shirts to wear for the next day!


This of course assumes that we will survive both the second coming and the wedding process. Both will be pretty full-on.

Friday, 19 August 2011

The wedding is ruined! The world is ending!

Today we got some munted news: our ceremony venue is likely to be hideous and under construction at the time we wish to be married. The whole place is getting tarted up for some world sailing championships in December and, just like a proper tart, before she spends good money artificially improving her appearance for foreign sailors, she must first wreck her body by ripping up the good bits and putting in some fake bodyscaping and artificial artwork. 

Apparently, the "minimal" construction work that would be finished in time for our wedding looks to take longer than originally planned. Who would have thought?

Do they not realise that sailors spend their lives at sea, surrounded by creaking wood, ropes and smelly drunks with hooks for hands? Any sight of dry land is glorious to a sailor's one good eye! This $250,000 (or $250, I'm not too sure) is not money well spent. Fremantle could have bought an AFL premiership with that money, which they arguably need more. 

Vicky is mighty miffed. Me, I have taken to drink. Considering that I may be considered to drink too much already, and am thus taking to drink on top of pre-exisiting heavy drinking, you can imagine our distress. 

This evening, several glasses of wine in, Vicky has started on the google to find other places in Freo that might do for a nice stop-gap ceremony at least. In a vegetable-protein-ham-substitute fisted way, I tried to help by seeing if meteorologists could predict weather nearly 3 months in advance. If the weather looks to be grand, we can get married in a park or on a nice street or something. Instead, I made a far more gruesome discovery: our wedding date is Judgement Day, which I guess, at least, makes the whole problem with slack construction workers in Fremantle "working" too slowly on an unnecessary project rather moot. 

This won't be like all those other Judgement Days that have come and gone with nary a rapturous applause, no sir. This one, allegedly, will be the culmination of all the other ones. Got that? All those other Judgement Day predictions have been correct. They were the correct date that the end of the world started, which is probably why my vegetables have failed to grow well in the garden ever since. 


I cannot say that I am rapt with the notion. 

But just in case it's wrong, or I'm not saved, can anybody recommend some good venues in Fremantle to get married at?



Sunday, 14 August 2011

Wedding songs (a licky boom boom down)

Just quickly, to be a man of my word (important practice for wedding vows), here is the next blog and it is not about wedding clothes. 

You know what else I have been going mental about lately? The wedding songs. 

I may well be a mad man. I am considering play-listing all the songs in order on my ipod - to follow through ceremony, reception and party-disco - rather than simply picking out songs that we like and putting them on shuffle. 

The reception/disco part will last about 6 hours, from the 6pm start until whenever the archaic liquor licensing laws require us to stop. Can I seriously list out at least 6 hours' worth of songs in an order I like? I think I will have to. If I just hit shuffle, the songs might not play in an order that I like, or which is most conducive to a bell-curve of escalating fun and inebriation. Snow's Informer, for example, might commence blasting when people are still arriving at the venue, or trying to enjoy their meals without their eyes bugging out in disbelief, rather than when Vicky has had enough to drink to think that dancing on tables is a fantastic idea. That would be optimum and spectacular, though it requires foresight and careful planning. 

Ooh - Vicky's just piped up with a smashing idea. We are going to have a wine/champage/beer tasting party soon to get our friends and families to help us out picking the wedding booze. Vick's suggested we can have a playlist party too. Win.

Shoes: the finale (a self-help guide to getting it on)

I have long promised to write a bit of a blog about the things what I have learned (good grammar not being one of them - I'm already full-brim on that'n) in the lead-up to my wedding. People have questions, it seems, and I'm all for giving the public what it wants, within reason, mind. You may consider me your helper flunky. 

Admittedly, most of these questions have been aksed of me by many-footed caterpillars while I have been in the midst of fevered, opiate-induced hallucinations, which really only means that I should go to bed earlier, stop thinking about footwear, stop drinking Vicky's special 'women's tea', and just come to terms with the fact that not that many people read the blog. 

I digress. "Your blog is all very well and good-" these caterpillars say, to which I inject with a hearty cry of, "Thank you! Most gracious!" and a preposterous attempt to shake all their hands in gratitude. 

"But!" they continue, "it does not help us, you see. All we have learned is that you have learned about the various conventions, attitudes and mechanistics of menswear, but we are still in the dark about what those lessons actually are. Our own knowledge remains confined to how to eat the vegetables you are vainly (and half-heartedly, it must be admitted) trying to grow, and how to walk with dignity, never tripping ourselves up on our hundreds of feet." Hereupon, they take great big drags of apple tobacco from their hookahs and puff a smoke-ring around my face.

Accordingly, I will write some updates about what's what in formalwear for anybody who may be interested. 

Please note that this is in no way a dress code to be followed to guarantee entrance at my wedding. Other than asking people to make a bit of an effort to dress nicely, there is no obligation or expectation for any guests to dress any particular way. My obsessions are mine alone and if you'd prefer to attend in a crushed velvet blazer and tweed cap, that will probably be fine. Clearly, I will permit shoes made of canvas, too.

I will start, obviously, with shoes and what I have been carrying on about: the difference between oxfords/balmorals and derbys/bluchers. The difference between the terminology on either side of the slash can be summarised as pom/yank.

I think most of my friends' dress shoes are derbys; certainly all the shoes I had for work/weddings/funerals have been these. They are distinguished by their 'open' laces, which mostly means that the part where the lace-holes go has been sewn onto the shoe itself, as per the image below.

(By the way, I did try to think of a joke about 'lace-hole' but I couldn't work one in seamlessly enough.)



Notice how the vamp (the decidedly unsexy, non-dangerous front part of the shoe, covering the toes and instep) has the quarters (which are the back two parts of the shoe, from the heel-end to midpoint) sewn on top. This is what distinguishes a derby. The laces-bit is "open", on top of the vamp/front.

Compare this to the oxford:


If you are exceedingly clever, you will note these are a different colour. This is immaterial to my lesson. The key is that the vamp (the front bit) is sewn on top of the quarters (the back bit, with the laces). In this case, the tongue of the shoe will also usually be separate and sewn onto the vamp. In the derbies, the tongue is usually an extension of the vamp; it is the same piece of material.  

There are lots of reasons why people consider the oxford to be a more formal shoe than the derby. The key one, to my mind, is that it's more difficult for cobblers to make oxfords well, so they cost more. If things cost more, they are generally considered special occasion items. They are in my case, at any rate.

Obviously you can get shoes without laces, too. If they come with a buckle or strap in place of laces, the cool kids call them "monks". I will not go into these. Considering monks are supposed to be chaste, I doubt that many of them will also get married. (I will also pass over the joke about monks, living under vows of poverty and obedience, being ideal candidates for marriage.)

Now, look back at the derby. See those holes? That's brogueing, a fancy way of saying "decorative punched holes". Generally, the more decorative the shoe, the less formal it is. The derby above is also what's known as a "half brogue" because it has that straight cap-toe. To be considered a "full brogue", they will be wingtips, which, instead of a straight cap, has a pointy bit at the front, like a squiggly bracket ({):


The oxfords, without the brogueing, are called - surprise, surprise - "plain". 

And that's as much as I can be bothered writing about the different styles, apart from quickly mentioning that, in addition to captoes and wingtips, you can also get "split toes", which have stitching up the middle of the vamp. Avoid these. They're rubbish.

Now, if you also want to be lectured about the materials, read on. I'll make it quick (said the bishop to the bride).

Most shoes are made from leather. Before I retread my vegetarian agenda, I will cover the basics. Avoid "corrected grain" leather shoes. These are crap. "Corrected" is a euphemism for "shitty" in the same way that "never-before seen footage" means "boring to watch". 

Essentially, if shoes are "corrected", it means they have sanded off the rubbish bits of the animal hide (scars, etc) and hidden these with a special plastic coating. This coating will flake off and look awful as you wear the shoes in. Instead, aim for "full grain", which means that the leather was top quality to begin with. In addition to full grain, you could also keep an eye out for shell cordovan. This is a euphemism, too, for "horse's arse", although being made of horses' arses is apparently quite a good thing: the shoes are longer lasting and more durable than ones made from cows or baby seals. Beware, though, that cordovan can also be a colour as well as a material, just to keep things simple.

Now, before you cry "hypocrite!", being familiar with my earlier conundrum, allow me to gently suggest that one can bear all these tips in mind when shopping for some excellent quality leather shoes second-hand. In this way, not only do fewer horses have to lose their arses, I am also able to push my environmentalist agenda as well as my vegetarian one. 

Seriously, the reason that some shoes cost nearly $1,000 and some cost $45 is that the more expensive ones (should, if you're savvy) last more than a lifetime. The soles will be welted on, instead of glued, for one thing, which means they can be replaced as they wear through. Isn't it better just to get one pair of shoes, even second hand, that look great and can be cobbled throughout your life, rather than having to try on new shoes every year or so as the soles wear through and the whole thing has to be thrown away and replaced, forcing you to take a trip back to the shoe-shop and try on awful things while a spotty teenager stands awkwardly nearby and you are sweating because you hate trying on shoes and could be at the pub instead and you're worried about sweating in those shoes that you're trying on and then thinking about all the other people who may have tried them on before you, sweating their own mould-infested sweat into the same shoe and how much protection can a cotton sock offer you, anyway? None, that's how much! Oh god this is awful; why didn't I just follow that nice blog's advice in the first place and get good-quality secondhand shoes? I could be at the pub right now, carefree and soused. 

Shoe-shopping stinks, figuratively and literally. Why wouldn't you avoid it if you could?

(Obviously, I assume that secondhand shoes are cleaned and treated better between wearers than a spotty  teenager will bother with between try-ons in department stores.)

Shoes, hey? Now you know.

And yes, although I am still a wee bit too knowledgeable about shoes, I can confirm that I remain front-bottom free. This is just as well. Gay marriage is still (!) illegal in this country, despite our atheist prime minister. Incidentally, I am going to aks our celebrant if she can replace the words "marriage is defined as the union of a man and a woman, to the exclusion of all others" with "marriage is defined as the union of two individuals" because I'm rather sympathetic to the gays.

Look at that! Environmentalist, vegetarian, and now homosexual agendas all pushed in the one post! Tune in next time when I talk about trying to get the "to the exclusion of all others" part removed and push for deregulated trading hours in WA, all in a sneaky attempt to destroy families and western civilisation as you know it.  Just 'cause, you know. 

Monday, 8 August 2011

Whither the dilly-o?

Okay, so I bought the canvas shoes after all, after stressing a bit about my footwear in two previous posts (here and here) and it occurs to me that some readers may be wondering why it mattered in the slightest. Canvas, leather - who cares, apart from Grant? Oxfords, bluchers - surely just a choice based on the aesthetics of the name? Heck, why am I stressing out about what I will wear for the wedding at all? Why not simply chuck on a t-shirt with one of those tuxedo prints and be done with it?

Well, if you've read this far, I'll assume you either want to know the answer or are bored enough to let your eyes continue scrolling down.

The skinny: I don't want to look or feel as though I am going to work.

Okay, so it's obvious for the ladies that the way they dress for work will be different to the way they dress at their wedding. This is not so for chaps. Sure, there are some obvious exceptions. If your job requires you to don high-visibility orange vests, goggles and a hard-hat, it's likely (though not impossible) that you won't wear similar at your nuptials. Similarly, there are some jobs where it is expected and enjoyable to wear your work clothes to your wedding - like, say, if you are in the military or a pimp.

But what if you are an office cubicle-dweller as I am? We wear suits to work, purely for the purposes of looking identical to all the other office cubicle-dwellers, and we wear suits to our weddings. Now, obviously, there are some differences - you can leave your security pass at home, for instance - but what of the rest? I really don't want to look like every other guy there and, far more important, I don't want to feel as though I'm about to head off for seven-and-a-half hours of looking forward to coming home. This will not be the best start to married life; hence my dalliance with the intertubes and menswear bloggery.

Once I started, I became this wee bit obsessive. Some of my research has confirmed what I already knew, like pinstripes for business only, and leaving the label on the sleevecuff of your suit makes you look like a massive tit, so I also had to make sure that there were not other conventions that, if I were ignorant of them when dressing, would see me inspire similar underhanded sniggery or head-slapping disbelief from those in the know. 

I'll admit I've learned a lot and, as somebody who is a bit of a sentimental traditionalist, it's been quite nice and rewarding (perhaps I could go so far as to say "spiffing"?) to read about the heritage behind modern menswear: what garments were for what activities and what message can be sent, deliberately, though the choice of attire. Most of this knowledge has been lost for everyday schlubs like me, some thankfully, and some regrettably. 

So, yes, my wedding duds will be carefully selected with a modicum of knowledge of tailoring tradition. Yes, I know what the various bits of shoes are and how they are made (and I promise to try to summarise some of this in a subsequent post to help out other baffled fellows in the future). I know what "shell cordovan" is. I know how to tell a canvassed suit from a fused one - and how to tell if it is full- or semi-canvassed. I know how ties are made.

This is why I now have a charcoal suit with peak lapels and black oxford shoes. I have never worn either to work before and both come with a higher prestige (because, traditionally, they are more difficult to make and thus cost more and can be considered more formal).  Sure, the shoes are canvas, rather than leather, but the style honours the heritage and the materials honour my present. Besides, you have to know what the rules are in order to break them effectively.

On my wedding day, I will look freaking dapper. For those in the know, I will look elegant, hopefully. For those not in the know, I will still look freaking dapper. 

Case in point: Horatio (the cat) adores the new shoes, even though he gets around naked and can't use the internet very well. If it were legal for a cat to marry two shoes, I reckon he'd be up for it. 

I keep them in the box. Virginal wedding tradition and all.