RIP Remote Control: A Guide to the Groom's Big Day.

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Ah yes, the groom. That poor bastard. The man in the penguin suit who just agreed publicly, in front of God, Nan, and a buffet table to surrender his freedom, his remote control, and half his sock drawer. 




Did You ever notice how the word groom sounds suspiciously like grooming? That’s not a coincidence. This guy’s been groomed since the moment he said, “Sure, I’ll hold your purse.” That was the gateway drug. Next thing you know, he’s picking out throw pillows and pretending to care about the difference between “eggshell” and “ivory.”

The groom stands there, sweating like a narc at Burning Man, wondering how the hell he got talked into spending £12,000 on a party where he’s not even allowed to pick the music. He’s got a flower pinned to his chest like a target, and everyone’s staring at him like he’s the last turkey in the shop window before Christmas.

And the vows? Oh, the vows. “I promise to love, honour, and cherish…” Translation: “I promise to never win another argument for the rest of my life.”

They say marriage is a partnership. Yeah, like a hostage situation is a partnership. One person negotiates, the other just nods and hopes the snacks are good.


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