Holy Hell: Melbourne Wedding Unravels Over a Few Too Many Pots  

Alright, you lot, gather ’round. Rusty Rings here, back with another jaw-dropper from the frontline of Australian wedding chaos. And let me tell you, this one might just take the biscuit. Or the communion wafer, as it were.

We’re off to sunny Melbourne this week, where a couple’s big day went sideways before you could say, “I’ll have a pint of Carlton, thanks.” It had drama. It had scandal. It had a priest threatening to nick off mid-vows. Strap yourselves in.

Meet the Lovebirds

Our couple in question: Brayden and Shazza (yes, Sharon, but no one’s called her that since Year 9 netball camp). Two proper Melburnians. He’s a sparky; she’s a dental nurse with a soft spot for peach schnapps and men with mullets and a tash.

They’d been together since a blurry New Year’s at St Kilda in 2017, where he tried to climb a palm tree in thongs and she was arrested for mooning a tram. Love at first sight, obviously.

Engaged on the dodgems at the Melbourne Show, they planned a no-nonsense, backyard-style wedding at Brayden’s uncle’s property in Sunbury. Marquee, BBQ, and one of those dodgy photo booths where you leave with seventeen blurred pictures of yourself pulling a shaka.

Enter Father Desmond

Now here’s where it gets interesting.

See, Shazza’s nan’s deeply religious. Proper old-school Catholic. Goes to church three times a week and once got into a punch-up with a Jehovah’s Witness. It was non-negotiable that the ceremony had to be done “properly,” with a priest, a reading from Corinthians, and no one legless before the vows.

So in comes Father Desmond O’Shaughnessy. A stern, wiry old bloke from the western suburbs, who’d clearly seen some things in his time. The sort of priest who could smell a hangover from thirty paces and wasn’t afraid to slap a hymnbook across the back of your head.

At the rehearsal he made it perfectly clear:

“If I smell one drop of booze on a guest’s breath or a wobble in a bridesmaid’s step, I’ll call it off faster than you can say ‘Hail Mary.’”

Everyone nodded solemnly. Promises were made. Non-alcoholic bubbles were purchased for the morning prep. It was going to be fine.

Spoiler: it was not fine.

The Day of Reckoning

The sun came out. The marquee looked a treat. Brayden’s uncle Macca roasted two pigs on spits. Shazza’s cousin Kylie put together a cracking playlist of 90s bangers. Spirits were high.

And then… so were the guests.

See, while the official wedding wasn’t until 3pm, the barbie fired up at 11. And nobody, nobody, in Melbourne’s western suburbs can be expected to eat pork crackling sober.

The beers started flowing. Someone produced a slab of UDL cans. Brayden’s brother Hamish cracked open a bottle of Midori he found in the shed. By 1:30pm, the groomsmen were shirtless, Kylie was doing the Macarena solo, and old Uncle Len had passed out behind the Esky.

Warning Signs

Father Desmond arrived at 2:30pm, Bible in one hand, look of pure suspicion on his face. The smell hit him before the marquee came into view, a potent mix of sweat, pork fat, and Carlton Draught.

He made a beeline for Brayden, who was trying to steady himself by leaning against the trestle table.

“Have you been drinking, my son?”

Brayden, eyes like pissholes in the snow, did his best to channel innocence.

“Nah, mate. Hydralyte.”

Unfortunately, as he spoke, his best man, Gav, belched loudly and fell sideways into the fairy light stand.

Father Desmond’s jaw tightened. The priest gave them one final warning:

“If there’s any drunkenness during this holy sacrament, the wedding will not proceed.”

Guess What Happened

They lined up. Shazza looked stunning, albeit with a suspiciously rosy glow to her cheeks and the slow, drunken blink. The guests gathered, some swaying gently in the breeze like reeds in a marsh.

The ceremony began. Father Desmond made it to the second reading before disaster struck.

Brayden’s nan, bless her, was so proud she burst into tears. Someone handed her a schooner of Great Northern to calm her down. She downed it in one and shouted, “To the happy couple!”

The crowd, now properly loose, erupted in cheers. Someone popped a cork. Hamish tried to crowd-surf. Kylie kicked off Nutbush City Limits on the Bluetooth speaker.

Father Desmond lost it.

The Great Walk-Off

Midway through “Do you, Brayden, take this woman…” The priest threw up his hands, snapped his Bible shut, and bellowed:

“That’s it! This is not a house of God; it’s a bloody beer garden!”

And with that, he stormed out. Straight through the marquee, past the roast pigs, climbed into his battered Corolla and peeled off down the gravel drive.

What Now?

For a moment, stunned silence. Brayden looked at Shazza. Shazza looked at Brayden. Then someone shouted, “Does this mean you’re not married?!”

Quick-thinking Kylie grabbed the mic and yelled,

“Stuff it, I did a celebrancy course online! It’s not legal, but it’ll do!”

And so, beneath a sky of inflatable palm trees and crispy, crackling, and half-cooked snags, Kylie pronounced them husband and wife.

Cheers erupted. Brayden face-planted into the cake. Someone played Working Class Man. The keg ran dry at 7:15pm.

Epilogue

The official marriage had to be rescheduled two weeks later at the Sunbury registry office, with no priest, no booze, and not a single inflatable palm tree in sight.

Brayden’s nan still reckons it counts.

Lesson from Rusty

If you’re getting hitched in Melbourne, or anywhere for that matter, maybe hold off on the beers until after the “I dos.” Or at least make sure your priest has got a good sense of humour and a tolerance for mid-afternoon UDLs.

As always, you’re welcome.

Yours in absolute bits,
Rusty Rings