Rusty Rings in Chicago: When the Wedding Went Underwater  

G’day, folks. Rusty Rings here, your trusted purveyor of wedding debacles, nuptial train wrecks, and the kind of matrimonial misadventures that make you think twice about ever RSVPing “yes.”

This week, we’re heading stateside. Chicago, to be exact. Home of the deep-dish pizza, jazz that makes your spine tingle, and wind sharp enough to circumcise a pigeon mid-flight. Honestly, I’ve seen less aggressive breezes during a tropical cyclone back home in Queensland.

Now, I wasn’t exactly invited to this one (old habits die hard) but I got the nod through a mate of a mate. The lucky couple? Mick and Shazza. A pair of Aussie expats chasing the American dream amongst skyscrapers and street hot dogs. Well, Shazza was chasing it. Mick was mostly chasing the local beer specials. Lovely pair though, the kind of people you’d help move house once, grumble about it, and still turn up for the barbie after.

The Calm Before the Storm

To be fair, it all started better than expected. Shazza looked a million bucks, like a walking Pinterest board, if Pinterest occasionally dropped the C-bomb and knew how to swing a pool cue. Mick, bless him, managed to tie his Windsor knot after only three false starts and a minor strangulation incident. His face was the same shade as a beetroot by the time he cracked it, but he got there.

Even old Baz, Mick’s uncle from Perth, a man who firmly believes deodorant is government propaganda, and who once tried to smuggle six jars of Vegemite through Singapore airport, made it in one piece. Only a mild cavity search and a polite confiscation of his illegal biltong stash. The American customs officer didn’t stand a chance.

The venue itself was a ripper. Rooftop setting, fairy lights strung like glow worms in a jar, white linen tablecloths that screamed ‘refundable deposit’, and a string quartet playing something posh none of us recognised but pretended to enjoy. Guests milled about with fancy cocktails they couldn’t pronounce, wearing that smug, slightly sunburnt look you only get when you’ve overpaid for a destination wedding, and aren’t sure how to feel about it.

Then, without warning, the sky turned the colour of regret.

And Down Came the Wrath of God

I’ve seen sudden weather changes before. I’m from Queensland, mate. I once watched a storm rip the roof clean off the Yandina pub while the footy was still on the telly. But this? This was biblical.

Mid-vows, just as the celebrant was launching into something heartfelt about love being a journey and other such nonsense, the heavens opened like a burst bladder. Guests scattered like startled chooks. Fascinators went airborne. The string quartet legged it after a rogue gust weaponised a cello. True story, I saw a bloke try to fend it off with a cocktail umbrella.

The wedding cake, a three-tiered monstrosity of fondant, ambition and gold leaf, slid sideways in a slow-motion landslide, taking out the wishing well, half the gift table and a decorative flamingo. Someone screamed. Nobody moved to help. It was, frankly, magnificent.

Shazza and Mick stood there, drenched, dazed, and clinging to each other like two bin liners in a storm. Baz tried to start a Mexican wave, but nobody was in the mood.

Plan B: The Storage Cupboard of Dreams

The venue staff, bless their panicked hearts, herded us into what they optimistically referred to as the “backup room.” What it actually was, was a broom cupboard with aspirations. Picture fifty damp, slightly feral wedding guests, a DJ trying to resuscitate his decks with a hairdryer, and Baz attempting a shoey out of someone’s vegan loafer.

The air conditioner packed it in about twenty minutes later, turning the whole affair into a sauna crossed with a wet market. The open bar descended into anarchy. Someone raided the mini fridge. An impromptu conga line formed and promptly fell apart when Aunt Mabel attempted the splits on wet tiles and had to be carted off by the paramedics.

The DJ’s gear finally short-circuited, leaving us with a playlist alternating between static, an instrumental version of The Macarena, and the occasional burst of local radio. I’ve seen more dignity in a pub lock-in at closing time.

What Went Wrong

Let’s tally it up for posterity:

• Venue Damage: Water everywhere, electricals fried, floral arrangements looking like drowned possums.
• Vendor Failures: DJ down, cake disintegrated, photographer’s kit drowned in a puddle of Prosecco.
• Guest Injuries: Aunt Mabel’s ambulance job, two sprained ankles, one suspected concussion from a rogue deckchair.
• Lost Deposits: Half the vendors pulled out halfway through the night, citing acts of God.

It was, in short, one for the books.

Final Thoughts from Rusty Rings

Mick and Shazza’s nuptials were a waterlogged, chaotic, darkly hilarious chapter that’ll be told at wakes, pub nights, and divorce parties for decades. A cautionary tale for anyone tempted by destination weddings without a backup plan, or a half-decent weather app.

If there’s a moral here, it’s this: weddings are beautiful, unpredictable madness. And sometimes, no matter how well you plan, nature will throw a tantrum anyway. When it does, all you can do is grab a drink, find a dry seat, and watch the carnage unfold.

And maybe, just maybe, don’t book your rooftop wedding in Chicago without a Plan B.

Cheers,
Rusty Rings