Two Brides and a Breakdown: Rusty Rings Reports from Logan  

Alright you lot, buckle up.

Rusty Rings here again, your man on the ground for Australia’s most bonkers, feral, and occasionally criminal weddings. And let me tell you, this weekend’s knees-up in Logan made the Perth fireball nuptials look like a Neighbourhood Watch BBQ.

I wasn’t even supposed to be there, truth be told. I only went because my mate Mozzer promised there’d be free XXXX, a spit roast, and a rumour going round about a topless celebrant. He failed to mention the impending domestic implosion. Typical Mozzer.

Meet the Happy Couple

Danny and Leanne. Classic Logan pair. He’s a scaffolder with a jet ski he can’t afford; she runs a mobile lash business out of a beat-up Hilux with three different-coloured panels. Lovely people. Very in love. Or so we all thought.

The ceremony was at a half-decent events barn just off the highway, all fairy lights, hessian table runners, and a bloke doing Ed Sheeran covers on a battered acoustic he clearly regretted bringing. The invite said “formal casual,” which in Logan means blokes in RM Williams boots and a clean singlet.

The weather was roasting, proper sweat-behind-the-knees heat. I was half-cut on Bundy Rum slushies by the time Leanne walked down the aisle to a budget string quartet having a crack at Chasing Cars. No immediate signs of carnage. But as any seasoned Rusty watcher knows, it’s always calmest before the chaos.

Who Invited Her?

Fast forward to speeches. Best man, Kev (again, every bloke’s called Kev), was mid-anecdote about Danny losing his trousers at a Surfers Paradise foam party in 2011. The crowd’s loving it. Half of ‘em were probably there.

Then, out the corner of my eye, I clock her.

Tall bird, bleach-blonde, looks like she’s been dragged through a few bad decisions backwards. Marching straight through the barn doors like she owns the joint. Clutching a Woolies bag for life, wearing what can only be described as a “going out top” from the Gold Coast circa 2005, paired with leggings so thin you could see her Southern Cross tatt.

Turns out, it’s Kelly. Danny’s other wife.

Yup. Danny’s married. To someone else. Since 2019. Apparently, he did a quick registry job in Logan City Council chambers “for tax reasons” and then never got round to the annulment. Minor admin error, according to him.

Some blokes forget birthdays. Danny forgets entire marriages.

Bedlam Ensues

Kelly stomps up to the top table like she’s picking up a pizza. Slaps her marriage certificate down in front of Leanne and announces, and I quote:

“Sorry darl, but he’s already spoken for. And by the way, you might wanna get your bits checked.”

Atmosphere drops quicker than a pint in a pokies room.

Danny goes sheet white. Leanne goes absolutely feral. The groom’s mum, who up until this point had been belting out every line of Sweet Caroline, faints headfirst into a crème brûlée. Best man Kev tries to calm it down, says something about “sorting this out like adults,” and immediately cops a schooner glass to the head.

DJ (absolute legend) cuts Angels by Robbie mid-chorus and slams on Gold Digger without missing a beat. Top-tier stuff.

Meanwhile, I’m by the roast pig, tears streaming down my face with laughter, wishing I’d brought popcorn. Mozzer’s losing it too, nearly chokes on a bread roll.

Half the barn’s trying to break it up; the other half’s filming it for TikTok. One of Leanne’s cousins throws a chair. The celebrant hides under the gift table. The spit roast operator announces, “I’m done, mate; I’m not paid enough for this shit,” and packs up mid-punch-up.

The Aftermath

Cops turned up. Kelly got chucked out after trying to knee a bridesmaid. Danny tried to explain it was “just a bit of a paperwork mix-up,” like he was talking about a lost parking fine.

Leanne is now reportedly living with a bloke called Bazza from the darts team at The Pineapple Hotel. The barn’s keeping the bond. The DJ has started advertising himself as “Gold Digger Dave—Chaos Guaranteed.”

Apparently, the story’s gone viral on some Facebook group called Wedding WTF Australia, with 14,000 likes and counting. I fully expect it to make A Current Affair by Friday.

And me? I have another captivating tale to contribute to the collection.

Lesson from Rusty

If you’re gonna double-dip on the marriage front, maybe don’t invite both wives to the same wedding. Or at least don’t get caught by a bloke like me.

Also, and this might sound obvious, if your ex is the sort to rock up wielding legal documents in a Woolies bag for life, maybe vet your guest list a bit better.

That’s it for now, folks. But trust me, the wedding season’s only just warming up. I’ve already heard whispers about a hens night punch-on in Ipswich and a father-of-the-bride brawl in Cairns involving a mobility scooter.

Catch ya laters.

Yours in shambles,
Rusty Rings