Blah-blah-blast From The Past Ruins Ben's Big Day (Millers' Epithalamium)

It was the day Ben and Dan took the plunge,
when love's lifers gulp their mutual manacle's key,
and swallow the spare set also, for they exchange
ever-vincular vows whose vibe is verity.
Knot of matrimony
 these two'll tie's unloosenable,
Gordian bow on siamese sash
awarded to joint winners in wedlock,
Mr. & Mrs. Meant-to-be.

Whose nuptials were progressing nicely:
a spinster aunt left on the shelf wished she was more of a milf;
the Registrar could not help acting a little vicary;
none of the stag's survivors badly timed a belch,
even the lads from the Philharmonic Tubawang,
who kill more cans than GM tuna-fangs,
were quite couth (tho' at brekky most had toast
the happy couple's health).
'It really was a wonderful ceremony, blub...'
is what I'd blub if I weren't such a hetero sunuvagun.

O Daniella looked nubile and Benjamin looked virginal,
and of course peace forevermore held -
no question of closets
where scant cladding's
overdressing for skeletons in suspenders or Calvins. 
Ben and Dan's bliss in a registry-office resonated
more than silly old church bells,
but as the dearly beloved
rose to go get ratted at the reception,
 an untimely interloper,
wearing PE-whistle round a V-neck over a string-vest,
in stumblebum sandals so you can eyeball his argylls
 - squarely as a cork, senile slobby scout-master bottle-necks our exit!

The chutzpah of this duffer, no-one ordered a hoary old
wankpanted wedding-crasher!
After all, Coleridge's wedding-guest never extended an invite to the Mariner!
Uh-oh, I've placed this gypo-jogging-bottomed dotard
- it's coot who held it his human right dress-down Friday
last 'till the janitor trundled 'im out in a Co-op crate.
If he has a clip-on nipple-ring locket, one heart Laurel, one heart Hardy,
yet's too much the petit-bourgeois weeny for actual tat of the King or Buddy,
then this intruder's the teacher who taught me that teachers
in time resemble their métiers, it's Hewett's own repetitive, patchy history man:
1950-1969 was his only lesson-plan.

A bachelor who missed the boat on the gene-pool,
so for granny smiths and braeburns, red chiefs most of all,
 benevolently battled, but appellation 'Grandad-to-all'
wasn't stylographed by student outcry on golden thermos
he received at ageism's cull . No, we were too gouched out
by the groovy old fool, coz his Grauniaddled didactics
on Gramsci or rockerbilly would rampantly digress
into a total load of old tapestry of irrelevancies,
a spagettysberg address.
 It took two terms to watch one film
when the class worked to his waffle's schedule.

And how he'd flob over little-dears-we-were,
sputniks of sputum and comets of spittle
anded like liquid Roswell
on laminate of our Orwells,
and tho' Catch 22 by Joseph Hel-
ler wasn't on the curriculum, I knew if I de-saliva'd my Penguin 1984
September-pristine, it'd then be my shirt-sleeve unclean.

Ben had gotten his hands on Dan's hand, but connubially
sore-thumbing came persona non grata no-one saw coming,
pedagogue who used to piss in his permapyjamas,
when a fire-drill without forewarning reinflamed
cooled Cold War collywobbles.
 O lonely sociologist, who'd spunk a pony at Mr.Whippy's
on end-of-term Cornetto for every pupil, even ones not on free school meals.
And coach latch-key sons of two job families,
as the pavilion fielded shadows the week-night aged lank.
Wasn't perv-villain batting for the county pederasts, but he was a freak:
he liked cricket for chrissake!
 So why is this Hewett humanities-hack emeritus pulling
this blue-bolt shit on the Millers?
 What does this logorrheal left-leaner and lovable scruff's
 Twilight Zone-Michael Aspel cameo portend?
Has he arrived to say 'Say, not spray', whilst spraying us
with friendly-fire phlegm, his autodrivel hole’s spitdrift miasmank
with student-height-stunting café-tosis?
Old educator, odd gatecrasher,
are you even aware there's a John Lewis list?
Mr. Jarvis, if you were gonna crop up ex cearulo,
you could at least not appear unkempt as King Lear
when the Shakespearian shit hit the fan. 

Dammit man, are you here t'inopportunely ask Hugh Wilkinson
his future plans, as when absent-minded adjudicator over Hugh
and hundreds hall-sat in silent thick of exams?
Mr.Jarvis, does retirement watch you like you're Winston Smith?
Does the time have eyes in silver school-leaver's hermitage?
Your work-hat might be in the mortarboar'tuary, but Ofsted
will still inspect your head, 
so why weird out this conjugal throng
with random re-affirmatage
of your anti-bullying stance?
Why reprise that assembly on the nerd in your grammar schooldorm
who couldn't rise above the rise taken, so roped in that bitch Gravity
for a neckbreakdance on
air one morn, tragic Specky Pisspants?
And, Mr.Jarvis,
please tell me this isn't one disruptive last throw of the love-dice,
ike Dustin Hoffman in smash-and-grab climax of The Graduate
- Ben's not a friend of Dorothy, and Dan never even went to Hewett!

Mr.Jarvis, sir... JARVO, why won't you answer?
Quietus wasn't exactly central tenet of Jarvological method...
Oh motherfucking nora,
 why'm I jumpin' to jitterbug at a sock-hop with the dolls like a way-to-go daddio?!
And why would I, all of sudden, wallk across red coals to London to ensure Red Ken my vote?!
O and why, thru the Everest of wedloot - which nearest 'n' dearest
bought from John Lewis but Ben 'n' Dan's high repute built   
- do groom and ex-Hewett groomsiders rootabout deludedly
for biog of Michael Foot,
or otherwise sculpt their nests into duck-butts and jelly-rolls, and rudely ream out
the Registrar for an L7 clyde
coz there's no Jerry Lee Lewis and no juke?!

I don't aim to be alarmist ,
but  Ben, Dan ,
I fear the date of your marriage clashes, down to the very hour,
with dread advent of Mr.Jarvis's Judgement Day harvest
 of all the bobby soxer Trots and teddy-boy Marxists,
Red hot-rodders and Doris Days with posters of Che,
posthypnotically secreted in his Hewett charges thruout the years of service.
O ramble-riffery of his classes just the trojan, the in,
tenderising grey matter with twaddle,
'fore subliminally enlisting kids who weren't listening
into wellretro revolutionary cells,
in such deep cover I didn't even know myself
that in my neuropathways some bastard-son of Bill Haley and the Comintern
was on standby, till Jarvo cashed in his brainwashed army.
And he did all this without deputy head ever gettin' wind! 
 
Oh, Mr.Jarvis, you're insane,
you'll plunge mediumsized parts of Norwich into chaos!
It's not of myself that I think, but of the sloanes and the tinks
who depend upon Hewett alumni to lay their patios and pour their Pimms.
Then Mr.Jarvis told Ben he was his father, Jarv Vader, and with a light-sabre lopped
 off Ben's deal-swinging wedding-tackle!
 And Ben jolted awake,
bawling more
than Baby George bawls. It was a nightmare, so nevermind, Ben...
What the...? Then again might be best you give midnight micturition a miss,
eye-level shouse-shelves of your biblioverspill
are flecked with calling-card of something nightmarey
- there's mucus with a Maxwell House musk,
spattered all over the spines of the books in your loobrary... 
 
Glossary
 ex cearulo: Latin, 'out of the blue';1950s vocab: 'sock-hop' = place for dancing to rock'n'roll; 'nest' = hair;  'duck butts', 'jelly rolls' = teddy-boy types of hairstyle; 'ream out' = to lambast; 'bobby soxer' = 1950s-style teenybopper; 'L7' = a 'square'; 'clyde'= a man; 'hot-rodders' = hot-rod enthusiasts. 'Loobrary' : compound word, reflecting fact that book-junkie Ben even has overburdened shelves in his downstairs bog.