The wedding

It was the perfect wedding photo: the bride and groom smiling lovingly at each other underneath a shower of confetti.

“Aagghhh,” Tom screamed, backing away from the picture, knocking over his chair in the process.

“It’s all right,” the psychiatrist said in his reassuring tone, “it’s only a photo. It can’t harm you.”

However, Tom’s screams continued and the psychiatrist was forced to put the photo out of sight. Tom eventually returned to his senses, apologised, picked up the chair and sat down.

“How long have you had this fear of weddings?” asked the psychiatrist.

“All my life. It started when my parents married, I think I was afraid that now they loved each other they wouldn’t love me.

“Do you mind, I’ll do the psychology, it’s what I’m paid for.” The psychiatrist straightened the papers in front of him in an authoritative manner, before continuing. “Have you been to any weddings since your parents?”

“Well I’ve run away from lots of them, but I’ve never stayed at any, no.”

“And you want me to cure you of this fear in time for your own wedding.”

“That’s right.”

“Your own wedding, which is in two weeks time.”

“Right again.”

The psychiatrist leant back in his chair and spoke to Tom in his lecturing voice. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to get married Mr Green? It obviously causes you a considerable amount of stress.”

“But I love her, I have to get married.”

There was a long pause while the psychiatrist tried to think up an appropriate response to Tom’s statement. He eventually realised that the words were forever beyond him, so he continued.

“If you are to get married, and I do advise against the timetable you’re currently working to, but if you insist on going ahead I’m going to have to begin an intensive course to cure your phobia. We’ll start off with some of the minor associate phobias, such as your fear of wedding cake, and as the course progresses I hope to cure you of your fears of wedding dresses, champagne and churches. But I warn you Tom, if you’re not able to wear a top hat by the end of the first week it’s not going to work.”

The psychiatrist took out a set of photographs, showing the top one to Tom. The first was of a tiny piece of cake, which was actually wedding cake, though it could easily be mistaken for a piece of any iced fruit cake. Tom showed no averse reaction so the psychiatrist continued. The next picture was of a slightly larger slice of cake, still not immediately recognisable as wedding case. Again, no reaction.

As the photos progressed the piece of cake got larger and larger, until it was clearly identifiable as the first tier of a wedding cake. Tom started to panic at this, leaping up from his chair and visibly shaking, but eventually, with calm words and endless patience, the psychiatrist was able to calm him down, and they returned to the photos.

It took almost the entire day to get through the full box of photos, but by the end of the session Tom was able to look at the photo of a complete wedding cake. It was a good day’s work.

By the end of the week Tom was able to wear a top hat with pride, even with a mirror in the room. He was even able to look at himself in the mirror without screaming in terror, though this had taken much practice and many, many screams. As the days progressed Tom’s uniform was slowly expanded until he was dressed in the full top hat and tails. He could eat wedding cake, drink champagne and throw confetti.

It was the day before the wedding. The psychiatrist sat at his desk writing a report. They had spent a difficult morning curing Tom of his fear of the bride. They had succeeded eventually, but the psychiatrist secretly wondered how many months of marriage it would take before he came to fear his wife again. He counted to himself, it had been ten in his case.

His mind started to wander and he thought about his ex-wife. He found himself biting his fingernails and had begun to analyse the psychological significance of this when Tom turned and spoke to him.

“I’m looking forward to the stag night,” he said.

“The psychiatrist frowned. “Stag night?”

“Well of course I’m having a stag night, it’s part of the tradition.” He walked over to the psychiatrist, who was nervously biting his pen top. “You’re invited, obviously.”

This pleased the psychiatrist more than he’d ever admit to, but he still had his doubts. Tom still had phobias left uncured and they had planned to complete the final part of his treatment that evening. He could hardly do this if Tom was drunk out of his mind, getting pushed from pub to pub in a supermarket trolley.

He told Tom that he could have his stag night as long as he didn’t drink and as long as they could find a quiet corner in which to continue the course of treatment. Tom reluctantly agreed and phoned the best man to explain the situation.

The stag night was a less debauched affair than it might have been, as the psychiatrist spent the night showing Tom photos of the bride’s father and mother and Tom spent it screaming in fear at photos of the bride’s father and mother.

None of Tom’s friends seemed to mind, as a good stag night is simply an excuse to get drunk, and they managed this without Tom’s active involvement. Towards the end of the night they did insist that Tom downed his drink in one whilst they sang the zulu warrior song, but nobody seemed to notice that he was only drinking orange juice and the psychiatrist was delighted to have discovered a new mating ritual he could refer to in his next paper on the subject.

When the pub shut, the best man and the rest of the lads went to a night club for ‘one last pulling spree before the wedding’. Quite why they needed to do this was unclear, as they were all bachelors and in no danger of getting married in the near future, but the psychiatrist was glad to be rid of them, as it allowed him to finish his work with Tom. He had six hours left to cure Tom’s fear of vicars and then his work would be complete.

The next morning was the day of the wedding. Tom was nervous, but this was only to be expected. He hoped that the best man would show up and help him to calm down, but there was no sign of him. He phoned his flat and his mobile but there was no answer. He rang around a few friends who’d gone on to the night club, but nobody seemed to know where he was. When the wedding car appeared outside Tom’s house the best man was over two hours late and Tom had to go to the church without him.

The psychiatrist was standing outside the church gates when Tom arrived, nervously puffing on a cigarette. He’d been invited to provide emergency therapy should anything go wrong, but with no sign of the best man Tom asked him to help out with another emergency and to step in for him. The best man was eventually found three days later, naked, in a cow shed in southern France. Nobody could remember how he’d gotten there.

The psychiatrist enjoyed being best man. He hastily scripted a speech, adapting a lecture he once gave on the psychological significance of weddings. All in all it was a perfect wedding; the bride was blushing and beautiful, the bride’s family proud and tearful, the bridesmaids rosy and sweet, and the booze at the reception was free. Even the wedding night was a success, and twins were born within nine months. It only took the psychiatrist a few days to cure Tom of his fear of children.

The psychiatrist was so pleased with the success of his work that he wrote a book about Tom’s case. ‘The Man Who Was Scared of Weddings’ became a bestseller and a TV company decided to make a documentary about his case, getting Tom to re-enact his phobias. He had lots of fun doing it, spending many happy hours screaming at top hats and running away from bridesmaids.

As a result of the documentary Tom became a celebrity, he was offered a well paid contract to model as the groom in a top fashion show, which was followed by various acting jobs, including the groom who lost his trousers in ‘that’ insurance ad. He entered the A list with the starring role in the hit British film Scared of Weddings, playing himself in the adaptation of his own story, with Hugh Grant starring as the psychiatrist.

The psychiatrist enjoyed success in his own right, hosting a weekly radio phone-in show in which he cured people of their fears and phobias over the telephone. This was followed by a TV quiz show ‘What’s the Phobia’, in which comedians and other minor celebrities tried to guess the phobias of various members of the public.

Academically too he was a success and various papers referred to his work in tackling fears and phobias.

He was going through the process of applying to be a Professor when it all went wrong.

It was the Sunday Mirror that broke the news, ‘Wedding Man in Immigrant Bigamy Scam’ screamed the headline. Apparently Tom had become obsessed with weddings, the TV programme, film and magazine shoots had fuelled this obsession and eventually he had started marrying again and again, often illegal immigrants for whom he had no love, who were simply after British citizenship. Following the story he was prosecuted for bigamy and was sentenced to a year’s community service, serving as under-gardener on the Justice Secretary’s estate.

The psychiatrist took the bulk of the blame. The judge in the court case had condemned his techniques dismissed as a simplistic and dangerous failure. There was even talk of his being struck off.

He eventually left the profession, mostly because he found himself out of clients. The quiz show was cancelled and he even lost his job on the radio. He retired early and was last heard of living somewhere on the Sussex coast with his pet mouse, which he was trying to cure of its fear of cheese. But that’s another story.