The Aviation Wedding- yawn.

Greetings my depraved bunch of mile high wannabes! I'm going to tell you another story now so sit back, relax and spread your legs. In an industry with a lot of people in uniform shagging each other, it's inevitable that some crew end up marrying each other and what a clusterfuck that is!

The first wedding I will only touch on briefly as it's pretty uneventful- the quickie wedding. An air hostess and a boring, ageing PILF will get married somewhere abroad where they can get cheap on staff travel and have the whole lot over and done with as quickly as a Cadet Pilot reaches orgasm. Vegas and the Maldives and places like that are common. The bride will wear a shite £20 maxi dress from Dorothy Perkins in lieu of a meringue. Mr Pilot has already spent up on his two previous weddings and Mrs Trolley Dolly is too fat to wear a garter and too friendless to have a do close to home. Their Facebook pics will have a sickening beach shot, someone making a heart with their hands or that nauseating pose of intertwined arms drinking champagne, as overdone as the Leaning Tower of Pisa pic.

The second wedding is the Big One. Usually in an aviation location like an airport hotel or a stately home in the middle of nowhere to prevent the chavvier members of the bride's family not being able to attend as it's not on the 79 bus route. Or the groom's for that matter, some pilots are estate rats saddled with debt, believe it or not, but that's another tale. The hen night will consist of Miss Trolley Dolly wearing pilot uniforms from Ann Summers, her size 18 mates busting out all over and looking more like a dinner lady than Captain Clit. The stag night will be a more sombre affair- he will pretend he's going to lap dancers but in actual fact, it'll be a taste test in a brewery or go karting.

The wedding will be a cliquey affair, alienating those who have never worked in aviation, causing a massive divide of them and us. From the moment the guests arrive, they will notice the aviation theme whether it be the favour boxes shaped as planes or the tables instead of having numbers will be called fucking Airbus or Dash 8 or something. The best man will look like an Inbetweener with less dress sense and make a faux pas like having his shirt sticking through his flies, no belt on or rolled up sleeves, the label of his British Home Stores suit sticking up. You might even catch a glimpse of the price tag on his suit as it's going back the shop the next day. Disappointingly, his speech won't contain lewd jokes but boring in jokes to their time at flight school or some shite about programming the wrong co-ordinates that nobody understands. The groom's mother either looks like a battered wife terrified of her husband or is an out and out common tart with her chebs out, sniffing out PILFs. No happy medium there then.

On Facebook the other day, I vomited as I nosed through my ex-colleagues wedding pics. On one pic, I saw a model aircraft in lieu of bride and groom on top of the cake, on another, I saw a cut out plane stuck on the wall outside the room where they have the reception, on another, I spotted a fucking awful pic of the PILF groom and his mates with their arms outstretched like cunting planes. God give me strength. If it was a bus driver's wedding, would they all get up to fucking Wheels on the Frigging Bus and request shite like Ticket To Ride and the Vengabus is coming? No. Then why the hell do they have a fucking playlist containing Come Fly With Me, Take my breath away and I believe I can Fly? If they want a proper aviation wedding, they should provide sick bags for the guests to vomit into at this sick inducing experience and come round with a duty free trolley so you can get bladdered on cheap foreign Pedro's Piss wine and forget the whole sorry experience the next day.

And there we have it. The next morning, the bride looks not so much radiant as signed up to a lifetime of subservience to her breadwinner hubby. She will be judged by some, an everyday version of a footballer's WAG if you like. Not all PILFs are braggers though so girls, if you're thinking about bagging a PILF. get a vintage one that's done a few miles and got the bragging and womanising out of his system. Just make sure he's taken a bluey.