Our beloved friend Shoe, journalist extraordinaire, is getting married to an unknown Anklet, this weekend. It is an arranged marriage, and Shoe hasn't bothered to introduce us to Anklet, because we're philistines, as he so endearingly puts it. My guess is, Ank is pristine, rosy-cheeked, doe-eyed and mostly in shades of white. My best wishes to them, Shoe will keep her deliriously happy, although he will nag and constantly ask for things to be done to, with and around him.
Abhishek Bachchan will not be jumping out of the wedding-cake in plum underwear, as had been promised. In my indignation I have refused to do the Arm Jiggle in 5 Parts, a fascinating sequel to my other most appealing choreography, the 3-tiered Belly Wobble. Hmph, they may have heaved a sigh of relief and Shoe may have ordered a bottle of celebratory champagne, but they just don't know what they're missing.
As a sign of protest, I shall not be threading my upper lip for the happy occasion either.
We're giving them a set of whisky glasses and decanter, an ashtray and a family pack of flavoured condoms.