I don’t want to make too big a deal of this but I got married to an Irish girl in New Zealand a couple of Friday nights ago – well, to be honest, I think it was probably early Saturday morning.

It was a fairly unusual ceremony conducted outside the front door of the Albion Hotel in Hobson St, Auckland.

I’d met Joanne, Trina and Niamh (that’s pronounced Neeve) just 5 minutes prior to the nuptials.

I was astounded to find out Trina was a High Priestess, Niamh was The Princess of Limerick and Joanne was desperate to secure a visa to Australia via any means possible.

Trina supervised the union, Princess Niamh was the Matron of Honour and, much to my disappointment, my carrying Joanne over the threshold of the hotel was enough to consummate the marriage.

For some reason I’d expected something a bit more exciting – even a kiss would’ve been good.

We had a nice glass of champagne to celebrate but when the new love of my life found out my credit card debt was far greater than hers things went decidedly south.

Actually she left within the hour without so much as a handshake goodbye. I didn’t even know her last name.

Well, I assumed it was Hartin at that point.

I was confused and more than a little hurt. Talk about the honeymoon being over before it began.

I’d never heard of The Seven Minute Itch.

The following evening at the very same hotel, having just seen the Wallabies humiliated at the hands of Ireland, I met up again with The High Priestess Trina, Princess Niamh and my good wife Joanne – along with her 6ft3 boyfriend Conrad and his equally large brother.

I knew there was nothing I could do to save what I once had.

I tell you what though, I won’t be rushing into marriage anytime soon. It’s just way too painful.

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