David Hoyle and Christeene at Vogue Fabrics, July 7, 2014 CREDIT Holly Revell
It was the union that had all London abuzz: the glamorous, trailblazing artist and performer David Hoyle and Christeene Vale, the elegant debutante who has taken Texan high society by storm and whose own shows are increasingly celebrated on these shores.
For weeks, their arranged marriage – carefully brokered over recent months by esteemed matchmaker Lyall Hakaraia of Vogue Fabrics – has been the talk of the town. Not Television was exclusively invited to the lavish ceremony on Monday night and can confirm it more than met expectations.
With its flaking walls, low ceiling and negligible ventilation system, the basement of Vogue Fabrics made an idyllic setting for the sumptuous affair, at which the Kronenberg 1664 flowed as fast as the temperature and humidity mounted. All London society was there, from scene royalty like Princess Julia, Jeffrey Hinton and Lavinia Co-op to ambassadors from the realms of academia, live art, cabaret and hipsterdom.
As was their prerogative, the happy couple kept their guests waiting – perhaps enjoying a celebratory glass of sherry to steady their nerves in anticipation! – but were rapturously received on their entrance. David was resplendent in sheer red vest and light day make-up. Sporting red flowers in his hair, he proudly declared the proceedings “a gender-free zone” and raised the traditional toast to the royal family, “those polite people who routinely fuck children and throw them to one side”.
He then presented his gorgeous bride-to-be, Christeene. She cut an impossibly soignée figure, gliding through the moist crowd to the strains of Christopher Komeda’s theme from Rosemary’s Baby in a fishnet-and-cheesecloth ensemble that’s sure to set the pace for next season’s catwalks. “I’m coming!” she slurred in the cracked Southern croak that has endeared her to our nation.
On reaching the improvised altar, Christeene was serenaded by her beau with a charming self-penned number inspired by the encouragements of his nearest and dearest to think positively after living through tricky moments. With his characteristic insouciant charm, David suggested such well-wishers weren’t always quite spot-on. “I never benefited from a homophobic beating,” he laughed. “Sorry – I still want to eat arses and swallow cum!” Cheeky monkey!
Thus far, David’s presence had been more strongly felt than Christeene’s, but now the lovebirds embarked on a pre-nuptial artistic collaboration – he singing an especially languorous version of his signature tune, You Made Me Love You, accompanied only by the dulcet tones of an MRI scanner, while she painted an evocative depiction of a bucolic idyll.
Then came the moment we were all here to cherish: the wedding vows themselves, the moment when the coupled pledged their troth to one another and to the society and culture that has always been so welcoming and supportive to them and their kind.
Her voice thick with halting emotion, Christeene vowed to her “pony” (so cute!) that “I want to hold on to your ponytail and follow you into that deep, dark sun”, to voyage together into the woods and let the birds in their mouths sing out as one. “Christeene, will you be my legally wedded partner?” David asked. “I will,” growled the bride in gravelly rapture. And the joyous deed was done!
“No property need change hands,” David said. “I am my own vicar, my own priestess, and I now grant myself permission to rim the bride.” And with nary a blush, Christeene planted her arms on the wall, spread her legs and let her groom get to work. The crowd went wild!
And with David’s beaming, damp-mouthed exultation – “if only the whole world was like it is in this basement tonight!” – ringing in their ears, the delighted guests poured up into the street, fanning themselves with anything to hand, their singlets, caps and beards stained with sweat and dirt.
A short while later, with everyone back in the foetid underground hole of happiness, the bride was borne through the throng, legs akimbo, on the backs of maids of honour C Baby and T Gravel.
“This is the best form of gathering, this is the best form of sharing, this is the best form of theatre,” she gushed before the Texan trio gave an abbreviated version of the classical recital with which they have charmed their way into the capital’s heart. The repertoire included the yearning arias Fix My Dick and Tears From My Pussy, vignettes of inner-tube bondage and roving enemas, and the reassurance that “we are fertilising the dark fucking woods right now”.
Christeene summed up the occasion with sweet simplicity as she sprawled on the backs of her maids of honour. “I is married now, motherfuckers,” she said. “I is married now.”
Hearty congratulations to the happy couple on a proud day for the ever-evolving institution of marriage. Now let’s all listen for the patter of tiny feet!
