My First Wife

I got married once.

It was in a bar.

My first wife was Mrs Woog.

It was a sultry Bathurst eve at The Eddie Hotel in 1995 when Mrs Woog and I , fuelled by a 1000 vodka’s, decided to marry. I do believe it was Sawhole who performed the ceremony and I do believe we had shots to celebrate.

The harsh reality of my homosexuality meant it ended by last drinks as I went off to find boys to pash and Mrs Woog passed out in a cab (I’m guessing).

Now 16 years later after our love for each other was re-ignited over Twitter my first wife is more a part of my life than ever. I am her hag fag, she is my fag hag. Now Mrs Woog is Sydney and blogging royalty and I am completely riding on her coattails. I am her Plus 1 cause I am never invited anywhere and Mr Woog can obviously trust me with his wife.

That is until our third Stoli cocktail. The third means there is a steady downhill slide to number 10 and the next thing you know you’ve got a kebab in your hand and staggering home with a broken belt (self-inflicted unrinating injury).

I was Mrs Woog’s Plus 1 at a Stoli Vodka party. You can imagine my joy. Mrs Woog understands that if I had to choose between her and vodka I’d choose voddie everytime. I was the perfect date.

Plus’s: free vodka, lamb chop finger food, schmoozing the boss of Stoli, laughing at each other cause we think we are real funny.

Minus’s: Oldest in the room, choked on signature cocktail, bartender wouldn’t sleep with me.

Eventually we realised we were the drunkest in the room so carted our tired old asses out the door, in a cab and up the road for a bar opening, The Standard, cause obviously we needed another drink on a school night. It was a who’s who of cool people. I should have worn my sunnies. We had a little gang there so heaps of fun.

Mrs Woog eventually bailed on me cause she thought I’d fallen in love. Truth is, I did very briefly, but once again St. Murphy strikes out. The muso-type had no interest in this tired old queen. Stoli made me think I looked hot so I broke another one of Mrs Woog’s rules and tried for a third venue, the smells-like-vomit Stonewall.

And this time I did fall in love. Well, as much as you can while you are swaying side to side with one hand on a table to hold my bodyweight upright. This boy kept my interest long enough for it to even cross my mind that we should go on a date. Now that breaks one of my key rules – no dating. But I’m toying with the idea. After all it has been well over 6 months since ‘the break-up’.

But its gonna be real tough for a boy to be a better date than Mrs Woog. I just don’t think its possible.

Yes, yes, I know all you regular readers of Woogsworld will have heard this tale yesterday, but my recovery has been so slow that to come up with anything new or creative was just too difficult. Sorry. It's Mrs Woogs fault.