Through no fault of either party, couples are occasionally thrust into situations in which one of them really questions the fundamental value of their relationship.

Back in ’89, my beautiful wife Isabel (who was my girlfriend of only two months at the time) and I attended her close friend’s enormous, Ukrainian wedding. I had never met anybody there before, not even the bride.

My lovely wife, 1989

Isabel was up the front on the bridal table. I was down the back with seven of the most enormous, pumped-up body builders I had ever seen. Huge Ukrainian lads, who hardly spoke a word of English. Very non-Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby to Chatswood).

Three jugs of beer were brought to our table.

Bodybuilder Boyko (in a thick Ukrainian accent, to the waitress) – “No beer us please.”

Me – “Whoa, whoa, whoa Boyko! What?? No beer? It’s a freaken wedding.”

Boyko – “No beer us. We in training. Competition in week.”

Me – “Oh for fucks sake lads. It’d be embarrassing to send back jugs.” I thought for a moment.

Me (to the waitress) – “Just leave the jugs. We’ll be right.”

So, after two hours and three jugs I’m hammered and having an absolute ball with the bodybuilders, despite our speaking different languages. They all had two meals each, but they didn’t touch a drop.

Because their names were difficult, I gave them all nicknames. Andriy became “Schwarzenegger”, Boyko was “Mal Meninga”, Petruso I called “Jessy ‘The Body’ Ventura”, Fedir became “Van Damme”, Olek was “Andre the Giant”, Borysko was “Hulk Hogan” and the other Andriy I tagged “Paul Sironen”.

They called me “party-man”, but with their accents it sounded more like “potty-man”.

The “Melbourne Female Entertainer of the Year” – 1980, was the night’s entertainment. She was a bit dull and kept singing originals, which of course nobody knew. So, I thought I’d go and give her a hand. Hulk Hogan and the lads thought it was a great potty-man idea.

I joined “Melbourne Female Entertainer of the Year” – 1980 up on the stage, which was really a raised platform about 30cm off the ground. I wasn’t so pissed that I just wandered out there mid-song, I waited next to the stage patiently until she finished her unknown, original.

“Melbourne Female Entertainer of the Year” – 1980 looked surprised when I sauntered out on stage, waving to the crowd. I stumbled a bit and gave her a hug.

“Melbourne Female Entertainer of the Year” – 1980 – “Yes?”

Me – “Thought I’d let ya know people aren’t really diggin’ your originals. How about we sing The Gambler, to get the crowd in?”

“Melbourne Female Entertainer of the Year” – 1980 – “This is not fucking karaoke. I am a professional. I am Melbourne Female Entertainer of the Year.”

Me – “Well… in 1980.”

“Melbourne Female Entertainer of the Year” – 1980– “Get off my fucking stage.”

Not wanting to make a scene, putting up my hands in a sign of acquiescence I stumbled back through the tables to Schwarzenegger and the boys.

Ten minutes later when the band was on a break, my wife was in the toilet with the bride.

Bride – “What’s that?”

Isabel (listening) – “Oh no.”

On a train bound for nowhere. I met up with a gambler…

I had taken the opportunity to try and save the party. “Melbourne Female Entertainer of the Year” – 1980, stood on the side, giving me the old stink-eye.

Obviously Kenny Rogers was not big in the Ukraine because my new mates knew none of the words, but enthusiastically bellowed “DA, DA, DA” from where they now stood around the stage.

When I got to the chorus I yelled to the crowd. EVERYBODY SING ALONG… there was dead silence.

Except for my Ukranian besties. They DA, DA, DA’d up a storm.

I turned to my left. Isabel, who I hadn’t spoken to all night was there, arms crossed angrily and she had a look of such Spanish ferocity, such wrath, that I literally recoiled in horror. Problem was, I recoiled too far, I tumbled off the stage, hit the ground and with an enormous BOOM over the speakers, the mic bounced and broke into four pieces.

Andre the Giant and Paul Sironen immediately lifted me off the ground and carried me above their shoulders back to our table. Jessy ‘The Body’ Ventura who, when he wasn’t pushing weights was an electrician, put the microphone back together.

Once back safely to our table, I thought it’d be a good idea to challenge the Ukrainian bodybuilding team to an arm-wrestling competition. Like you do.

The boys were strong. Extremely strong. The matches, well… they weren’t exactly close, but at least they were quick and had many spectators.

In the spirit of the mighty Anzacs however, I didn’t come last. No I did not! Schwarzenegger had hurt his pec bench-pressing that morning and couldn’t arm-wrestle. So I actually finished seventh on our table of eight!

Apparently later that night, me and the boys had quite a bit of fun carefully lifting and moving people’s cars to different spots. Hilarious!

The next morning I woke in a true world of hurt. My head exploding, needing to vomit, my arms feeling like they’d been torn from their sockets and my back near-broken.

As I opened my eyes I saw Isabel, unsmiling.

Isabel – “I don’t think we should go out any longer.”

What could I say?

Me (through squinted eyes) – “You wouldn’t have any Voltaren would you?”

PLEASE USE THE BUTTONS BELOW TO SHARE FAR AND WIDE.

Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to be able to claim when meeting a new person at a Hornswood party, that I am in fact… a writer (whereby my wife generally jumps in and proclaims “he’s actually NOT a writer”). If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I write stuff for a few small companies, but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I have set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers