In a development that has left this correspondent reaching for the gin before noon, humanity has achieved a new pinnacle of cosmic absurdity: the first lunar wedding. Yes, dear reader, while the rest of us are still trying to figure out how to fold a fitted sheet, some billionaire’s offspring have decided to exchange vows on the Sea of Tranquility. Because nothing says 'eternal love' like saying 'I do' in a vacuum while wearing a helmet that makes you look like a startled goldfish.
The ceremony, performed by a legally ordained AI priest (because of course it was), took place at a specially constructed 'altar' near the Apollo 11 landing site. The happy couple, Cressida Moonshot-McGuffin and Barnaby 'Buck' Sterling III, arrived via SpaceX’s ‘Romance Rocket’ which, I’m told, comes with complimentary champagne and space-sickness bags. The bride wore a custom-made white spacesuit by Chanel, complete with a zero-gravity veil that, according to press releases, 'floated ethereally in the lunar dawn'. The groom wore a tuxedo-printed pressure suit because subtlety is clearly not on the guest list.
The guest list, incidentally, included only eight people: two millionaire parents each, a social media influencer who livestreamed the event for 4.5 million followers, and a bewildered astrophysicist who kept muttering about the cost per pound of payload. The reception featured freeze-dried canapés and a three-tier cake that looked magnificent but tasted like astronaut toothpaste.
Of course, the union raises more questions than a lunar dust storm. Is this marriage legally binding? Under what law? The Outer Space Treaty? The laws of physics? And more importantly, what happens when they have a row? 'You never take me to the dark side of the moon!' 'Well, you never let me use the Mars rover!' Let’s be honest, their divorce will be messier than a black hole’s dinner party.
The wedding has been hailed by space tourism companies as 'a giant leap for romance' and by environmentalists as 'a pointless display of wealth that should have funded a rainforest'. Me? I’m just glad I can still get a decent pint without needing a rocket booster. But mark my words: this is the thin edge of the wedge. Next we’ll have lunar honeymoons, then timeshares on Phobos, and before you know it, the galaxy’s first asteroid belt cruise with a casino and a poorly ventilated cigar lounge.
In the meantime, I’ll raise a glass of the juniper-scented stuff to the happy couple. May your marriage be as stable as the moon’s orbit and your arguments as rare as a breathable atmosphere. But if you ever need a divorce lawyer, I hear there’s a bloke on Mars taking bookings.