[Fiction - An imitation of a PG Wodehouse style excerpt]
It would amount to no great prejudice to say that Golgy Totbury's was a face that could never have launched a thousand ships, let alone a decent sailboat. In so far as sinews and tendons were concerned, he could have been the local heavyweight, but in the matter of looks he fell short of the standards of the lowest beauty contest. In addition to that his face appeared as if something, possibly an elephant had sat on it and squashed it. Now no one belonging to the civilised and broadminded clan of earthlings would allow himself to be biased against a squashed-faced fellow being, but this particular squashed - faced fellow being, in addition to a most potty harebrained soul-smile pasted on his face, had a bunch of roses in his hand. Golgy Totbury was about to get married.

Now one would be not so mindless in imagining that the object of Golgy Totbury's matrimony would be a female equivalent of the most catastrophic proportions whose body movements would resemble those of a mastodon striding across a primeval swamp. However, as it turned out, Darly Dimple was the idol of any passionate young man's lucky dreamgirl, even luckier live date, and well, wife-to-be - one would have to have had struck a bee with slings and arrows, blindfolded. Such was her grace, such her ardent countenance and such her waredrobe that Golgy Totbury, having stirred to his layered adipose depths, was enamoured to the point of speechlessness. Hence, whenever he spoke in her presence his parlance was of an inferior quality and his voice of a subordinate texture. He was entirely incoherent.
"Uh, well....uh, i , yes....."
"He  does " , said Darly's father irksomely, a hawkfaced middle-aged man in polished shoes and clothes, head of the Anti-tobacco league, frustrated at his daughter's paltry taste in men.
"Very well", said the priest, shutting his bible thankfully, slightly irked himself at the groom's verbal incompetence throughout the entire ceremony. "I now declare you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

Golgy Totbury now quivered in every limb. Had he only to enfold her in a close embrace, he would not have minded. Had he to do anything but that in public he would not even have bat an eyelid. He now wished that he would, or someone else would receive a blow on the bridge of their nose by a wet fish, so that this subject could be diverted. For Golgy Totbury hated to admit that, or make it glaringly obvious by performing the act of, that at seventy-five years of age he wore artificial teeth and had never, for once in the entire span of his whole goddamned life, kissed for nuts.