The church bells of Pievale ring out across the hills. The villagers gather together scrubbed clean and dressed smartly for a wedding of true minds. Cripin - clean-shaven, suited, and radiant with nervous joy and the divine Lucy: a vision in ivory satin, her Italian bob swept back, her trademark black lacy brassiere just slightly visible beneath the daring neckline of her gown.

Our familiar chorus know their roles. The bridesmaids are perfectly on brand: Polly in a scarlet mini-dress with a scandalously plunging neckline. Fiona in electric blue satin, split high at the thigh. Rachel in a pastel frock paired outrageously with fishnets. Daisy in lime-green lace with a plunging cleavage and open back that leaves little to the imagination. April and Molly in corseted bodices and skirts indecently short. Jenny in sequinned lilac, mascara already streaking as she dabs away a tear.

Mary, in a little black dress, delivers a perfectly poised reading, all wit edged with snark. Then Kathy rises, clad in a tight emerald sheath frock, clear-voiced and steady, to sing a brief solo

Jenny weeps openly in the front pew. Rachel and Daisy smirk, nudging each other.
The vows are exchanged. Rings slipped on fingers. And at the words "You may kiss the bride", Lucy pulls Crispin close -- and whispers: "I hope you've packed a change of clothes for the honeymoon."

A ripple of laughter breaks through the congregation.

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April's barn bursts with wildflowers, hay bales, and a riotous buffet. Laughter rings, wine flows, and not a drop is spilt. Crispin and Lucy deliver a dignified, charming speech together.
And just when the crowd believes the couple might be settling down
Lucy rises. Glass of champagne in hand.
"My dear husband," she purrs. "I promised to honour and humiliate you. Let's begin our married life as we mean to go on"
She signals April.
A huge curtain drops, revealing gleaming shelving stacked ten layers high with custard pies. Gasps and delighted shrieks echo around the barn.

Crispin barely has time to remove his jacket before the first pie -- banana cream -- smashes into his chest courtesy of Jenny, who throws with teary-eyed determination. The crowd roars.
Fiona, in her slit blue dress, slinks forward with a raspberry cream and drives it into his face, then licks her fingers with a grin. Mary, sleek in black, advances with stately calm and places two chocolate custards on his buttocks. "Symbolic," she intones, prompting appreciative giggles. Then Kathy steps into the breach, heels clicking, to deliver a blackcurrant pie right into Crispin's groin.

Rachel, pastel dress riding up over her fishnets, takes a butterscotch pie and slam dunks it on to his head. Daisy, lime-green lace flashing skin, bounds in with a strawberry special -- wiping it around his head. Polly, scarlet and brazen, double-fists vanilla pie, slapping them against his cheeks, leaving Crispin swaying, dripping, blinded. Greedy for a second helping, Jenny, tottering on her heels with her great bust thrust out, aims another for his crotch - only to slip in the cream and fall headlong into a peanut butter pie herself.

With a beaming smile, Lucy steps forward, eyes glinting and head tossed back, she declares "Your turn, sweetheart."
Wiping his eyes clean, Crispin tears open her bodice with a theatrical flourish -- revealing that iconic black bra -- and smears a lemon pie across her chest followed by a coconut cream pie to her pretty face. The crowd gasps, then roars.
Now the whole bridal party piles in. April and Molly team up with blueberry and toffee pies, slamming them onto Lucy's backside as she bends forward shrieking with laughter. Before long, bride and groom alike are obliterated: dripping, staggering, unrecognisable beneath layers of cream, custard and jam.


The infamous wheelbarrow is rolled out -- along with a companion handcart: both inscribed "Just Mucked" in gold lettering. Lucy climbs aboard like a queen, April and Mary gripping the handles. Crispin is flopped into his, legs spread as Daisy and Jenny take charge. Together, they are rolled through the farmyard -- buck naked except for globs of pudding and lace remnants -- down the now-familiar track leading to the molasses pit. Villagers spilling from the barn follow - clapping, laughing, egging on every stumble.

With giggles and mock trumpets, the barrows stop. The newlyweds are tipped into the vat -- headfirst into the black strap treacle. It sucks them down with a glorious squelch. They rise, glistening, unrecognisable. Polly and Fiona bring out the burlap sacks, ripping them open in tandem. Goose feathers rain down, clinging immediately to the bride and groom. Crispin sneezes. Lucy howls with laughter. And then, gripping each other like true soulmates they kiss, smeared in syrup and fluff.

With that the couple are carted once more -- feathered, molasses-soaked, cheeks flushed -- to the cow sheds.
Gaping before them the same creamy channel where Crispin once fell as a shamed pig. This time, however... Lucy takes a pie from Rosie. "For love, for laughs, for everything you've given me" - she plants a banoffee pie in his face.
He stumbles backward -- arms flailing -- and topples in the abyss with a resounding bloop, vanishing beneath the muck. The crowd erupts. But all eyes are on Lucy now.

Will she? Could she? The blackened bride steps to the edge. Pauses. "Till slop do us part" she declares, deadpan. Then -- with a hoot like a war cry -- Lucy cannonballs down into the channel after him.

Among the onlookers, Mrs Lloyd the postmistress has a front row view. She adjusts her spectacles -- then, to everyone's surprise, produces a bag of confetti from her handbag and showers the newlyweds. "Special delivery!" she declares, as the crowd screech and applaud.


Unseen from the barn roof, Circe stands, arms raised, a smile curling her lips.

"Let it be known: the fool has been redeemed. The jestress has found her equal. And the course of true love, however sticky, always finds its channel."

She raises a final pie high above her head.
And hurls it down with divine accuracy before vanishing into the ether.
SPLAT. Right into Crispin's face, now barely visible beneath the muck.


The crowd cheers. Lucy laughs, slick with slop and love, and grabs her groom's gooey cock.
They kiss again.

And so it ends:
Crispin the Pieman and Lucy the Jestress -- filthy forever.