Friday I'm In Love
It’s true, everyone loves Fridays. And Bowie and Iman loved each other so much that they married not once, but twice. Heck, he even proposed not once, but twice - but that’s another story. The first time - getting hitched wise - was in their home town at the time, Lausanne, in cheese-chugging Switzerland. And it was a FRIDAY when they were in love. Friday April 24th 1992, to be exact. This was the day our romantic heroes skedaddled over to their local town hall for a low key ceremony with just six people in attendance set to a wooden symphony of mahogany and green velvet interiors. With Bowie’s fondness for The Velvet Underground, I decided I must go and see this velvet overground…
Blinking into the low-lying autumn morning sun, Lausanne’s civic centre was quiet as I bumped along the cobbles, teeth juddering violently. So I was grateful to find myself in the Place de la Palud, home to a medieval town hall and Bowie’s shotgun wedding. Slightly red of cheek and fearing for my battered teeth, I shambled in under an impressive flower adorned facade and through a set of thick oak doors to be greeted by a woman in a frilly blouse, glasses anointed scholarly on her nose, sat behind a large solid wood desk. I asked if she had any information about David Bowie, the town’s famous former resident. She looked forward revealing her eyes as a little lightning bolt flashed inside.
“Yes, there was a big article about him in the paper when he died.”
“And do you like him"?” I asked.
“Yes, very much. He was a big personality.”
“Do you have a favourite song?”
Say Life on Mars. Say Life on Mars. Say Life on Mars.
“No.”
She clearly loved them all.
Other than hanging around posing half-arsed questions, I had a more taxing conundrum: getting access to DB and Iman’s wedding room. Other than finding a partner to marry, for which I didn’t really have the time, or chiselled good looks, I thought it wise to borrow the voice of a royal butler, explaining I was a BBC travel correspondent and it would be most wonderful if I could see the marriage certificate, ma’am. Somehow the lazy British faux-colonial spiel worked. She pointed me in the direction of a grey switchback stone staircase. With freedom to explore I took my scruffy cycling get-up and snooped around tall windows, peered goggle-eyed around oak doors and waltzed along prissy corridors, thinking how Bowie and Iman would’ve made the same journey, albeit a bit better dressed…
Bowie rocked up resplendent in a sharp, late 80s exec suit whilst Iman risked clashing with the fabrics in a lime trouser suit and funky white shades. Such was this clandestine affair, unshowy and completely the opposite of their respective music and fashion worlds, not even the press discovered they had gotten married until a full ten days later. As I wandered blindly looking for the wedding room, a short balding man dressed far too snappily for a day of Swiss bureaucracy stopped me in my tracks. He said something in French. “Ou est Le Bowie?” I offered feebly. Obviously not impressed by my scruffbag demeanour and coffee-warped eyes, I was frog-marched back to reception where my frilly-bloused heroine came to the rescue. She explained to the administrative shorty that I was looking for details of David Bowie’s marriage and he should escort me to them at once. With a scornful come hither of his hand the little zealot marched me back upstairs. We’d barely walked twenty metres when he handed me huffily to another man. Luckily this man was a lot taller, and helpful. He reached into a gilded wooden box and pulled out the kind of large medieval key they use to lock people away in damp dungeons forever. With a satisfying click of the lock he waved me into a room. Inside lay a simple mahogany chamber, brushed with hot as hell lime green velvet curtains and a diamond chandelier that rained crystals. Across its jacquard wooden floor stood a ceremonial table and two hand carved chairs, red velvet replacing the dominant green; and the place where Bowie, perhaps for the only time, bowed to convention.
I took the weight off, sat in one chair, then the other and contemplated seeking out some lime coloured velvet cycling attire. I was curious to see how Bowie’s big day had panned out and found an online account of a Swiss civil servant who was present at the ceremony. He recalled starry eyed that he’d been “…very moved, as the parties involved had attached incredible importance and fervour to it”.
As I took my place on the various witness benches as a best man, bridesmaid, father-of-the bride and annoying brat screaming in the back row, the key holder returned. Could he have been the same starstruck witness who’d been there that day? I was ready with my French crib sheet, just in case. ‘Aimez vous David Bowie?’ I enquired, waiting for a long gushing response that would prove Swiss bureaucrats are in no way boring and their country has been misrepresented by nonsensical sweeping stereotypes and he would be free from the infuriating restrictions of meddling red tape to declare his love for Bowie. ‘Non,’ he said, turning on his polished heel.
As the happy couple delighted in some informal photos, Bowie sweeping his eternal love off her feet, smiles radiating around the green furnishings and oak panelled corridors, I took the confetti and departed, thanking my Swiss hosts for their invitation. With country number three in the gift bag, I filed Bowie’s Swiss bureaucracy years under my belt, feeling energised as I headed for the exit. Wedded to this adventure, Life on Mars? was still clouded in mystery, much like the low hanging mist that draped itself around the Jura mountains. The very same mountains I was now about to cycle towards.