It was a beautiful wedding. The groom beamed, the bride radiated and motherly eyes dampened. Relations almost forgotten were rediscovered and the joyous union of two families gave great cause for celebration. It is now one o’clock in the morning and Fyse is strutting his funky stuff on the dance floor. He is also singing in a desperately raucous manner.

“Two hundred degrees, that’s why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit. Travelling at the speed of liiiiight. Wanna make a supersonic woman of you.”

Emphasising this last sentence, he points his finger at a young lady dancing nearby, who promptly leaves the floor.

“If you wanna have a good time, just give me a call.”

The young lady now leaves the room entirely, and bystanders carefully move their drinks from the edge of the table as Fyse whirls toward them. Executing what he believes to be a balletic spin, he strikes a dramatic pose as the song mercifully concludes.

The anticipated applause does not materialise, so Fyse galumphs away to sit with The Cousins in the corner. Taking another draught of entirely superfluous alcohol he casts his gaze into the gloaming room. Not many remain, and of those still standing his own family predominate. While pleasant enough, the brides relatives have been drifting toward bed for some time and the remaining huddles look somewhat perturbed by the magnificent and increasingly voluble expletives emanating from one table in particular. The Cousins are putting the world to rights in a loud and overly-opinionated manner.

The dancefloor is deserted, and at the edges of the room rubbish and empty glasses are being collected. The doors to the rest of the hotel stand open and in the light of the hallway people bid one another good night. It seems the revelry is coming to a close, but ere the end is one final track from the DJ. With whoop and cheer The Cousins charge the dancefloor.

“We are family. Get up ev’rybody, SING!”