Our love story began, as all great ones do, at Rochdale Rugby Club. There were pints, port, questionable fashion, and Ben’s infamous curly finger at the bar. Add a few truly terrible chat-up lines and, somehow, Jenny said yes. Possibly to the beer. Possibly to the finger. Things escalated quickly. A straw hat appeared, alcohol was heavily involved, and “I love yous” were exchanged — vividly remembered by Ben and politely disputed by Jenny, who has since been assured it definitely happened. From that point on, we were inseparable. Manchester came next, along with a revolving door of housemates and the slow realisation that this was no longer casual (mainly because neither of us left). Then came the real commitments. Willow arrived, officially launching the Cullen club. Sebby followed soon after, completing the family and destroying what remained of our sleep — almost as effectively as Ben drunkenly peeing around the house like a dog. Next was the move to Whalley, where we added Winnie — our chaotic canine tornado — because we clearly hadn’t reached peak madness yet. This is where we finally settled, grew as a family, and accepted that calm was no longer an option. The proposal eventually happened on holiday in Italy. Ben was convinced Jenny suspected nothing, despite wearing a shirt, trousers, socks and shoes on the beach. He got down on one knee, popped the question, and after over ten years together, Jenny finally said yes — a decision Ben still believes was made purely to get him off the floor in front of far too many people. So here we are, finally tying the knot — not because we’re romantic, but because we’ve officially run out of excuses. Jenny has finally locked down Jude Law.