Harry Shearer somehow managed to prove it wasn't when it came to his English wife and the immigration services:

We have an appointment with a Filipina lady who is going to decide whether our marriage is a sham or not. Judith is petrified. She collects documentation of everything we’ve ever done together—every canceled check, every photograph of every trip we’ve been on, two shopping bags full. We’ve memorized the location of each other’s moles and are prepared for a really in-depth examination. And we sit in the little cubicle and the Filipina lady does a little small talk and then she says, “All right, Harry, when did you two get married?” And I said, “March 29, 1993.” Judith sends a hockey-level elbow into my ribs and hisses, “March 28!” And the woman sees this and says, “You’re married. You can go.”