Weddings, eh? A big piss up, a massive opportunity for family rifts to surface and fights to take place. But mostly, tedium in the church, a meal and lots of booze and embarrassing behaviour.
Well, The Girlfriend and I were looking dapper – like a gangster and his moll, as we were described, which pleased The Girlfriend no end – our close friends were looking fine and people we vaguely knew were looking cheap and gave us something to be bitchy about. And lots of men in kilts. Lots. Still, although it was in Warwickshire, it was two Scottish families.
The service itself was as tedious as ever. I had the magnificent view of a pillar, which didn’t spoil much. The church, like the hotel, didn’t have air-conditioning. Then again, it wasn’t built in the past ten years, so I’ll let them off. The vicar, or whatever he was, failed to convince me that I should go there every Sunday. The bride, who conspicuously failed to smile throughout the whole day, had a dress that was the wrong colour, the wrong style and was covered in some drab-looking lace, which I am reliably informed cost a lot of money.
We were on the Lager and Curry table, which was a step up from the Cheap Plonk and Dairylea. The celidh that followed the food was good fun, and bloody exhausting, but rather poorly subscribed by the other miserable guests. Unfortunately, nothing particularly interesting happened during the evening. Still, I looked good, The Girlfriend looked good and we had fun. Balls to everyone else.
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