Another week another wedding. That's two in just over a week now. I'm getting so used to them that I have developed something of a routine in terms of preparation. I get up in the morning dazed and confused, tongue stuck fast to the roof of my mouth with a headache that feels like my skull is being crushed in a vice. The light through the bedroom window seems like God's flashlight as I slowly remember the excesses of the night before. Very quickly I am thrown first into the shower and then some time later into the car. If I am lucky, a sandwich or roll may be rammed in my mouth too. As time starts to slow to a snail's pace, I find my next move involves standing around and sweating a lot until my body thinks that I have suffered enough for the damage I have caused. The malaise usually lifts about the same time I have my first drink at the wedding.
Last weeks' weddings were actually a lot of fun once I'd pulled myself together although we were late for both of them. At the first, in a picturesque village in the Cumbrian countryside, the usher scowled as we crept into the back of the church five minutes into the service. It wouldn't have been so bad if we hadn't had to muscle our way through a crowd of local well wishers massed outside the church. Their expressions seemed to say, "we weren't even invited and we got here on time." The second wedding, just outside Manchester, started at 3 o'clock. We arrived at a quarter to six!
The weddings themselves were quite different affairs. The first was a festival of opulent country living. The groom turned up in a brand new tractor and the reception was in a marquee in the father of the bride's expansive garden. We met Gill's cousin outside (of course) when asked if she was going she answered, "nah, I'm nowhere near posh enough." When I think about the marquee I have to admit it is the largest tent I have ever seen; there were several 'areas' including toilets, a stage, bar and chill out room. An Arabian sheik crossing the Saharan desert would have been proud of such a mighty erection. As we struggled to find the venue the following week in Manchester we were worried it might be less a case of Arabian Nights than Phoenix Nights.
After asking several 'Young Kenny-a-likes' we finally found the Conservative club that was hosting the reception. It was lovely and friendly and the entertainment was spot on; they even had karaoke. Given where we were I considered treating everyone to a few bars of the
'Red Flag' but then thought better of it. Ed showed a great deal more courage as he took to the stage to belt out a rousing rendition of Tony Christie's '
Avenues and Alleyways'. The food was first rate as well. I used the pregnant wife as a clever scam to keep getting seconds.
It may not have had a football pitch sized marquee or a quarter of a million pound piece of agricultural machinery outside but I have to say the Manchester wedding knocked spots of its countryside counterpart. I suppose it is a case of not where you are but who you are with. In Manchester we were surrounded by family and friends having a great time watching a lovely couple celebrate their big day. It was just a shame we missed the first two and three quarter hours!!!
