Weddings

I’m invited to three weddings this summer. That’s right, three. To make it even better, these three weddings are all planned to occur in a period of eight days.

Let me make this perfectly clear: I fucking hate weddings.

The invites arrived in the post and the weddings seemed to be aeons away, so I didn’t think about them, and now the days are almost upon us.

The Bridezillas and Groom Reapers bang on about it incessantly. Yes, it’s The Happiest Day of Your Lives, but for me it’s just a day – a day I’ve had to give up to come to your circle jerk of self-celebration.

And they expect a gift too? I’m sure I’ve got a Woolworth’s gift voucher knocking about somewhere they can have.

Why do I need to wear smart clothes? I’d be much more comfortable in jeans, t-shirt and trainers. In fact, if all the guests turned up like this, the Happy Couple would look much smarter.

There’d be no worrying on their part about having the limelight stolen by anyone’s outfit, so everyone would be a winner.

I heard a story about a bride who was upset that one of her bridesmaids’ hairstyles might upstage her. All anyone would have to do to upstage me in that case would be to turn up with any hair at all on their head.

Anyway, I have to wear proper trousers and a proper shirt with buttons on it. And shoes that feel comfortable for about the first thirty seconds of wearing them before the rest of the day feels like walking through a neverending pit of hot coals.

I draw the line at a tie though. What’s the point of wearing a silk noose? There’s bound to be some “wacky” twat there with a Bugs Bunny tie who I’ll ignore and fantasise about beating to death.

I will probably pass the time at the services by playing Wedding Bingo. I expect to see a reference to old/new/borrowed/blue, sharp intake of breath and nervous laughter around the “does anyone know of any just impediment” line, the groom fainting and the ground opening up and swallowing us all. The last one is unlikely.

There will be a full-on brawl over the bouquet by tradition enthusiasts before the reception.

Speeches galore. What could be worse? Someone who isn’t funny tries to be funny and is left floundering. Anecdotes about sex, crime, drug-taking and borderline alcoholism will lead to horrified elderly relatives and a liberal amount of tumbleweed in most cases.

The Happy Couple will buy everyone lunch, which is generous, but that won’t stop complaints about the plates not being warm enough or the wine not being replenished quickly enough. I’ll be more busy complaining in my mind about the seating arrangements and wondering if the Happy Couple hate me, based on the empty-headed fuckwits they’ve made me sit with.

After the longest meal known to mankind will be the first dance. This will no doubt involve a cheap DJ who may or may not be on some sort of register with traffic light-type accompaniment to the newlyweds’ choice of song – probably Glenn Medeiros or some other dreary 80s shite.

Once that’s out of the way, the party can really start. And by that I mean hitting the free bar and trying to work out if it’s acceptable to leave yet, even though it’s just after 6pm.

Unless anyone has any tricks for how to get out of wedding season, I’m going to have to fake my own death. Again.