Thursday, June 05, 2008
Weddings from Hell
I have already shared my thoughts with you all on Third Party Weddings (see Blog Archive July 2006) and suffice it to say my views on this have not changed. The worst thing in the world that can happen to you* is being invited to the Wedding of someone your other half works with. There really is no more heart sinking feeling than seeing that over-embossed envelope straining with its contents of photocopied, yellow-highlighted map and wedding list at Argos plopping on to your door mat with a death-knell thud of ruined night out.
So when this happened a few weeks ago my sinking heart was to be expected, but actually fate conspired to make it oh so much worse….
Firstly, and it’s pretty much a taken, that you won’t have met one of the happy couple. The other you will have only met the once, most likely at a booze filled office Christmas do, and you probably didn’t like them much, possibly for being over familiar with you other half. But this time it’s different. This time I haven’t met either of them before, so the cringe factor pushes up just another notch.
Secondly, you usually manage to escape with an evening only invite, leaving you with the chance of badly injuring yourself on the day of the do and, with any luck, getting your other half to go on their own, whilst you enjoy a well earned night in on the kebabs and beer in front of the telly. Oh no. This is an all dayer. Fuck. No one else from work has been invited all day. Fuck. We know not one other person there. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
Thirdly, at least you get Sunday to have a lie in and recover from the £2 a litre chardonnay from Brazil you’ve been forced to drink all afternoon (at room temperature, natch..) whilst listening to someone bore you to tears about what a great couple they make and how beautiful the bride looks. No she doesn’t, she looks like a pig in a meringue wearing too much make up. Oh and by the way, your new husband just got a blowie off your pissed cousin in the bogs….sorry, I digress. But no, there will be no Sunday to recover because that’s the day the evil bastards have chosen to hold the festivities. For fuck’s sake…..
And finally, the icing sugar on the cherry on the cake - it bloody miles away.
So I told my other half to forget it, and this tale should now end here. Unfortunately fate wasn’t about to let me get off so easily.
Yes, the fateful Sunday dawns and despite my best efforts I am in rude health, and with our invite having been downgraded to an evening only, there’s no way I’m going to be able to get out of it. Even the “who’s driving” card can’t be played as a singleton not wishing to turn up at the wedding as Nobby-No-Mates has agreed to give us a lift. This bit should actually be quite good, as the guy in question earns a six figure salary and a ride in a top car will be a bit of a treat. Turns out two of the six figures must have been after a decimal point, because where I’m expecting a ride in something like a Mercedes SL, my wife’s colleague actually turns up in a Hyundai Accent, a car so bad even Indian Taxi drivers refuse to give it the time of day. Things which weren’t exactly looking rosy, have definitely taken a turn towards the brown.
I then make my next mistake, or, in fact, two. I get in the car, but as I have no wish to make small talk or to navigate I agree to sit in the back where there is all of six inches of legroom and a seat more uncomfortable than a church pew, and with added lumps. And the seat belt doesn’t work. Oh joy.
We then endure a twenty mile journey along the A2 where our driver tailgates other motorists, undertakes anyone not quick enough to get out of his way (well named that undertaking as that’s where it seems it will get us) and succeeds in not looking forward seat for the entire journey as he insists in holding a conversation with me in the back.
But worse, much worse than that is that he doesn’t use his indicators one single, solitary time during the entire 40 minute journey. I’m absolutely shitting myself. And of course you’ll be pleased to note we still have to come back.
Never have I arrived anywhere in so in need of a drink, even the warm Brazilian chardonnay on offer seems like the finest balm known to man on my shredded nerves. Suffice it to say I drink enough of the stuff to make the small talk bearable and to hopefully numb the senses to the journey home. Believe me it’s a good thing I did as the ride home was just as traumatic and signal free as on the way there.
So in conclusion, please remember the golden rule. Next time your other half tries to get you to go to a colleagues wedding, dump them. It’ll be best in the long run.
*other than possibly being physically harmed in some way involving a chainsaw or similar.
So when this happened a few weeks ago my sinking heart was to be expected, but actually fate conspired to make it oh so much worse….
Firstly, and it’s pretty much a taken, that you won’t have met one of the happy couple. The other you will have only met the once, most likely at a booze filled office Christmas do, and you probably didn’t like them much, possibly for being over familiar with you other half. But this time it’s different. This time I haven’t met either of them before, so the cringe factor pushes up just another notch.
Secondly, you usually manage to escape with an evening only invite, leaving you with the chance of badly injuring yourself on the day of the do and, with any luck, getting your other half to go on their own, whilst you enjoy a well earned night in on the kebabs and beer in front of the telly. Oh no. This is an all dayer. Fuck. No one else from work has been invited all day. Fuck. We know not one other person there. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
Thirdly, at least you get Sunday to have a lie in and recover from the £2 a litre chardonnay from Brazil you’ve been forced to drink all afternoon (at room temperature, natch..) whilst listening to someone bore you to tears about what a great couple they make and how beautiful the bride looks. No she doesn’t, she looks like a pig in a meringue wearing too much make up. Oh and by the way, your new husband just got a blowie off your pissed cousin in the bogs….sorry, I digress. But no, there will be no Sunday to recover because that’s the day the evil bastards have chosen to hold the festivities. For fuck’s sake…..
And finally, the icing sugar on the cherry on the cake - it bloody miles away.
So I told my other half to forget it, and this tale should now end here. Unfortunately fate wasn’t about to let me get off so easily.
Yes, the fateful Sunday dawns and despite my best efforts I am in rude health, and with our invite having been downgraded to an evening only, there’s no way I’m going to be able to get out of it. Even the “who’s driving” card can’t be played as a singleton not wishing to turn up at the wedding as Nobby-No-Mates has agreed to give us a lift. This bit should actually be quite good, as the guy in question earns a six figure salary and a ride in a top car will be a bit of a treat. Turns out two of the six figures must have been after a decimal point, because where I’m expecting a ride in something like a Mercedes SL, my wife’s colleague actually turns up in a Hyundai Accent, a car so bad even Indian Taxi drivers refuse to give it the time of day. Things which weren’t exactly looking rosy, have definitely taken a turn towards the brown.
I then make my next mistake, or, in fact, two. I get in the car, but as I have no wish to make small talk or to navigate I agree to sit in the back where there is all of six inches of legroom and a seat more uncomfortable than a church pew, and with added lumps. And the seat belt doesn’t work. Oh joy.
We then endure a twenty mile journey along the A2 where our driver tailgates other motorists, undertakes anyone not quick enough to get out of his way (well named that undertaking as that’s where it seems it will get us) and succeeds in not looking forward seat for the entire journey as he insists in holding a conversation with me in the back.
But worse, much worse than that is that he doesn’t use his indicators one single, solitary time during the entire 40 minute journey. I’m absolutely shitting myself. And of course you’ll be pleased to note we still have to come back.
Never have I arrived anywhere in so in need of a drink, even the warm Brazilian chardonnay on offer seems like the finest balm known to man on my shredded nerves. Suffice it to say I drink enough of the stuff to make the small talk bearable and to hopefully numb the senses to the journey home. Believe me it’s a good thing I did as the ride home was just as traumatic and signal free as on the way there.
So in conclusion, please remember the golden rule. Next time your other half tries to get you to go to a colleagues wedding, dump them. It’ll be best in the long run.
*other than possibly being physically harmed in some way involving a chainsaw or similar.
