The Wedding. What fun we all had last weekend.

 

1. Number of brides ‘given away.’

3. Number of fights at wedding reception.

2. Number of interventions by myself as peacemaker.

5. Number of punches received in return for peacemaking interventions.

1. Number of fights allowed to flourish without my intervention as peacemaker, ie lessons learned.

5. Number of pints of blood shed by said peacemaker – well, it felt like it!

1. Number of speeches intended to be given by ‘father of the bride.’

2. Number of speeches actually given.

 

It started well. Very well in my case Smartly dressed, immaculately shaved, shoes polished, I looked at myself in a mirror and saw a stranger. The bride looked lovely. Don’t they all? The dress, source of so much angst and uncertainty, fitted perfectly and we arrived at the church not more than two minutes late. Enough to satisfy the purists, not enough to give rise to concern.

My own duties were easy enough. Escorting a bride down the aisle is a simple enough task. All that effort on my own appearance wasted; not a single pair of eyes gave me even a fleeting glance. The woman on my arm was the one they’d come to see.

Exactly as it should be.

I’d done the ‘giving-away’ duty before. Twice. I’d been ‘best man’ on three occasions. A bridegroom, just the once. Quite enough experience to know the fleeting nature of any mere male on these joyous occasions. This is the bride’s day.

Service over, photographs taken, off we all trooped to the reception. The venue was the ballroom of a Georgian Manor House. ‘Must have cost a pretty penny, this,’ a complete stranger confided to me in an aside that could have been heard in the next county. ‘Still, I reckon they can afford it. Bloody toffs.’

‘Hmm,’  I muttered.

‘Waste of bloody money, if you ask me,’ my new friend continued. Not that I had asked him. ‘We’ll see how long it lasts.’

I muttered some spurious excuse, hailed an imaginary acquaintance across the room, moved away.

The seating plan was chaotic. All that planning ruined by the perfidious nature of human beings when instructed where to sit. I could see the objectors’ point of view. There were people there I’d not have wished on my worst enemy.

A fight broke out. Two men, both strangers to me, jackets off, ties loosened, exchanging blows with a mixed chorus in attendance. Some shrieking admonishment, most bellowing support for one or the other combatants. Nothing to do with me. Not my business. So, I did what I always do: waded in, inserted myself between the two men, breaking them apart. The fight fizzled out. At some cost to myself. A blow from each man, neither serious, but enough to open a small cut above my left eye. A few drops of blood dribbled onto the snowy perfection of my shirt. I was the only one bleeding. Naturally.

An hour later, shirt sponged, I rose to deliver my speech. The last duty of a long day. It went well enough. As a substitute ‘father of the bride’ not much is expected. It’s the boring speech anyway. Packed with platitudes about the bride’s finest qualities. Easy enough.

The groom was flushed, had drunk the offered champagne with enthusiasm, but was seemingly in control. I’d never met him, or his best man before and it was only now that I realised the best man was one of the men involved in the recent scuffle. He gave every impression of being on the verge of collapse, swigging away at any wineglass within reach. I ignored him as the groom began to speak. It was a good speech, as speeches go. Witty, gracious, mercifully short, all anyone could wish for. Better than my own speech, in every respect. The only slight concern had been the antics of the ‘friends of the groom.’ Fellow members of the local football club, they were a tad rowdy, but within acceptable limits.

Just about.

Just the best man’s speech left, then.  Ah! I realised at once this could be a problem. The swaying as he rose to his feet, the greenish tinge to his complexion, were obvious clues. ‘It gives me great pleasure,’ he announced, notes held aloft.

‘I bet it does.’

‘Dirty bastard.’

‘Wanker.’

The football lads were all on their feet, bellowing insults and ribald encouragement. The best man grinned, offered an unmistakable hand gesture in return, then slid back into his seat. The room fell silent.

For an entire minute we waited.

Only a minute.

I checked.

It felt longer. About an hour longer.

He rose again to a muted cheer. He didn’t look well. Opening and closing his mouth, no identifiable sounds emerging, swaying from side to side, he made a valiant effort. To no avail.

Thrusting several pages of notes in my direction – ‘Here, mate, you read this for me’ – he dashed away in search of the nearest available facilities.

He almost made it. Only the table on the far left were privileged to witness a spectacular display of vomiting at close quarters. They didn’t appear to relish the spectacle.

I looked at the packed room, the notes in my hand, rose and delivered my second speech. I cut most of the references to the groom’s sexual organs, with the exception of a single explanation of his football nick-name – ‘donkey dick’ – hey, credit where it’s due, and managed to complete the script without resorting to the scribbled end-piece, ‘if it’s not working, tell some shagging jokes.’

Later, the DJ was in his element. ‘Agga-Doo’ was blaring out, the Birdie Song had made an early appearance, and the second fight of the evening escalated into a mass brawl. The football lads were settling a minor dispute in the traditional manner.

Sighing, I inserted myself into the melee, mouthing the usual ‘settle down, lads’ platitudes. Three punches this time, plus a head-butt that, just, missed its mark. The cut above my eye re-opened. Blood poured out.

It all settled down again. I went off to sponge my shirt. Again.

My wife collared me as I returned from the gents. ‘Stay out of it,’ she hissed. ‘Always has to be you that breaks it up.’

I nodded. Lesson learned.

The third fight was inevitable. I stayed well clear.

The groom’s mother came over to me after the dust settled. ‘Thanks for nothing,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t you have stopped them? There they are, ruining the whole night and you sit on your arse doing nothing. Typical man.’

I sipped my diet coke and said nothing. What was there to say?