In perfect harmony

Last New Year's Eve I spent the evening sitting next to a woman who was carefully operating a breast pump.

Thought that might get your attention.

It was quite a novel way to see in the new year, I'll give you that.  With her free hand, the pumper (or should that be pumpee?) showed me her phone, on which she had been reading the very blog that you see before you.  Apparently, Make Lard History had helped her through many a sleepless night of baby feeds.

I don't know about you, dear reader, but when having a conversation in such circumstances it's difficult to know where to look, even though she was being incredibly discrete.  (I was brought up in a cul-de-sac, for God's sake.  I was 17 before I saw another human nipple.)  And so I let my gaze drift to the other end of the room, where it was caught by some records.  Not CDs, but records.  Honest, 12 inch, vinyl records, and quite a lot of them.  The whole wall, from floor to ceiling, was taken with the record collection of Beck, the aforementioned pumpee (or pumper) and Matt, her then-fiance.

Beck is a professional singing teacher and Matt is the Most Laid Back Man in the Western Hemisphere.  They are parents to Ben, who will, if I'm any judge, surely achieve world domination within the next 20 years or so.

On that night and subsequent visits I've had my musical tastes gently expanded by their library of shiny black goodness.  Artists and bands I'd heard of, like Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and Boards of Canada have received an airing.  Then there have been some that even with my fairly eclectic tastes were new to me; such names as Joan as Policewoman, Okkervil River and Shearwater getting a very welcome spin.

By the way, if you have a moment, do yourselves a favour and find Rooks, by Shearwater. It's tremendous.

It was Beck and Matt's wedding yesterday and a relaxed, musical thread ran through the whole event.  Let me paint you a picture.

This was the groom's choice of footwear.  And, after the formal ceremony and pictures, the bride joined him and slipped into a pair of Converse Allstars under her dress.  All the better for throwing some shapes to the Black Keys later on.

Beck was serenaded into the wedding venue by a choir made up of her students.  Wedding march?  Nope.  Trumpet Voluntary?  Not here.  It was an arrangement of Alanis Morissette's Head Over Feet.  Which is a pretty good state to be in, all things considered.

For the wedding breakfast, guests had individual cupcakes as place-settings, with each table having a separate sweet-related theme.  As you can tell, our table was candy necklaces; others had sours, foam bananas, liquorice allsorts, chocolate Revels,  dolly mixtures, etc.  This prompted a vibrant trading community throughout the afternoon as kids travelled from table to table, politely making trades.

And yes, the toast drinks were mojitos.  It was that kind of event.

Later on that evening, after we'd had an afternoon including the playing of KerPlunk, the bride and groom took to the dancefloor to their chosen first dance song.  And it was this.  (Caution, this may be NSFW for some of you out there).

I think if you're going to have a wedding, it's only right to have one that speaks volumes about the bride and groom.  Congratulations, both.

A good day, seriously

"You've written about the cake production," said Katie, "you've even written about utensil delivery. You can't not write about the wedding itself."

These words were delivered to me with a finality that was non-negotiable.

"Have you read my blog?" I countered desperately. "I try, more or less, to find something comedic in everyday life. I am wry. Everything was perfect yesterday - there was nothing I could poke fun at."

"Well, how about the setting up of the cakes we had to do ourselves? 140-odd cupcakes, delivered to the venue first thing and set up in a vaguely artistic way. Quite a job, that was."


"I think people are getting cupcake fatigue, Katie. I know I am."

"Well, OK then, how about the ceremony? Two people, pledging their lives to each other, making a life-long commitment..."

"Well, yes, I could do that. But it would be a little worthy, a little 'Last Two Minutes of an American Sitcom', wouldn't it? How about something about how sickeningly great they looked?"

"Well, you might get away with that, I suppose. But they'd look good in sackcloth, so that's not telling your readers anything."

"How about the reception? A fabulous hotel, a marquee, superb food, great company...?"


"It was indeed a great afternoon. Thing is, the amount wine that was flowing means I can't quite recall every detail. Hang on, though, wasn't there some entertainment?"

"The table magician and the fire-juggler? Yes."


"Outstanding. We made do with Paul's mobile disco for our wedding, if I remember correctly. There was quite a lot of Spandau Ballet. Possibly even Jive Bunny. It tends to suffer by comparison."

"So you see," Katie said, an exasperated look on her face, "there's plenty to write about."

"But I don't know where to start."

"OK, I tell you what. Just transcribe the conversation we've just had. Put some pics on. Then something heartfelt to finish."

"Heartfelt?"

"Yeah, something like how we've been married for 12 years and we're still finding out things about each other now. How they're about to embark on the biggest and best journey of their lives, and how they should just sit back and enjoy the ride."

"Really?"

"Oh yes, people lap that sort of thing up, you know."

"And you think I can make a meaningful blog post out of all that?"

"The important thing is that Matt and Kate read your blog. Get your laptop out."

I know my place. That's married life. And if you're reading this, Matt, you can have that one for free.

Stripping the willow

Last night I went to a party to celebrate my cousin's recent marriage. Because, quite frankly, we haven't had enough wedding-related celebration in the last twelve months.

Anyway, Steve has married Meg. They got married in October, on Long Beach Island in the States. This wasn't some extravagance, as that's where Meg is from (the States, not Long Beach Island). And as our funds weren't going to stretch to a second transatlantic trip this year, we waited for the UK leg of the party instead. So last night we had a barn dance and hog roast. I managed to participate in 50% of those activities. Care to hazard a guess?

It's not that I'm a particularly bad dancer. That would be a bit like stating I'm a bad skydiver. It's not something I do often enough to be able to judge. But the problem is, when surrounded by happy dancing partygoers, I'll typically stay welded to my seat and nervously avoid eye-contact. I blame my dad. He once told me that he considered dancing a "criminal waste of drinking time". Once you've got that in your head, it's difficult to overcome.

Which is a bit of a shame, I suppose. I've never been to a barn dance before; this one seemed to have all the traditional English dances, accompanied by a folk band and with a leader calling out the dance moves. Before you ask, there were no cable-knit jumpers involved. It actually looked like fun - people of all ages were up there and you could actually get, well, quite close to your dancing partner. It certainly harked back to a more innocent age, although I'm sure there are probably some deep anthropological meanings to more than a few of the dance moves.

I was delighted to learn from Meg that she'd wanted to have such a quintessentially traditional English evening.

Smashing. Or awesome. Depending on your viewpoint.

Mal a la tete

We live at the sharp end of several thousand years of written history. Over the millennia, countless scrolls, documents books, pamphlets and circulars have demonstrated the written word's ability to inspire, confound, amuse and amaze. In recent years, the Internet has made it possible for everyone to read great examples of writing everyday.

This is not going to be one of them.

I am suffering. Oh, how I suffer. Watch me as I suffer! This is indeed the day after the night before. And the night before in question was the event of brother no. 1's wedding reception ceremony.

We had a great time. My brother and new sis-in-law looked radiantly happy at their newly arrived-at married status. I met a whole bunch of family members that I rarely see these days. We made vague commitments towards getting together with the Irish wing of the family at some point next year. And we got to eat a cake. That looked like a roulette wheel.

No, really:


In amongst it all, I may have had a cleansing ale or two. Katie also indulged. I suspect gin made an appearance, too. At 3am we decided to head back to our hotel room.

This morning at 8.30 I was in a whole world of pain. Thoughts moved very slowly through my addled mind. Fluids. Darkness. Quiet. Warmth. Those were my aims. The promise of a full English breakfast would normally be enough to bring me forth from the pit. But that was not the case this morning.

And, cruelly, the only coffee available in the hotel room was decaffeinated.

Later that morning, we'd showered and negotiated our way into clothing. I was still convinced that something had died in my mouth overnight. On our way to check out, we bumped into brother no. 1 and his new bride - who'd been with us during the witching hour the night before.

"You look exactly how we feel," he said. This was not meant as a compliment.

Is it a good thing, when settling up at the hotel reception, if more than 50% of the total cost is your bar bill from the previous night? That's not good, is it? Just checking.

As I sit here, Katie is attempting to sleep on the sofa. So far, the world is conspiring against her - first an RSPCA chugger going door-to-door, then a phone call from my blessed mother. "Just checking to see if you had a good time last night."

The evidence would suggest that we did.

It's all going to be my fault

Today, brother no 1 and his fiancee go down to Gatwick. Tomorrow they're flying to Las Vegas. And on Bonfire Night, 5th November, they're getting themselves well and truly hitched out there.

This is a good thing.

They've decided on doing it this way because neither of them want the "big wedding thing" which seems to be the fashion these days. This way, they get to do the deed, have their honeymoon at the same time, and not have the stage-management that goes with a full wedding ceremony.

This, also, is a good thing.

My parents are not up to the flight physically. Much as we'd like to, Katie and me, we can't make it either. But it means they don't have a huge entourage to deal with whilst they're out there. There will be a party on their return to these shores, but it's just a party with almost none of the wedding-y overtones.

This, and I can't even begin to quantify the extent, is bloody marvellous.

But. And however. This is the 21st century, and the chapel gives couples the option of having their wedding broadcast live over the Internet. An option that my brother has taken. What this means is that my parents now want to watch the ceremony.

This is not a good thing.

My parents are used to TV. Full colour, high(ish) definition TV. That doesn't stutter, skip or cut out unexpectedly. That doesn't pixellate. And, most importantly, comes to you 28 inches wide. And that's what they're going to expect, when I log in using this very same laptop, come the 5th. Windows Media Player is just a random jumble of words, as far as they're concerned.

You can see where this is going, can't you?

Happy Happy Joy

Ah, yes. Yesterday was one of those days when a lot happened. So I've split it up into two posts. Read the one before, if you haven't already, or else this will make no sense at all. Even less than normal, in fact.

After a few moments spent hyperventilating after the match, it was then on to Leamington. I like Leamington (or Royal Leamington Spa to give it the full name) very much. We stopped in a hotel called The Angel, and had a quick drink in a pub called The Sausage. There are probably not too many towns on the planet where you can say that.

Then to the reception in the evening. Fay is someone I worked with until she went off to work for another company several years ago. We did some great things in the team we were in - things I'm still proud of now. And although the team has now essentially split up, we still kept in touch.

Any evening when an attractive young woman calls out to you, "Wow, you're looking absolutely amazing!" has a lot of potential, in my book. However, Katie was at my side, and the person doing the shouting was the bride. So scratch that thought right away. (Plus, she told me she and her now-husband now read this. Erm. Hello.) She hadn't seen me for about 18 months, so I guess I must have been carrying a fair amount of extra avoirdupois back then. I mean, I'm domestic-animal size now, back then I must have been able to shift the planet out of orbit.

Fay has been waiting best part of ten years to get married. So she was excited. No, that's not the right word. Think "Monica-out-of-friends-getting-married-excited." Nope. That's not enough, either. Think "bouncing-around-like-Tigger-in-a-wedding-frock."

Oh, bugger it. Words won't do. Try this:

I should make a point here. In this photo, Fay is not standing in a hole. Neither are the two chaps particularly tall. She really is that size. We used to refer to her as the Bonsai.

In fact, there can't be very many weddings where stepladders are amongst the presents:

This came from one of us, her ex-colleagues. Nothing like a subtle sense of humour, is there?

It was a great evening. In fact, it was one of those you look back on and reflect, "Wasn't that a great evening?" There was a whole bunch of us there from the old team. We talked, we laughed, we danced, we drank. Fay and Dave were deliriously happy. And it was contagious.

Brighton life

What better way to spend the last Bank Holiday before Christmas? Brighton is a fantastic place, perfect for a short break. There's a really laid-back quality about the city that makes it most un-English in a way.

My brother (no.2 ) lives there, too. So as it was him we were going to see, Grimsby would have been a daft idea.

Now, I know that Philip Larkin will accuse everyone's Mum and Dad of all sorts of things. They indeed may not intend to do what they end up doing. Clearly, when he wrote those words, he'd already spent a number of hours in a Honda Accord on the M25 with his parents. By about 3.30pm on Friday, I was sharing his pain.

The car was parked up for the weekend. After several Guinness's with brother no. 1, I was feeling vaguely human again and ready for the sophisticated drinks party at the flat of brother no. 2 and his partner.

It is of course a huge and lazy stereotype to claim that gay men are automatically going to be great with interior design; that they can effortlessly furnish any space with good taste and an eye for detail. Well, call me huge and lazy then. Everything was just right. But of course, we are still family, so conversations soon reflected our shared heritage.

"Please tell me that's not a real Barcelona chair."

"God no, it's homage. Do you think I'd let Dad near it with a glass of red wine in his hand if it was the real thing?"

"Good point."

Matters of taste and design will always come second to the worry generated by our parents carrying liquids that would stain.

Saturday morning dawned bright and warm. A noise like a million bi-polar wasps greeted us. This was to be our transport to the Main Event:


Don't laugh. This takes six people and a driver/pilot and comes complete with wifi and a 17" TV. It was a hoot, although left-hand bends introduced rather too much lean into the equation for me as I was sat on the open side, being berated by passing motorists.

And we ended up here - Brighton's famous Royal Pavilion:


This is a completely mental building, built at the request of King George IV when he was the scandalous, drinking, gambling and womanising Prince of Wales before his coronation in 1820. Mad as a badger (a bit like his father George III), but brilliant.

I'm no photographer, but here are a couple of my efforts:


Who'd have thought it? Clear blue skies on an English Bank Holiday weekend!

The ceremony itself took place in the Red Drawing Room. If you thought the Pavilion looked otherworldly from the outside, then, well you get the idea.

I accept that some reading this might have differing views about the whole Civil Partnership concept. That's OK, I'm all for inclusiveness, I'm even willing to let you carry on reading this posting (but don't forget to get back to your Daily Express before it gets cold). But all I saw were two grown adults standing up in front of friends and family, expressing their love and making certain promises and commitments to each other. It was beautiful and moving. It worked for me. It certainly worked for the two people involved.

Plus I've now got an extra brother.

Then onto the reception. More stuff to get Major Farquhar (ret'd) choking on his wheetie-bangs - a cake with two grooms. Priceless.

My brother gave a speech where he spoke eloquently and passionately about how we should be thankful that we live in the here and now. We may complain about stupid things like speed limits and rubbish collections, but in this country today it's possible for people to receive official legal recognition of their love, regardless of their gender or sexuality. Even five years ago, what we'd just witnessed wouldn't have been possible. I'm not even the most "right on" of people - although I have a rabid mistrust of all politicians - however I'd never really given it any thought before. It just struck a perfect chord with me.

I don't think I've ever been more proud of my brother than I was at that moment. I will tell him this one day, but you have to understand our relationship has a fairly high proportion of piss-take (we are brothers first and foremost) so I guess I'll have to choose the moment.

Don't worry, he did manage to get some smut into the speech, too.

The evening - a flawless night sky, the full moon casting a perfect reflection on a millpond sea. And there we were in Legends, surrounded by lots of chaps throwing shapes to Kylie Minogue. Sorry, another stereotype. My mother loved it, though, and the clientele loved her too.

Back home yesterday - more hassle on the M25 meant that I had to achieve a significant fraction of light speed to make up time on the way home. But it failed to cast a pall over a great weekend - that's one more brother hitched, just brother no.1 to go (and that happens later this year).

I'm knackered, though.

The ties that bind

When something happens that you've been anticipating for months, it can seem surreal when it finally takes place. The wedding of Mike and Emma (beforehand referred to as GEMDAP or Get Emma & Mike Down the Aisle Project) was a certified production number with a cast of thou...well, a couple of dozen, actually.

I've never actually been that heavily involved in a wedding before. Perhaps my own, maybe? Erm, maybe not - bystanders tell me that Katie and I were so laid-back about our own celebration day we were practically horizontal, so maybe not.

We started out at the best man's house, where this picture was taken of the groomsmen:

Ladies, form a queue.

Anyway, I'm not going to say the whole day went without a hitch. There are things you can't legislate for - like the bride showing up at the church without her bouquet. I was outside doing ushering duties and for one second almost suggested, "Can't you just go on without it?" Apparently, that would have been a dumb question - just about every woman on the planet would, with varying degrees of hysteria - have given me a fairly robust slapping for suggesting that one. And I'd have deserved it, too. It did mean I got to walk down the aisle myself to reassure Mike that whilst his bride was here, she wasn't ready.

Thinking about it, it's probably a good job I didn't use those exact words.

Anyway, one high-speed car dash later, her step-father came good with the bouquet - the ceremony went ahead and here's the proof:

What a handsome couple indeed. And before you ask, it is actually a bye-law that if you have a young girl as your bridesmaid, she has to hold the hem of her dress in her mouth for at least 25% of the photos - if only so you can embarrass her 15 years later.

Rushing down to the Welcombe Hotel in Stratford for the wedding breakfast meant we got there about 30 mins before the bridal party, so Katie had a good half-hour of mithering to do (I'm aware that this blog gets some American readers, so that's hopefully a new word for you. Please use feel free to use it in your day-to-day life). She wanted to construct the cake, the dining room wasn't ready - it took a significant amount of Pimms to quieten her down.

And if I do say so myself, when she did put things together, the results were excellent:

The wedding breakfast went well, I think, although I was about to start my duties so was stressing a little. Standing up and talking in front of people is something I do at work, and it normally doesn't phase me at all. But this was different and the pressure was telling - I kept off the wine just to be sure.

I wasn't going to be a formal toastmaster, more a compere, and I'd drafted some notes to link each of the speakers. With an age range of 5 to 89 in the audience, I had to be careful of content. One of my jobs was to say grace, which for me was...unusual to say the least, given that organised religion has never really been my bag. I got through it by studiously avoiding Katie's eyes. My mother, observant Catholic that she is, would be proud.

The rest of the wedding breakfast went on. People were in good spirits, they laughed in the right places (the groom and best man's speeches being highlights) and the business of the afternoon progressed well. Ten minutes after we'd finished, with a particularly pithy quote from me, there was an almighty roar from outside as nine red fighter jets flew past in close formation. I'm assuming it was the Red Arrows - unless EasyJet are allowing passengers to DIY. Damn - 15 minutes earlier and I could have convinced the wedding party it was part of the plan.

That first pint afterwards was like nectar. Actually, it wasn't - it was John Smiths, which I call "I Can't Believe it's Not Bitter", but beggars can't be choosers and I'd earned it.

The reception - evening dress - me in a tux, Katie in a floor length gown. More compering, live music, a table magician, disco - something for everyone. I wish I could have carried on, but by 11.30pm, after running around to make things happen, I was bushed. Someone asked for my business card - they thought I did this for a living. God, no, I'd be in an early grave...

It's great to be sitting here, looking back at it all. Emma and Mike had, I hope, the perfect day. And I enjoyed myself too, as I was able to satisfy the unreconstituted show-off in me.

What impact it's had on my waistline is yet to be seen. That pint of John Smiths was followed by quite a few friends.

Four weeks in

Here we go again.

Once again I'm rushing to weigh myself, just before dashing out of the door for a busy weekend. This time, it's the long-awaited wedding of Mike and Emma. This has been a great test of the whole weight-loss regime, actually. Several stag-night related events in the last few weeks, being around the house whilst Katie makes a huge amount of cake, and now the wedding weekend itself.

We're lucky enough to have been invited to the whole thing - I'm actually Master of Ceremonies for the wedding breakfast and evening reception - so a certain amount of socialising is of course expected, with the potential for calorific collateral damage that might entail.

The diet books don't normally give you any advice on what to do in these circumstances, so we've decided to stop stressing about it and just step off the wagon for 48 hours.

Anyway, I'll update this blog with details afterwards. In the meantime:



That's another two pounds off. 11 pounds off since I started and another 17 to go. With nine weeks still to go, that's a pretty healthy progress.

Yes, I think I'm happy with that. I'm even more delighted that Katie, who's been following the same programme as me, has lost a stone so far. Perhaps people should be sponsoring her instead...

Advice for the hard of thinking

I'm fully convinced that Birmingham City Council do, in fact, employ idiots. Ok, that's a little controversial. Not all of the Council employees are having difficulty with backside-and-elbow comparisons, I accept. My eldest brother and his wife-to-be work for the Council, for instance, and they're both very intelligent.

But the people who work in the Environmental Services department, particularly those responsible for recycling, should really never be allowed to organise parties, even in licensed alcohol production facilities.

I'm not exactly green; to be honest I struggle with the whole Earth Mother thing. But I accept that recycling should probably be filed under 'Really Good Idea'. So I was pleased when a blue sack appeared on my doorstep, marked 'Recycling Bag', a gift from the afore-mentioned geniuses at my local authority.

Note that description. 'Recycling Bag'. Nothing to say what I can actually recycle in it. Paper? Plastic? Tins? Glass? Left over pie crusts, maybe?

Or all of the above in one go, perhaps? (I say this because that's exactly what we were able to do in a rural backwater in France earlier this year). But no-one had thought to tell me what to do. How many residents just won't bother?

But have no fear, because yesterday they sent us some leaflets. Nice, glossy, four-colour print leaflets telling us, well, pretty much nothing at all.

Oh yes. Leaflets. Plural. Four of them, in fact. Three of which were exactly the same. Brilliant. Quite brilliant. There are several hundred thousand households in the central Birmingham area alone. The wastage in materials alone would give Al Gore nightmares.

Not only do these people not have a clue, they couldn't even get a clue. Not even if they dressed up as a female clue and stood in the centre of a clue field, in the midst of the clue mating season, drenched in clue pheromones.

Somewhere a polar bear is crying. Or something.

In completely unrelated news, the house smells of cake at the moment. I have a well-developed sense of smell where food is concerned, funnily enough. I'm a bit like a shark detecting prey in the sea, although I suspect your average Great White doesn't go hunting Ginsters Pasties. But this time it's because Katie has become a one-woman production line, making the wedding cake for Mike and Emma. It's quite a project, with chocolate, lemon sponge and fruit cake layers.

The trouble is, great cook that she is, Katie uses most of the implements at her disposal even for straightforward stuff. Unfortunately, it's me that has to deal with the aftermath in the kitchen. I swear it's like the Somme in there - I'm tempted to brick up the doorway and build a new kitchen elsewhere.

It's putting me off cake better than any aversion therapy, I can tell you.

Moments of panic

From time to time things happen to give you the screaming ab-dabs.

Preparations for Mike and Emma's wedding continue at a pace; it's next week, and this morning I went to collect my suit from Greenwoods in Redditch.

Weeks ago, before we went on holiday even, I went to get measured up, so this visit should have been a formality. Essentially I could have just picked up my suit carrier and come home. But I thought it would be wise to try it all on anyway.

• Shirt - fine.
• Waistcoat - fine.
• Jacket - fine.
• Funny looking cravat thingy - fine.
• Trousers - oh bloody hell.

These strides were cutting me in two. I was having a little difficulty in breathing. And any sensation in the lower half of my body was rapidly becoming a fond, if somewhat distant, memory. "We should be thankful it's not my wedding day," I thought.

Having struggled to do them up, it was all I could do to get them undone again, as I couldn't move the waistband out far enough to get a hold on the various inside-out buttons and hook-and-eye things they put inside formal trousers these days.

But whilst I was grappling with myself around the groin area, I noticed something odd. Now that's a sentence I never thought I'd find myself typing. Anyway. The size label was shouting 38" waist at me.

I think the year began with the number "1" the last time I was wearing trousers that size. 38" is something I aspire to - the Holy Grail of pants, if you like. And I knew at that point that there'd been a genuine mistake - the actual measurements they'd taken those few weeks ago were well in excess of a puny 38" - I remember the measuring session too well.

There were some mixed emotions at that point, I can tell you. The annoyance that someone had cocked it up was mixed with considerable relief that my waist hadn't in fact gone in the wrong direction.

Getting a replacement pair of trousers sorted? A small inconvenience.

Realising your waist hasn't actually ballooned? Priceless.

Staggered

There really was no way of avoiding a whole bunch of social events when I started the weight loss. Unless I was going to live a hermit-like existence, I couldn't ignore the fact that real life wasn't going to hold on for three months whilst I sat chewing lettuce leaves and drinking herbal tea. I actually do have to go out every now and again.

And so we come to Mike's stag night. Well, stag weekend, actually. This is the corresponding event to the hen night Katie experienced several weeks ago. The plan is to go out on Friday night, then again on Sunday afternoon. We're all of a certain age now, though. We're all respectable. What could possibly go wrong?

I write this in-between the two halves. There is a degree of pain.

We met us at a pub on Broad Street. To those people not aware of Birmingham, that last sentence is like a red flag. A warning signal, if you like. Beer was consumed.

We then went up the road to Jongleurs comedy club. Some grown-up comedy ensued. And beer was consumed.

After the comedy show, the club transforms into a nightclub. There was music. I may have danced. Erm. Some beer was consumed.

Memories of the evening are flashing back as I type. A whole bunch of people dressed as horror movie extras showing up at the club. Girls going round selling really scary drinks in test tubes. I found one in my coat pocket this morning.

At about 2am I thought, "This might start to wind up soon, as long as the music remains chilled."

Oh sweet Jesus.

'Jump Around' by House of Pain. I don't even like this sort of music. I'm 37. Yet I'm jumping around having a right old time. Oh blimey, now it's 'The One and Only' by Chesney Hawkes. I believe we may have consumed beer. There might be photos.

I did leave soon afterwards, passing through the detritus of Broad St to get a cab. A stunning girl, wearing a basque, stockings and not much else, sashays drunkenly down the street. I must be getting old, I say to myself. My first thought is "She'll catch her death of cold without a sturdy coat on."

I got home at about 2.30am, to find the house empty. Katie was still out, getting on the wrong side of a certain amount of wine at Emma's house. It's a full service we offer, we'll get drunk both with bride and groom.

Never again. Well, until tomorrow, anyway.