Rapscallion
02-01-2008, 01:13 AM
I threatened promised Badgergirl that I'd give her the gory details of this tale of yesteryear (mid nineties) at break yesterday. I got caught up in an important meeting, but it reminded me that it hasn't been posted on this incarnation of CS yet. It was ... quite an experience. I can tell people of this event and point Badgergirl to this link at the same time - economy or laziness, I care not which way you decide.
Suffice it to say, I have some relatives. They are not necessarily the relatives I would choose in some instances. One of them is the son of my mother's cousin. Dim memory tells me that he's a cousin once removed or something, but I am fairly certain I made a determined effort to erase as much memory of A and the events. I'd attended an engagement party in his home town of Blackpool a while back, perhaps a year before the wedding itself. It was the first time I'd met him in a number of years, but to see him was to know the meaning of the word 'neanderthal'. To talk to him was the proof. Nice enough chap despite looking like a thug, but the hamster's wheel wasn't turning very quickly.
Anyway, the engagement do was one of those 'function area' things the north of the UK is famous for. One side of the family sit on one side of the room, arms crossed and glowering at the other family side on the other side of the room, who glower back. Actually, it wasn't that bad, but I've seen better parties. Cometh the day, cometh the announcement that the wedding was upon us. The Boss, my mother, and I picked up my mad aunt from a nearby location and we skedaddled across to a hotel in Blackpool. We'd been informed that the dress code required red carnations, since the event was in Lancashire and that was their symbol during the War of the Roses. Yorkshire's symbol was the white rose, and thus we wore white carnations. We were going to either cause trouble or have fun and we didn't care.
On the way, my mother decided to give us a very stern warning. We were not, under any circumstances, to make any sort of comment about the bride's size.
Me: Well, I met her at the engagement do. She likes her food, but I'll keep my mouth shut.
M: This is a different girl.
Me: Similar dimensions?
M: Yes. Now, listen close. She had the dress fitted a month ago, and since then she's had to have it let out nine inches, about four and a half dress sizes.
Me: How is that possible? I know I snack, but...
M: She's been on a diet pill [turns out it was Alli or whatever it was called] and had to come off because she's pregnant. The baby's not enough on to be showing, so it's due to rehydration or something. Anyway, both of you shut up about it.
The Boss and I vowed to keep shtum. So far, so good, but I wasn't really taking the hint.
Blackpool hove into view, and we got to the hotel in plenty of time. We mooched around for a while, and an uncle of mine asked how much they charged for a sandwich. It was a sum approached £10, which is a sod of a lot for a buttie. He expressed his shock. They pointed out that it came with a cup of tea and it was all on a tray. He scarpered, peckish but richer for the experience. The place apparently considered itself somewhat upmarket.
The groom and the best man arrived. I winced at their matching outfits - somewhere, an old lady's couch was missing its covers. The best man, though - after they had gone to attend to matters, I made the observation that it was the Second Coming of Elvis. Nobody disagreed, and one of our party snorted beer froth through his nose. Damn, but he was a dead ringer for a younger version of Elvis...
The mother of the groom, my mother's cousin, came to distract us for a while, telling us proudly that because of her disability (an uncle told me to one side that it was eating too much and exercising too little) the council had installed a remote control for her gas fire. She expounded on the benefits for ages. Oh dear.
My mother also took time to warn us about the father of the bride. The bride liked her food, but the gentleman in question weighed in at about six hundred pounds. At the time, I worked that out to be about forty-two stones for the Brits. He'd had a specially reinforced golf buggy flown in from his home country of Ireland to carry him around. He wasn't short of money. The groom had been riding around on this buggy on Blackpool promenade for a while the day before, and his eyes glazed over as his mind went back to happier times when telling us about it. Back to the father of the bride, though - apparently he had a condition called lymphodema, whereby the lymph glands retain water. I found out some months later that he went to a Harley Street doctor who took about twenty (expensive) minutes to say that the disease would have caused some increase in his weight, but in reality most of it was from eating too damned much for too damned long. That afflication is something I rather enjoy, I have to admit, so I can see why it happened.
The Boss is not a tactful man. He'd bought a camera a while back and brought it to the event. He made much to anyone who would listen of the fact that it had a wide-angle lens. He wasn't boasting about its capabilities, but more that he'd found someone wider than himself. He kept giggling to himself every time he mentioned it, and we had to hush him on numerous occasions.
This did not bode well.
It was a civil ceremony in a hotel, and as such we filed into a large function room and seated according to the familial side we owed alleigance to. I'd not had chance to mingle with the bride's family up until that point, but I discovered at about this point that they were Irish and very traditional. When silence was called for, they fell silent within a heartbeat, while us rabble were yammering on.
The FoB and the bride didn't walk down the aisle together. He came first, not because they wouldn't have fitted down there side by side, but mostly because he had his own version of a pageboy carrying a train - a bloke weilding an oxygen tank. He also had to sit down halfway up the aisle. Credit where it's due, and I do admire him for this, he made sure he walked all the way up the aisle to give away his daughter.
Shortly after this, the bride made her way up escorted by several bridesmaids, all of whom were apparently her sisters. The bridesmaids all wore dresses where the straps went diagonally to their shoulders, and the matching outfits were a site to behold, only marred slightly by the one girl who defiantly refused to wear anything beneath it than a standard bra. The rest had all opted for strapless or whatever, but we had on there who was defiant. Ruined the effect for me. Also, I had to shut the Boss up about his comments about panoramic lens effects etc. He's my father, but he can be a real moron at times.
The service began. It was fairly standard as civil ceremonies go, though both bride and groom fluffed their lines. The registrar then expected us to applaud, something I'd never heard of before at a wedding. Hey, you had to tell them what to say, and then they both fluffed it anyway! I'm not applauding this!
I didn't mind applauding the happy couple into the wedding breakfast. The meal arrived, and it was devoured rather quickly. Several of our branch of the family sat at the table where I was, and after a while something occurred to me. A male cousin I'd not seen for a while had, as per the invitation, brought a companion, assumedly a chap of his acquaintance. It took quite some time to percolate through my conscious mind.
Me: Mum?
M: Yes?
Me: Cousin R and his friend?
M: Yes?
Me: They're very friendly, right?"
M: Yes.
I found out later that this caused his mother, the evil aunt, a great deal of distress, so I consider this to be amusing. However, though the Boss hadn't heard the whispered conversation, I could see him staring and pondering.
Me: Doesn't that camera have a wide-angle lens or something?
I asked that wearily, and he was distracted enough to forget.
Food over, the speeches began. The father of the bride gave his from his reinforced golf buggy.
FoB: Now for the toasts. To the happy couple!
Us: To the happy couple!
FoB: To the Queen!
Us: To the Queen! Is she here?
FoB: To the Duke of Lancaster!
Us: Who? Is there one? Hey, any excuse for a drink...
As I said, very traditional in many ways. That over, the speech began. However, as the FoB was using a cordless microphone and reading from some paper, he had the bright idea of working out where he was in his speech by using the microphone as one would a finger when trying to work out poor handwriting. Couple this with a thick Irish brogue at a far distance from the microphone, and all we got were hisses, rustles, the odd word, and a little feedback.
The groom, the Neanderthal of my family, then spoke. As is traditional, they gave out presents to supporting members of the cast, such as the page boy etc. Loud clapping was done at each occasion, each time with the microphone in his hand. This didn't work well with the speakers. He announced, amongst much feedback, that he and his wife had been introduced by one of her sisters, and tried to get her to stand up to say a few words. She'd had no preparation, and thus refused point blank to even consider moving from her seat. He floundered for a little until he decided to ask someone else a few questions interview style.
Have you ever seen the Monty Python sketch where the interviewer asks a question and holds the microphone to the person not talking as the interview progresses? He did that perfectly, but without realising it. It also wasn't deliberate.
The best man's speech - the highlight of every wedding, right? The Second Coming of Elvis stood up and cleared his throat as a microphone was thrust at him. He had a lovely lyrical voice and wonderful speaking manner, but he somewhat hampered by being a Spanish exchange student with a limited grasp of English and an accent we couldn't understand. He tried his best, but fortunately one of the Irish contingent was an old hand at this and took over half way through.
I have to say a few things here. The FoB, despite all his problems, was a very decent chap. I talked to him on a couple of occasions, and I saw him taking a page boy around on the back of his golf buggy for a fun ride around inside. Nice bloke, and he'd spent a fortune on giving away his daughter. At one point, though, I saw him gasping on his oxygen mask and I wondered if he'd make it out alive. It turned out he was just oxygenating himself for a cigarette.
A tenner for a sandwich (on a tray!) and a cup of tea, eh? I mused this as I wandered around the room. Even in the dark I could see the large chunks of tape holding down the tears where something had rent the carpet in the distant past. Just desperate, I reckoned.
We had an offer of a bed for the night from the mother of the bride. I drove hard and fast to get away. The happy couple now have two sons and one divorce to their names.
That, good folks, is the story of the Wedding of Doom and Terror. I can recite most of it in one breath.
Rapscallion
Suffice it to say, I have some relatives. They are not necessarily the relatives I would choose in some instances. One of them is the son of my mother's cousin. Dim memory tells me that he's a cousin once removed or something, but I am fairly certain I made a determined effort to erase as much memory of A and the events. I'd attended an engagement party in his home town of Blackpool a while back, perhaps a year before the wedding itself. It was the first time I'd met him in a number of years, but to see him was to know the meaning of the word 'neanderthal'. To talk to him was the proof. Nice enough chap despite looking like a thug, but the hamster's wheel wasn't turning very quickly.
Anyway, the engagement do was one of those 'function area' things the north of the UK is famous for. One side of the family sit on one side of the room, arms crossed and glowering at the other family side on the other side of the room, who glower back. Actually, it wasn't that bad, but I've seen better parties. Cometh the day, cometh the announcement that the wedding was upon us. The Boss, my mother, and I picked up my mad aunt from a nearby location and we skedaddled across to a hotel in Blackpool. We'd been informed that the dress code required red carnations, since the event was in Lancashire and that was their symbol during the War of the Roses. Yorkshire's symbol was the white rose, and thus we wore white carnations. We were going to either cause trouble or have fun and we didn't care.
On the way, my mother decided to give us a very stern warning. We were not, under any circumstances, to make any sort of comment about the bride's size.
Me: Well, I met her at the engagement do. She likes her food, but I'll keep my mouth shut.
M: This is a different girl.
Me: Similar dimensions?
M: Yes. Now, listen close. She had the dress fitted a month ago, and since then she's had to have it let out nine inches, about four and a half dress sizes.
Me: How is that possible? I know I snack, but...
M: She's been on a diet pill [turns out it was Alli or whatever it was called] and had to come off because she's pregnant. The baby's not enough on to be showing, so it's due to rehydration or something. Anyway, both of you shut up about it.
The Boss and I vowed to keep shtum. So far, so good, but I wasn't really taking the hint.
Blackpool hove into view, and we got to the hotel in plenty of time. We mooched around for a while, and an uncle of mine asked how much they charged for a sandwich. It was a sum approached £10, which is a sod of a lot for a buttie. He expressed his shock. They pointed out that it came with a cup of tea and it was all on a tray. He scarpered, peckish but richer for the experience. The place apparently considered itself somewhat upmarket.
The groom and the best man arrived. I winced at their matching outfits - somewhere, an old lady's couch was missing its covers. The best man, though - after they had gone to attend to matters, I made the observation that it was the Second Coming of Elvis. Nobody disagreed, and one of our party snorted beer froth through his nose. Damn, but he was a dead ringer for a younger version of Elvis...
The mother of the groom, my mother's cousin, came to distract us for a while, telling us proudly that because of her disability (an uncle told me to one side that it was eating too much and exercising too little) the council had installed a remote control for her gas fire. She expounded on the benefits for ages. Oh dear.
My mother also took time to warn us about the father of the bride. The bride liked her food, but the gentleman in question weighed in at about six hundred pounds. At the time, I worked that out to be about forty-two stones for the Brits. He'd had a specially reinforced golf buggy flown in from his home country of Ireland to carry him around. He wasn't short of money. The groom had been riding around on this buggy on Blackpool promenade for a while the day before, and his eyes glazed over as his mind went back to happier times when telling us about it. Back to the father of the bride, though - apparently he had a condition called lymphodema, whereby the lymph glands retain water. I found out some months later that he went to a Harley Street doctor who took about twenty (expensive) minutes to say that the disease would have caused some increase in his weight, but in reality most of it was from eating too damned much for too damned long. That afflication is something I rather enjoy, I have to admit, so I can see why it happened.
The Boss is not a tactful man. He'd bought a camera a while back and brought it to the event. He made much to anyone who would listen of the fact that it had a wide-angle lens. He wasn't boasting about its capabilities, but more that he'd found someone wider than himself. He kept giggling to himself every time he mentioned it, and we had to hush him on numerous occasions.
This did not bode well.
It was a civil ceremony in a hotel, and as such we filed into a large function room and seated according to the familial side we owed alleigance to. I'd not had chance to mingle with the bride's family up until that point, but I discovered at about this point that they were Irish and very traditional. When silence was called for, they fell silent within a heartbeat, while us rabble were yammering on.
The FoB and the bride didn't walk down the aisle together. He came first, not because they wouldn't have fitted down there side by side, but mostly because he had his own version of a pageboy carrying a train - a bloke weilding an oxygen tank. He also had to sit down halfway up the aisle. Credit where it's due, and I do admire him for this, he made sure he walked all the way up the aisle to give away his daughter.
Shortly after this, the bride made her way up escorted by several bridesmaids, all of whom were apparently her sisters. The bridesmaids all wore dresses where the straps went diagonally to their shoulders, and the matching outfits were a site to behold, only marred slightly by the one girl who defiantly refused to wear anything beneath it than a standard bra. The rest had all opted for strapless or whatever, but we had on there who was defiant. Ruined the effect for me. Also, I had to shut the Boss up about his comments about panoramic lens effects etc. He's my father, but he can be a real moron at times.
The service began. It was fairly standard as civil ceremonies go, though both bride and groom fluffed their lines. The registrar then expected us to applaud, something I'd never heard of before at a wedding. Hey, you had to tell them what to say, and then they both fluffed it anyway! I'm not applauding this!
I didn't mind applauding the happy couple into the wedding breakfast. The meal arrived, and it was devoured rather quickly. Several of our branch of the family sat at the table where I was, and after a while something occurred to me. A male cousin I'd not seen for a while had, as per the invitation, brought a companion, assumedly a chap of his acquaintance. It took quite some time to percolate through my conscious mind.
Me: Mum?
M: Yes?
Me: Cousin R and his friend?
M: Yes?
Me: They're very friendly, right?"
M: Yes.
I found out later that this caused his mother, the evil aunt, a great deal of distress, so I consider this to be amusing. However, though the Boss hadn't heard the whispered conversation, I could see him staring and pondering.
Me: Doesn't that camera have a wide-angle lens or something?
I asked that wearily, and he was distracted enough to forget.
Food over, the speeches began. The father of the bride gave his from his reinforced golf buggy.
FoB: Now for the toasts. To the happy couple!
Us: To the happy couple!
FoB: To the Queen!
Us: To the Queen! Is she here?
FoB: To the Duke of Lancaster!
Us: Who? Is there one? Hey, any excuse for a drink...
As I said, very traditional in many ways. That over, the speech began. However, as the FoB was using a cordless microphone and reading from some paper, he had the bright idea of working out where he was in his speech by using the microphone as one would a finger when trying to work out poor handwriting. Couple this with a thick Irish brogue at a far distance from the microphone, and all we got were hisses, rustles, the odd word, and a little feedback.
The groom, the Neanderthal of my family, then spoke. As is traditional, they gave out presents to supporting members of the cast, such as the page boy etc. Loud clapping was done at each occasion, each time with the microphone in his hand. This didn't work well with the speakers. He announced, amongst much feedback, that he and his wife had been introduced by one of her sisters, and tried to get her to stand up to say a few words. She'd had no preparation, and thus refused point blank to even consider moving from her seat. He floundered for a little until he decided to ask someone else a few questions interview style.
Have you ever seen the Monty Python sketch where the interviewer asks a question and holds the microphone to the person not talking as the interview progresses? He did that perfectly, but without realising it. It also wasn't deliberate.
The best man's speech - the highlight of every wedding, right? The Second Coming of Elvis stood up and cleared his throat as a microphone was thrust at him. He had a lovely lyrical voice and wonderful speaking manner, but he somewhat hampered by being a Spanish exchange student with a limited grasp of English and an accent we couldn't understand. He tried his best, but fortunately one of the Irish contingent was an old hand at this and took over half way through.
I have to say a few things here. The FoB, despite all his problems, was a very decent chap. I talked to him on a couple of occasions, and I saw him taking a page boy around on the back of his golf buggy for a fun ride around inside. Nice bloke, and he'd spent a fortune on giving away his daughter. At one point, though, I saw him gasping on his oxygen mask and I wondered if he'd make it out alive. It turned out he was just oxygenating himself for a cigarette.
A tenner for a sandwich (on a tray!) and a cup of tea, eh? I mused this as I wandered around the room. Even in the dark I could see the large chunks of tape holding down the tears where something had rent the carpet in the distant past. Just desperate, I reckoned.
We had an offer of a bed for the night from the mother of the bride. I drove hard and fast to get away. The happy couple now have two sons and one divorce to their names.
That, good folks, is the story of the Wedding of Doom and Terror. I can recite most of it in one breath.
Rapscallion