I spent the best part (and the worst part, come to that) of the weekend chaperoning Custard around before he got married to the lovely Helen. Fortunately, I managed to perform my duties as best man entirely adequately (no ring lossage, no groom lossage or breakage, etc, etc) and no major harm befell him, and he emerged from the church on Saturday afternoon a happily married man.
I, however, was substantially less than happy for a goodly portion of Saturday morning; not because my best friend was getting married, or anything like, that. No. It’s because I was just a teensy bit hung over. The night before the wedding, we went out for a meal, and a few drinks. We then proceeded to another pub for a few more drinks. At closing time, we headed back to the hotel bar for a few shots of whisky to round the night off. Once we’d finished off the whisky, we moved onto the brandy. Once we’d had the brandy, insanity set in, and we started on the Galliano (neat, not in a cocktail). Once we’d had our fill of Galliano, we suffered a “Really Great” cocktail prepared for us by some random member of hotel staff (the exact ingredients of which I’m still unsure, but vodka, cointreau, sugar and fire were definitely invovled). In retrospect, I think the beginning of the end was when we made friends with the barman.
I remember a evil green hedgehog. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t a hallucination.
However, the combination of a hearty cooked breakfast and a couple of nurofen sorted me out, and fortunately the groom seemed unaffected (doubtless his Yorkshire constitution proving as strong as ever). The rest of the wedding day proceeded much as you’d expect – hours of photos, followed by drinks, cutting of the cake, speeches (mental note: next time, make sure you’ve gone through it at least once before you give a speech, and ensure that the pop-culture reference that your entire speech hinges upon is appreciated by more than two people in the audience), a buffet and a cringingly awful disco (never more than two people on the floor, but to the DJs credit, he did play Spitting Image’s Chicken Song).
Went windsurfing on Sunday. Best wind all summer. My arms ache like a bastard now, though.