No, yer grand. I don’t want to feel!
Weddins can be dauntin enough aul things I suppose. That is, if you’d never organised a few hundred pigs for collection for the factory or left to your own devices to cut a half acre of trees with a chainsaw at 15. So for me, when herself said “I will sure” back in October, I figured I could throw a blanket over the weddin yoke with my skills.
Now, here comes the advicey bit for any would-be grooms out there. The bits you think you know, you probably do know but the bits you don’t, you HAVE NO FUCKIN IDEA! So accept that there’ll be a good 45% that you never heard of.
Don’t worry, this isn’t some sort of self-help shite like “weddins for dummies”. I couldn’t give a rattlin shite what, how or who you get married to/where/when. This is a brief insight into a horror show I’d to fuckin-well go through last Sunday that might just give a few hoors a heads up as to what’s comin down the track.
Weddin fairs! This is a thing that climbed into my life the same way a stray Jack Russell might climb in the window of your car and bite you on the nose and fuck off before you get a chance to react, leaving you with a non fatal but a prick of a nasty cut on your face that you’ve to explain for the next fortnight. A fuckin dose! Now to be fair to herself she doesn’t bother me with stuff she knows I’m not suited for. The same smart way you wouldn’t ask a homeless fella to give you a tranquil face massage (it’ll be messy and no one will enjoy themselves). But with the weddin needin both our input on a few things, it seemed like a weddin fair might wrap up a lot of contractors you’d need (yup, herself essentially packaged the idea that it was like a trip to the ploughin championship, with sequins [t’fuck are sequins?]).
Off we trucked to this hotel ( I won’t name it but it rhymes with Shitty Vest). First thing of course the parkin is a dose. “Oy downt tink ye can perk dare” says this bollix in a hi-viz. “Well you tell me where I can park, and that’s exactly where I’ll put this yoke” says I. “Wouldja norra got de buss?” says he. “Ah for fucks sake. Look, this IS a space and if some fucker wants me to move, come and get me” says I. “Sownd” says he. And he wanders off. It was only then I’d noticed his hi-viz said “FUCK WATER CHARGES” on the back. A bit odd, but fuckit we’re here now.
Now if I was trying to flog my wares while bein an absolute cheeky bollix I’d try and charge ya at the door too. Holy shit they have balls on em. These 2 hatchet-faced witches at the door with their hand out lookin for an entrance fee. I was already turnin on my heels when herself produced our pre-paid tickets. Christ Pet?! So in we tip into this huge fuckin room which is full of stands or stalls or whatever they’re called, all with their own terrifying lookin woman (or bloke) rammin flyers into people’s faces. In a fuckin shot we were bein lambasted with questions by this wan with a nose that’d poke a dog from underneath a bed. “Have you found a venue? Where are you getting the rings made? What’s your Priest’s housekeeper’s middle name?”. Jesus it was unrelentin. “Canapé?” says this lad with a head on him that you’d never tire of clatterin as he shoved a tray of shite that you wouldn’t feed a duck with, into my face. We hadn’t made it 15 feet from the door at this stage when 2 more vultures jumped at us and started to sing (badly) some shite from some shit movie I can’t remember. “Have you found a band yet” says one of the vultures. I’ve a serious pain in my chest at this stage. “Eh, we have ya” says I. And quick as a shit they hop off to terrorise some other poor bastard. We make our way further on into the belly of this beast, tryin desperately not to catch anyone’s eye (I’m guessin prison rules apply here). There’s a plethora of semi-deceased lookin blokes in a similar position to me, hating their lives and wishin they were in Guantanamo Bay.
We keep movin towards a section that seems quiet enough, (never let your guard down) when out of nowhere this fuckin sidewinder bollox pops up in front of us in a move David Copperfield would be proud of. Ah now what does this fucker want? He looks like he took the Zoolander too seriously and he’s wearin more makeup than most of the women in the place (each to their own n all but Jaysus). He’s standin stock still in front of us with his arm outstretched and his other hands finger over his lips as much as to say “wisht a minute till I have a look at ye”. Of course the 2 of us are standin lookin at this hoor like the way 2 bewildered cows would look into a field of rushes.
“You look like a man-eh that-eh likes a gooood suit-eh. I am Sebastian” (needless to say this lad isn’t from Roscommon with that accent, I’m guessin Spain or some place where carryin on like a total gee-bag isn’t frowned upon). “Oh he does” says herself chirpin in just to add to this dose (she’s havin great craic while my eyeball is doin that twitchy thing again). Yer man squeals like 10 year old girl, clappin his hands together, draggin me over to a rack of suits that you wouldn’t put under a sick calf as beddin. “Thees is just-eh a smidgen of our rrrrange. Look at this one” he says as he holds up this fuckin suit with some sort of sparkley shit in it. “Eesn’t it devine-eh?!”. “It looks like someone got into a fight with an arts n crafts shop, and lost. What’s with the shiny shit in it?” says I. Water off a ducks back to this lad.
On he ploughs pullin out one worse suit after another. Herself is in stitches cos she can see beads of temper-sweat runnin down the side of my head. “You-eh have gooood taste-eh, I know this. What about-eh my suit-eh? You like-eh?”. It’s fuckin pink! No explanation needed here. “Feel it, go on-eh. Touch the fabric-eh” says he, rubbin the arm of his suit, while lookin at me suggestively (is that the right word?). “Eh no yer grand, I don’t want to have a feel” says I. I’ve aged about 10 years in this place. There’s a stand off between us for what feels like 20 minutes but in reality I’d say 5 seconds, till boom his eyes shoot to this poor unfortunate bastard behind me. “You look-eh like a man…..” And we’re free, fuckit this place is too much. That’s when I spot the emergency exit. Herself in fairness has had enough of this shite too.
Fresh air at last! We pop out the side of the building and I’m feeling like a lad who just sat 2 leavin certs and had to fight a herd of honey badgers. Herself is still in knots laughin and that’s when I spot our old friend in the hi-viz. “All OK with the car?” says I. “Oy dunno, shur oy don’t even work heeurr. I’m just heeurr to pick up me brudder” says he. Ah fuckit who cares, I’m thinkin. I’m just delighted to be out of that carnage.
We get to the car and there it is, the dreaded sticker. That sticker on your window that’ll make even the calmest driver run through an orphanage swingin a chainsaw in rage. A fuckin clamp! Jesus could this day get any worse?! I stomp back towards to the hotel. I’ll sort these fuckers I’m thinkin when I run into Mr hi-viz again, “jaysis yous don’t look happy pal” says he. “I’m fuckin well not” says I. “Ya oy saw de clamp I did” says he. “Ah here’s de brudder now. Seamus, over heeurr”. And who is it but the Sebastian bollox. “Ah howya lads” says he. He’s changed his tune. The fuckers rollin a fag and talkin like a bloke who was raised on coddle. “Story anyway? You look loyke someone’s pissed in yer cornflakes” says Sebastian or Seamus. “I’ve a fuckin clamp on my car, that’s what’s up. And here what was that shit in there with the accent?” says I. He takes a long drag out of the rollie and while smiling, the hoor turns to me, “Ah sure, it’s like parkin in the right place Tommo, you gotta keep an eye out for de right ones” and walks off with the hi-viz brother.
It’s 6 days since he said that to me and I still haven’t a fuckin clue what he meant. All I do know is that I’m still €80 lighter, 12 years older and I will never again see the inside of a weddin fair.
Anyone know a good weddin planner? I might just hire Sebastian/Seamus.