Hardcore Hens
Then what? Well the bride-to-be has got her work cut out. There is a fine tradition of ridiculousness in the hen nights of yore. The Hen tomorrow has got some crackers to live up to.
Firstly my own. I dunno, you make one casual comment and all hell breaks loose. My casual comment was in response to a male friend asking if he could come on the hen night.
Word spreads. “We can get to both Hen and Stag Night if we get ourselves some frocks,” goes the rumour. I never meant the remark to be taken seriously but in the time-space between the word spreading and the actual night, a great deal of money has been spent, a bin bag full of man-hair has been removed, other hair has been tonged and backcombed and make up has been applied by the shovel full. The effort! The attention to detail! The weirdness! About ten men are ranging in looks from teenage starlet to retired headmistress on a night out. Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, eat your heart out. After I picked myself up the floor from laughing so much, I wondered, what would have happened if my response to the question had been “The only way you’ll get to come along is if you get yourself a ticket to an Amsterdam clinic and get yourself a lady-flower ”.
Second only to that was Auntie Kezza’s hen night. Now Kezza used to work with Meeester in Social Work for the Elderly. Between them, they’ve stories that make you blanche. Poo stories, wee stories, naked old men stories. Meeester says he has an idea for Kezza’s hen night. An idea so repellent, I ask him to reconsider. “Nah, don’t worry…Kezza will love it”. The two of them have had to adopt a cavalier attitude to bodily functions to get them through the working day. It’ll be fine. Cue Kezza’s Hen Night where a mix of Aunties, Mums workmates and friends are in an upmarket Chinese restaurant. Plates are being cleared away, when there is the noise of metal clanging against metal and a little bit of a commotion. Some of us look round to see an elderly man in zimmer-frame manage to negotiate the last stair. He is wearing a dirty overcoat, flat cap, cookie duster grey moustache, and a (full) catheter bag is strapped to the walking frame.
Within seconds he has set down a ghetto blaster and pressed play. Tom Jones’s “What’s New Pussycat”blares out and the geriatric burlesque floor show begins. The coat comes off, the long johns are brown-stained, and the catheter bag is hoisted and jet of pale yellow liquid pours forth, straight into the mouth of Kezza like she’s on holiday in Torremolinos. It is wine. She just knows it is.
How far did Meeester take the floor show? I can’t remember. I think I blacked out.
In cars
I don’t remember if there is any footage but I know why he’s asking.
My mum insisted that me and Dad scope out a few places one Saturday, either from beneath the large meteor that had landed on her from out of nowhere, or from a hospital intensive care unit; I can’t remember which. Whatever state she was in, she didn’t seem to notice that neither me or my dad couldn’t be arsed.
Have you ever seen a spoiler on a wedding car? Have you ever noticed bling bling alloys and chrome wheel trims on a marital chariot? What, not even in Trailer Trash Brides Magazine or one of the weddings of Pamela Anderson? Dad quickly bundles Mum and Bridesmaid into PimpMyBride. He’s pretty certain she hasn’t noticed, and we’re hoping that the inside of the car doesn’t include furry dice and a skull-topped gearstick to give the game away.
“Dad?” “Yes…” “Can I ask you something?” Dad looks slightly uneasy. Surely his daughter is not going to ask him for some cheesey marriage advice? “Is it just me, or is our chauffeur not the spitting image of Fred West?”
Bells, Booze and Blasphemy
There is nothing so unnatural as the phenomenon I am about to tell you about. It is as if the laws of nature turned a blind eye and allowed something to happen despite a crucial element being absent. I’ll lay out those elements for you now and then the full horror will be revealed.
The Place
The place is Glasgow. Hope Street, to be precise. The city is held in great affection the world over. It holds memories of good times, good people and good vibes. Songs, books and plays are written about it. Comedy careers rest on its very existence.
The occasion
A wedding reception. A celebration of the nuptials of two individuals brought together through love.
The participants
A hall filled with about one hundred guests, most of whom had never met one another. Aunties mixed with friends, neighbours sat next to workmates, acquaintances held sway with old schoolmates. A wedding is never an easy social gathering to mix up.
“Right, what do you want to drink?” asks Meeester.
“Glass of white wine. Hurry back….don’t leave me for long.” I say nervously eying the sea of “friends I haven’t met yet”.
Minutes pass, when suddenly I see an ashen face drill a terrified stare at me as Meeester rushes forwards.
“Holy shit, there’s nothing. It’s ….it’s…”, Meeester frantically whispers.
“What is it? Calm down…tell me…”
“You’d better sit down and brace yourself. It’s a… DRY WEDDING!”
“Dry wedding…don’t understand…” I am genuinely confused.
“Dry wedding, no booze…no bar…nothing. There is nothing to drink.”
I stare at him blankly until it is apparent he is telling the truth.
“But how can there BE such a thing…? It isn’t ….I haven’t ever….whaaaaaa? Nothing? Not even sherry?”
“Nothing….absolutely nothing.” Meeester shakes his head.
Suddenly a voice calls out from the stage, “Ladies and Gentlemen, as the bride and groom will shortly be arriving, can you please find your seats. You’ll find your names and allocated tables on the board at the front of the hall”
“Right, let’s leave now…they’ll never notice. We don’t know anyone anyway. This is going to be shit,” I say.
“We can’t,” he nods in the direction of a wee lady in lilac, “ Mum.”
Meeester glances over at Meeesus M, his Mum, who we’ve accompanied. The groom is the Minister and family friend of the Martinis. He is also the man who married Meeester and I over a year ago, hence the reciprocal invite to his own wedding. Meeesus M doesn’t drink anyway and is as happy as a sober sandboy chatting to old church pals.
“Did you know about this?” already I start with the finger pointing.
“No! Keith drinks. Must be his wife’s lot. Well, look at them…” he looks over at some buttoned up sisters, a sour lemonesque mother, and a joyless defeated wizened father.
“Bloody Christians. Where in the Bible does it say anything about no booze. The whole book is booze soaked! Jesus drank wine, he wanted others to drink wine. He was practically forcing it down the disciples necks at the Last Supper. These people are DEFYING Jesus!” I say through gritted teeth, the full horror now sinking in.
But I am silenced before I can go on about the Second Coming happening tonight and Jesus being pissed off that there’s no vino on offer to welcome him.
“Sshhhh! We’ll just have to get on with it.” Meeester is now at the acceptance stage, having heard the news two minutes earlier than me. I’m still firmly at “anger”.
“It’s unpatriotic. That’s what it is.” I’ve moved off blasphemy and onto jingoism.
“We’ll be fine” says Meeester ushering me towards our table, filled with six other people we don’t know. People who seem unperturbed by the dryness.
“It nullifies their vows. No toast, no marriage.” I am now belligerent and frankly annoyed at the deception, looking now, to the laws of the land, for justification.
“Maybe we’ll get a glass to toast them. That’s it…they’ll dole out booze for the toast.” Meeester has suddenly snapped back to the “denial stage”.
Two hours later, the toast has come and gone and no more than diluted orange cordial has passed anyone’s lips.
In the confusion that is the start of the “Strip the Willow” dance (which you need to be hammered to attempt, by Scottish Law- look it up), Meeester and I take the matter into our own hands and escape down Hope Street, on the pretense of “getting some more money out” (for what?) to the legendary Griffin Bar.
During this 30 minute Griffin session we have a glass or two and a short or two. To be fair, this is much more than we would normally squeeze into that timeframe. But we’re on borrowed time. We’ll be expected back for the Gay Gordons.
During our hiatus, we also gamble on the bandit, swear a lot, covet someone’s ass, think impure thoughts and take the Lord’s name in vain a couple of times.
Dry weddings- you heard it here first.
Be warned; they do exist.
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Well-hard Wedding
You’ve got to feel sorry for Colleen McLaughlin.
Apart from the obvious (waking up to the sight she has to wake up to), it appears she’s having problems with the invitation list to her wedding. She’s worried about Rooney’s dodgy family ruining her day. They are a bunch of rough diamonds apparently. Who’da thunk it?
Most people will think she’s a snotty cow, but I feel for her.
About a month before Meester and I got married, we had to attend a family wedding in Meeester’s parents’ hometown of Motherwell. Those of you who know Motherwell are taking a sharp intake of breath right about now.
Meeester’s folks left Motherwell in the sixties when they got married, but the rest of the family still live there. Motherwell is well hard. In fact it should be called Motherwellhard.
It was 1995 and one of the cousins is getting wed. For some reason, the full extended Martini clan decided to attend this wedding.
It was a colourful day, to say the least.
The Bride
The Bride is tiny, brunette and pretty. We see her for the first time as she comes down the aisle.
Double take…there are five clones behind her in shiny aqua puffball dresses. Her five bridesmaids are clearly her sisters. They are exact copies of her except they range in size.
Her’s is your typical East-End Glasgow Catholic family. Quite a few Glasgow Catholics still practice the no-contraception thing. I mean, even the Irish are ditching that one- there’s just South America, Africa and Glasgow making sure not a single spermatozoa is spilled.
Living proof of this practice is these six girls, all with barely nine months between them. The reason they all look exactly the same is because the poor mother’s body didn’t have time to reset and make a new template for the next kid as soon as the last one was out. It still thought it was making the last one.
Mother of the bride is probably only 33 but looks 70, and is probably expecting the next clone.
It gets Stephen King freakier when you see the sisters all lined up at the top table later on. They’re like Russian dolls, ‘cept in polyester, frosted lipstick and sovereign rings. They are named after dead nuns.
The Best Man
Cousin groom’s best man is his elder brother. He is a known Motherwell hardman and has seen the inside of chokey on more than a few occasions. Meeester remembers him fondly as a cool older cousin. A cool older cousin who has morphed into a dangerous geezer involved in some dodgy rackets. What a difference a decade makes. His hard mates are around him throughout the day like he is some kind of Weegie Tony Soprano.
The Line Up
Oh! What to do in the line up? What’s that line in Four Weddings and a Funeral?
“I hate line-ups, I never know what to say”
“Just smile and say, ‘You must be very proud’.”
Good advice. Hugh and his posh pals might not have been so worried about social niceties in this line up situation. Their manners would be severely challenged if the best man were to grab their girlfriend bodily and effectively feel her up. On being introduced to the Best Man, my arse was squeezed and fondled and he grunted in my ear,
“C’mere darlin’”. Not that I could come any closer.
I’ve not been violated in a line up before or since.
Apart from the obvious embarrassment, I spent the next half hour worried that this faction of the family may yet accept their invitation to my own nuptials and I will be molested once again in my own line-up in a month’s time.
The Wedding Feast
We’re in the Motherwell Miner’s Social Club for the reception; not featuring in Brides Magazine alongside Blenheim Palace any time soon. Staff come round for drinks orders and are immediately flummoxed by Meeester’s request,
Meeester: Which reds do you have?
Waiter: Eh?
Meeester: Red Wine? Is there a House Red?
Waiter: Hang on…(shouts the full length of the hall) Bernadette! Hiv we goat ony wine?”
Barmaid: Em, I dunno, there’s maybe a boattle in the back, Stevie.
Meeester is brought Co-Op Red Lambrusco, with dust on the bottle (must be vintage). I never knew there was such a thing. But there it was in all it’s sachharine sweet, pinky, fizzy 3% alc. £1.99 glory. Oz Clarke would have started a flippin’ riot.
All around us, it’s shorts, nips and pints. You can feel the disapproval of the guests at the uppity ways of the Martinis.
“ Wine? Wine? ….Fuckin’ poof. “
The Top Table
Meeester’s Mum has been asked to sing at the service, and to show their thanks, she is invited to sit at the top table with the Wedding Party.
There are about ten people she barely knows sat beside her. We look over and feel sorry for her.
We feel even sorrier for her when we realise that she is the only person at the top table not smoking. And I’m not talking lighting up after the meal; the full table all have fags on the go throughout the dinner. The Mother of the Bride has one wedged in her fingers as she holds her cutlery, king-ash threatening to sully her steak pie at every turn. Food is eaten in-between draws.
Meeester Gets a Dress Rehearsal
Meeester is the only one of the guests in a kilt.
He feels uneasy at first, since everyone else is in a suit. He feels more self-conscious when, after the dinner tables are cleared, the entire wedding party have gone and got changed into shirts and jeans, boob tubes and minge base skirts, like it was any other Saturday night at the Miner’s Social.
At one point the groom and best man go off with their mates to play pool in the other room!
As a result of this, drunken people at the club think Meeester’s the groom. All night he is being bought drinks by random strangers, and on several occasions he has to refuse money crushed into his hands as a wedding gift.
Red-faced broken veined certain heart attack victim: I didnae hae time to get you anything, but that’s for your honeymoon, son.
Meeester: Oh! I’m not the groom.
Heart attack: (Not hearing, or caring) You look aifter that wee lassie…she’s a fuckin’ diamond….
Heart attack drunkenly sways off…leaving Meeester clutching money.
As the night goes on, the reception turns into a drunken nightmare, with fights outside and sweating dipsomaniac uncles starting family arguments with other sweating dipsomaniac uncles.
Terrifyingly, more and more relatives I’ve never met start to make noises about organising mini buses and such to Aberdeen for our wedding.
Of course, they never came.
And like Colleen, I’m afraid, I was quite glad.
The Gift
Today we went to a wedding.
As usual, we’re running late. So late that I’m wrapping the wedding present in the car and writing the card in between gear changes.
I’ve just read that back, it sounds like I am also driving. I wasn’t. Don’t call the police on me. The worst I’ve ever done is get dressed whilst driving.
As I wrap, Meeester reminds me of our bad reputation present wise. There are at least four people at this wedding who will remember our previous wedding present faux pas. We take bets on how long it will be before one of these people brings it up today.
This is the story of the wedding present faux pas that will haunt Misssy and Meeester for as long as they both shall live.
It is ten years ago and Meeester and Misssy are yet to have the pleasure of Indy and Junior Missy’s company. They have been married for about a year.
Meeester’s band are supposed to be playing a wedding. They never normally do weddings but a friend of a friend of a friend has asked a bunch of Aberdeen bands to play a small set at his wedding reception, and for some other reason Meeester’s band agree, despite not really knowing the bride or groom.
The band WAGS are also invited to the wedding. Misssy has made it clear that she is not going to a wedding of people she has never met before.
The day of the wedding arrives and Meeester gets a call from the groom to say that his band needn’t play, he has over invited bands and he’d rather that they just come along as guests instead. Meeester and Misssy decide they won’t go. Not knowing them, and such.
On the evening of the reception, friends who ARE going to the wedding despite not knowing the bride and groom, arrive at the Flat of the Flying Martinis with booze, and the agenda of persuading them to come along to the wedding after all.
After much to-ing and fro-ing Misssy relents and agrees to go along.
“But I am not going to a wedding without a present”
“The only shop that is open is the all night BP garage”
“Well I can hardly turn up with some Calor Gas, a bag of kindling and a pack of Magic Trees, can I?”
“Nobody will know we’ve not brought a present. Forget it”
Misssy counters, “But I’LL know. We have to take a present.”
Then it dawns on her that in the attic there is a small mountain of semi-opened wedding presents from their own wedding. You know, unwrapped enough to know who sent you it, but put in stasis still in its box for a time where you decide you either need it, or it’s time to put it to a car boot sale.
Or…. use it as a wedding present for somebody else.
Misssy grabs a couple of boxes and decides a set of matching mugs on a wooden tree are just the ticket. The party can now go to the wedding. In fact the party have all added their names to the label.
“To Couple we Barely Know,
Here’s some token of our embarrassment that we’re at your flipping wedding but we can barely remember your names. Have these mugs to remember us by as we are sure to never meet again. Sorry.
Love
Misssy, Meeester, Friend X and Friend Y”
In fact, whilst at the wedding a couple of other people ask if they can stick their names on the card as well. Fine by us. We sheepishly place it on the table crammed with presents from other people who actually love and KNOW the happy couple.
But, oh for the love of God, why didn’t anyone check out the inside of the box containing the mugs properly?
The couple are opening their presents the next morning and are moderately delighted with the present from the gang of people they barely know, but who came to their wedding anyway. But oh, what’s this card inside the box? A further greeting from the merrie band of people whose faces we woudn’t be able to point out in a line up?
“To Misssy and Meeester M
Wishing you our warmest congratulations on your wedding day,
Bill and Anne Neighboursofyourmum XXXX”
Luckily, the couple thought it was hilarious. They vowed to pass it on to the next wedding they went to, with the original label, our label and their future label all intact and enclosed.
So, if you get wed and get a gift that has a succession of labels/cards attached, then you are in receipt of the “Gift of Shame”.
Pass it on.
Update: On my myspace (where I also post the Misssives) the girl who was best man (I know!) at the wedding has been in touch. The couple in question have now split and she is hoping that she will receive the mug tree as a gift in her own upcoming nuptials. Ha! Lovely!
Further Update: This post was published in the book, “You’re not he Only One” available from www.lulu.com
