One has to dress up for dining at Greggs
Yes, we had made it over the border, the passports had been checked, the scenery turned from the lush green fields and village squares of Merry Olde England to the blasted heaths, dead mountains and industrial fishing ports that exemplify that queer country which the Scotch call home. The wedding was held in an old ex-religious Kirk. The ceremony was a Humanist occasion, which basically meant that everyone in the place cheered and whooped when Stan and Paul exchanged rings. You'd not get that in the usual fucking boring traditional religious weddings. Oh no. They are more like fucking funerals. This was a much more joyous occasion. Even accompanied by readings of Bruce Springsteen songs and some guy playing guitar. I turned to Bob and whispered: 'It's always the fucking same. You go to a party and some cunt pulls out an acoustic and starts playing bad cover versions...'
Down in front!
The reception was being held in a massive marquee and the champagne and food never stopped flowing. Every time my glass ran empty, there would be an attentive waiter pouring more, almost tipping it down my gullet. Almost everyone I've ever met in my life was there. Alright, not everyone. But most of them. Pins, Rose, Paul, Megan, Dave, Livvy (+ Bethany), Dermot, plus assorted other halves were all there guzzling the free canapes and champers. Mind you, during the meal it was just my luck to get seated next to a fucking PhD student who insisted on telling me about the fucking thesis she was writing, even with me trying to to steer the conversation towards the Nazis. The meal also included a couple of faux pas: I said to her: Where in the States are you from? She says: Canada. I turn to her husband and ask: Where in Canada are you from? He says: San Fransisco. Oh well, I will never see them again.
The blotter acid was a big hit
As I said, the wine kept flowing, the conversation got bawdier and bawdier, the céilidh kicked off and saw me being swung around like a whirling dervish, sweating my bollocks off as I'd forgotten to remove my blazer. Fuck knows where they teach this stuff, it must be a Scottish gene that everyone automatically knows how to dance to the céilidh. The only ones spinning about completely out of time and uncoordinated were the English. The evening ended with the worst DJ set ever, I mean: Tears of Clown at a wedding? Maybe he'd just been jilted by his missus that day and wanted to ruin everyone's fun. Pfft. I robot danced my way through a few Northern Soul numbers then was brow beaten by Pins to head on the bus back to town to find somewhere else to dance. By the time the bus had rolled into Edinburgh central it was lashing it down, I was almost as sober as judge and any fire had long since burned out of my desire to dance. Instead of taking the lift offered with Dave and Livvy back to the B&B I spent the next hour and half tramping around in the rain looking for a taxi. The following day found us bleary eyed, half asleep but propping up the bar from midday. We all recounted the previous evening's debauchery to one another and half past five found Bob and myself on the train back to civilisation, a great deal happier but rather fatter.
Stan, It could have been me...
