I’m getting married next month.
I write this piece with a fair bit of trepidation, given the fact that my bride-to-be takes great pleasure in scanning the articles of this great website in the hope that she’ll find, and screengrab, my typos.
But on I go. It’s a public service, you see, a warning to every man out there that the sooner the wedding, the more he can expect to hear the following phrases, questions, and statements.
Originality goes out the window and the panic, the sheer panic, takes over.
“You won’t feel it now…”
With less than a month to go, this one is flashing up on the screen of my phone on an almost daily basis. “What? The Christmas? The new football season? LENT?” is the only appropriate response.
“How are the preparations going?”
Well, my tongue still tastes like glue, my mother isn’t talking to me because I refused to invite her friend Maureen from yoga, I’ve no idea where to sit Teddy the drunken uncle, I can’t afford to go to the pub and the band just cancelled.
Grand otherwise.
“You’d better to come to the pub tonight – sure you’ll never be let out once you’re married!”
Because no married man ever went for a few pints. Ever.
“How many are you having at it?”
Whether this is a subtle way of finding out how much you’re going to be spending on free drink, or just somebody being genuinely (and understandably) interested in your big day, the only correct answer to this is, “well, we haven’t got all the RSVPs in yet but we’re looking at approximately 22,618 for the dinner.”
Give or take.
“Have you your speech written?”
Hang on, is that not what 11pm the night before was invented for? That’s how I got almost 200 points in my Leaving Cert, anyway. Oh yeah.
“You’re not inviting HIM, are ya? Sure he’s a prick…”
You’re never going to keep everybody happy with the list of guests. Don’t even try. If you want to invite the local barman because he gives you free cocktail sausages and manky chips, even though he smells of three-day-old curry, you go right on ahead.
“What do you mean you didn’t invite *yer man*? Sure he’s great craic…”
There’s always one lad who’s been hanging around in the same group as you since your late teens, but you just never saw eye-to-eye. He’s a loudmouth, fairweather Leinster fan who thinks anything other than pints of Heineken are ‘hipster shite’ and gets even more obnoxious once the clock strikes midnight.
No way was he getting an invite.
“You’re not having fish/meat/vegetables/cheese on the menu, are you?”
No. We’re serving crisp sandwiches, sliders from Eddie Rockets and cups of lasagne.
Actually, none of that sounds too bad.
“Band or DJ?”
It’s all the one as long as I don’t hear ‘Rock The Boat,’ ‘Tubthumping’ or ‘Kiss From A Rose.’
“Don’t bleedin’ have me sitting with them, ya bollix!”
I consider it a small miracle that I haven’t returned to the house to find herself gently rocking in the corner of the kitchen, little pieces of torn up paper littering the floor and threatening to call the whole thing off because that uncle won’t sit with this aunt.
The Table Plan; three words to sink your heart for years to come.
LISTEN: You Must Be Jokin’ with Aideen McQueen – Faith healers, Coolock craic and Gigging as Gaeilge
