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Sep 07 2011
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Wedding week diary – Wednesday: Lonely coffee

There’s an art to the way in which you conduct yourself while alone in public places that are typically reserved for mutual enjoyment. This is of particular importance in pubs and an art in which my dad excels. He’s been visiting pubs on his own for as long as I can remember and I’m sure many years before that. This isn’t because he hasn’t got any friends or because he takes any chance he can to get away from the house, but simply because my father is perfectly comfortable sitting there on his own, enjoying a pint of beer or glass of wine.

I’m a novice. However, travelling the country alone has certainly warmed me to the idea that having just yourself for company is, actually, alright. I’ve had some pretty stimulating conversations with me. I’ve even argued to the point where I need one of ‘us’ to leave the room before it gets ugly.

Today, halfway through a dog walk, I fancied a coffee. So, I entered the nearest pub I could find and approached the bar.

You have to give off an air of confidence in order to achieve maximum lonesome nirvana. Not over-confidence, as that simply renders you a tit. No, just an indication to those around you that you may be alone but you’re perfectly happy with the fact and do not require their sympathy. This often means striking up meaningless conversations, off the cuff. I’m not great at this, I’ll admit, which is probably why I asked the barman: ‘What coffees do you have, mate?’

This took him a little by surprise, as my windswept, shaven-headed appearance should only ever result in a request for ‘man drinks’ like real ale. Suggesting that all I was interested in was Americanised, needlessly complicated varieties of coffee was dangerous.

He duly listed all the coffees they could whip up and I plumped for a cappuccino.

I then browsed the paper rack. ‘They’re all Sunday’s papers, mate,’ said my new barman friend (I figured we were close enough now to refer to him as so – we’d been through so much together).

‘No problem,’ I said, picking up a dog-eared copy of the Mail on Sunday. And it wasn’t a problem. I was going to read three-day old news simply because I could. That’s what us loners do. We drop our pants and fart in the face of conformity.

I got bored of the paper very quickly and ended up playing Cut The Rope on my iPhone instead. That, too, lost its appeal, so I took a photo of my coffee. I’m not sure why I did that and, unfortunately, my new mate caught me doing so. To his credit, he pretended he hadn’t witnessed it and got on with his duties.

Realising I was in over my head, I decided to leave. Another thing my dad is good at is saying goodbye to bar staff in every pub he visits. Unfortunately, my misjudged beverage paparazzi episode seemed to have forced my ex barman friend to get as far away from me as possible. The pub was suddenly empty. There was no one to say goodbye to, so I trundled out. Alone.

I don’t need your sympathy, though. It was fine. Really.

Anyone fancy a pint?

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Sep 05 2011
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Wedding week diary – Monday: Hot sandwiches and scary cows

Cows: scary.

Today, I bought a sandwich toaster, a torch, about four hundred AA batteries and very nearly got into a fight with a cow.

And so begins a week with a somewhat surreal air to it – my last week as an unmarried man.

The sandwich toaster and torch bits were easy. I’ve lost count of how many of the former I’ve bought in my life but the number is dangerously close to rendering them a disposable item. The batteries were unplanned, but, then, they always are. It doesn’t matter that I’ll take fourteen years to use the mountain I ended up carting back to the car. No, there’s just something comforting about stocking up on the little cylindrical bundles of energy, even if you have absolutely no use for them at all.

There’s nothing comforting, however, about being eyeballed by twenty-seven cows while in a field with only your dog for company. And that’s exactly what happened to me this evening.

I don’t care how soft this sounds – cows are scary. Sure, they look cute and harmless chewing grass as you admire them from the safety of your driving seat, but as soon as you get within fifty yards of them – on foot – they stop, raise their heads and just stare at you. All of them. I think there was even one playing the piano who also stopped, put down his scotch and swung his head in my direction.

At first, you think they’re perhaps just a bit stupid and therefore struggling to make out what the two-legged creature approaching them is. Then you realise they’re not stupid at all. Like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park, they’re weighing you up. They’re working together, sussing you out. The bull, in particular, who was about the size of a small village, followed my every move as I clumsily and pathetically stumbled around the field, searching for an alternate exit (they had surrounded the only gate offering escape).

All in all, it took me about twenty minutes to pluck up the courage to scurry past them, practically hugging the fence (until I spotted it was electrified). My dog, who had frozen with fear moments earlier, was tucked under my arm, head bobbing as I speed-minced my way to the gate.

The cows shrugged and got back to what they were doing. The unexpected entrance of a bearded Paris Hilton had clearly lost it’s appeal.

I’m not sure what happens after you get married, but I’m pretty sure that, as the husband, I’ll need to man up a bit.

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Jul 21 2011
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An ode to my future wife

Wedding invites: troublesome

It was a simple request, chosen specifically because it was foolproof, impossible to get wrong and wouldn’t land me in trouble with the police, the government or inadvertently involve me in the hacking scandal.

“Just peel off the paper invite which has been lightly glued onto the card,” said Lindsey.

Before this, the only significant responsibility I’d undertaken for the wedding was asking her dad if I could marry his daughter. By comparison, this was in Blue Peter activity territory.

As it transpired, I’d have had an easier time building Tracy Island out of toilet rolls and Fairy bottles.

Basically, I made a right old hash of it.

I was immediately told off and informed that I must not attempt to modify the invitations ever again. I wasn’t particularly upset with this instruction, but did feel a little bit pathetic. After all, the task with which I’d been entrusted could have been performed by a very small child. A small child wouldn’t have left the card looking like the aftermath of the Hiroshima bomb. Nor would they have insisted that they could fix it and make it look less like a nuclear wipe out and more like a wedding invitation, only to be told by someone cleverer than them that it would be a far safer idea to go and make a cup of tea instead.

There’s a brilliant BBC3 program called Don’t Tell The Bride. The premise is simple; give the groom twelve grand and tell him to organise the entire wedding. All of it. Without ever speaking to the bride.

How I have laughed at these poor chaps as they grapple with the life-and-death trip wire that is The Right Wedding Dress. I chortled, as they picked bridesmaid dresses more suited to a night out in Lava and Ignite. I practically soiled myself laughing at the guy who blew nearly the entire budget on a trip to Vegas, leaving the majority of the bride’s family without a wedding invitation. “You’ve broken my heart,” she sobbed at the airport, uninvited brother looking on wearily in the background. It is human misery at its absolute best.

However, I have a newfound respect for these guys. How they do it is beyond me. The program only features the main bits – what it fails to highlight is the need to fill in all the gaps. The tiny little touches that make a wedding. The things that, as a guest, you spot, comment on and ultimately remember.

Take ‘favours’. When Lindsey suggested we offer them to every guest, I very nearly canceled the entire do. I had no intention of being lumbered with promises to assist cleaning out Uncle Kev’s shed, or of providing lifts for the older generation without vehicles. And there was no way I would ever help someone fit a bathroom. Particularly if it involved tiling.

To my relief, I learned that favours are just little presents you give to everyone. But I didn’t know that. And because I didn’t even know of their existence, they would not have been present at the wedding, had I organised it.

I’m lucky. My future wife has almost single-handedly directed the whole thing. With the help of some very creative and generous friends and family, and myself occasionally destroying cards or suggesting entirely inappropriate music (Dark Side Of The Moon in its entirety during the wedding breakfast was apparently a poor idea) she’s conducted everything without ever turning into a ‘bridezilla’ or boring everyone to death about it.

I also know it is going to be one hell of a do – because of her.

I’ve long-held the belief that a wedding is primarily about one person – the bride. Us blokes turn up, say our bit at the altar, thank everyone during the speeches, get ridiculed by our best mate in front of our entire family and, eventually, end up at the bar with a long-lost uncle nursing a Jack Daniels. None of that’s particularly difficult, but what Lindsey’s doing is.

And I can’t wait.

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Jun 23 2011
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More biscuits, vicar?

I bought some HobNobs yesterday. While it’s tempting to leave this post there, it was for a very good reason: a vicar was on the way to our house for a pre-wedding meeting.

I figured we’d need lots of tea and loads of biscuits. This was on the basis that all previous meetings I’d held with vicars involved tea and biscuits. The latter seemed of primary importance at these meetings (alright, there’s only been one) and were displayed with Michelin star precision. I wanted us to impress. Like we knew what we were doing when it came to biscuits and, obviously, God, and stuff. I’d needed to visit the shop for other items, but the biscuits were top of the list. They were that important.

Our lady vicar duly turned up and, after the usual pleasantries and tripping over of the dog, we settled down in the living room.

‘Tea?’ I asked.

‘Yes please. No sugar, just milk,’ she replied.

The first catastrophic holy hospitality failure happened when I couldn’t find a clean teaspoon. The only one which could be described as marginally clean was already in the dish washer, resting against the fork I’d used to prepare the dogs dinner and encrusted with beef, liver and all the chewy bits they extract from cows which are only fit for dogs.

I retrieved the spoon, checked she wasn’t watching (and offered a quick glance above to ensure He wasn’t, either) and wiped off the bits of intestine with the tea towel.

Then, I discovered we’d run out of sensible mugs. The only ones we had left were Sponge Bob Square Pants, Pink Floyd’s The Wall and one ‘proudly’ displaying a cheesy photo of Lindsey and myself on the London Eye. None were suitable for a priest. Thankfully, I managed to find a couple of normal ones but had to plump for the Pink Floyd one myself. It was least offensive, after all.

We didn’t know what to expect from the meeting. My best man had informed me that we would be made to sit through a video depicting the perfect marriage and how we should treat each other in years to come. You know, how we should not get divorced, ensure we go to church and definitely have two children called Jack and Sophia.

I had already devised a plan for this. Our DVD player, I would say, is fucked. Well, maybe not in those exact words, but I would make it quite clear that it would not do the job for which it is intended and that we have absolutely no other means of displaying said video. I even considered bashing the DVD player up a bit with a hammer to give my bare-faced lie some credibility but conceded He might be taking note.

Thankfully, the DVD did not appear. A CD fell out of her bag at one point and while its double sidedness gave me a sudden glimmer of hope that it might, in fact, be The Wall and therefore give us some common ground on which to muse (and provide material for her little talk at the wedding ceremony – you know: ‘I’ve been getting to know Mark and Lindsey over the last few weeks and was delighted to discover that Mark and I share a common love of Pink Floyd’s post-Barrett work’), I realised it was more likely a hymn collection. Or possibly a Michael Bolton double album, which is essentially the same thing.

I’m not sure why I was so anxious about the arrival of a priest at our house. We’ve got nothing to hide. I’m not against religion. I wasn’t alone in my unease, either. At the eleventh hour, Lindsey had suggested we need something resembling a cross in our living room and asked if I could ‘fashion something out of some wood from the garden’. The only wood we have in the garden is decking and the resulting cross would therefore be an exact scale replica of the very one Jesus was nailed to. That would look a little odd wedged in our living room.

Our dog, Eddie, didn’t appear to be quite so apprehensive. The first thing he did on her entering the room was fart and then, as we were halfway through discussing the order of service, decided to sit on the vicar’s notebook, his bum resting neatly on our choice of hymns.

After a while, she left. I headed back to the kitchen and stopped dead. My heart sank. There, on the top of the fridge were the biscuits. Unopened. Un-shared. Wasted.

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Jun 17 2011
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Don’t shoot the vegetarian

“What can you do for vegetarians?” asked my fiancée.

“Vegetarians?” The chef, who would cook eighty meals for  our wedding guests in three months time, mulled over the question.

He’ll say soup, I thought. That’s the easy answer. Or some kind of salad. Pine nut, maybe.

“I’d have them all shot,” he said, folding his arms.

No pine nuts, then.

He hadn’t thought to check if either of us were vegetarians (we’re not) but then, he probably didn’t care. I wouldn’t have argued with him, either. He was built like an aircraft carrier and, had I been a vegetarian and taken offence to his suggestion that we should all be dead, would probably have punched me in the face immediately and without hesitation.

It was a minor hiccup during our menu tasting but I’ve noticed that our dealings with the reception venue have been littered with similar hiccups. Silly things. Things you probably think I’m a bit of an arse for highlighting. But I couldn’t care less. As someone who spends his entire working life ensuring every piece of communication, whether it be written or spoken, is the best it can be, such disregard for the most basic of requirements really makes me very cross indeed. So cross, that I’ve decided to write about it.

I’m not perfect. In fact, quite often, I get it wrong. Take the time I called a prospective customer Brian. That would have been fine, only his name was Bernard and he was quick to point out that, because I got it wrong, I was not allowed to continue breathing any more. Thankfully, this exchange happened over email, but I felt pretty bad about it, regardless.

It surprises me, therefore, that other people don’t take similar pride in their jobs and the firms they work for. Our chef friend, for example, should perhaps have thought before opening his mouth. Similarly, the events manager neglected to shake either of our hands after our meeting. As far as I’m concerned, that means the meeting is still very much taking place, only I’m writing this three days later and there’s no sign of her. Perhaps she’s gone to harvest the coffee beans for the drinks we weren’t offered.

There was one thing which really got my goat, though. A couple of weeks ago, we received some documentation from the venue stating that I was marrying Gemma Allen. I’m not sure who Gemma is, and I think she’d be equally surprised to find out she’s getting married to me in three month’s time – as would my fiancée, Lindsey. I politely pointed out the mistake and asked them to ensure such an error wouldn’t happen on the day, because that would resemble more a scene from Friends than our dream day. They apologised profusely. It wouldn’t happen again, we were told.

This week, we sat down to our menu tasting and were handed a form on which to make notes about the food. At the top, Lindsey’s surname was spelt ‘Allan’.

It’s spelt Allen.

“Oh, silly me. That’s obviously me typing too quickly!” Exclaimed our wedding coordinator. I would have been dying inside. She didn’t appear to be.

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Oct 24 2010
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The ‘W’ Word

It was a simple question. Or at least we thought it was. The answer that followed, however, was about as ill-judged and arrogant as you can imagine.

“No. We can’t offer a lower room rate, because we know we can fill the hotel. Particularly on Saturdays.’

At first, I thought it was simply a poorly delivered quip. A bit of a joke. Something to lighten the mood. After all, the question of whether or not a hotel could lower the room rate a bit for our wedding guests was surely not an unreasonable one. Considering the place only had twelve rooms and we were banking on bringing along ninety people, the only answer to our question could be ‘yes’. Surely. It’s not as though we’re going to struggle to fill the hotel, is it?

But no, she’s wasn’t joking. Her face remained as stony as it had during the hurried tour of the venue.

She wasn’t the wedding co-ordinator and was visibly fed up with the fact that she ‘d had to step in to show us round. Every question we asked was met with a similarly gloomy response. The pretty decorations and room layout in the marquee? No, everything was extra. Literally everything, including the carpet, dance floor and ceiling drapes. Essentially, if you didn’t bother with those things you’d be paying £3,000 for a big, empty tent.

As we prepare for the biggest day of our lives so far, it is becoming increasingly obvious that the mere mention of the ‘w’ word to any potential venue or supplier makes you as popular as an estate agent. You may be looking to spend an awful lot of money with them, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a wedding and therefore budget cannot be an issue. And neither should the level of sales service you receive.

In short, and for reasons I simply can’t fathom, you’re treated like dirt.

My fiance went wedding dress shopping yesterday. One shop wouldn’t allow them to take photos. “The designers don’t like it,” said the shopkeeper, who had already complained about the fact she’d probably miss her lunch if they insisted on looking at more dresses.

If ever there was an industry which demonstrated the highest level of poor salesmanship, flagrant disregard for customers and simple, out-and-out daylight robbery pricing tactics, it’s this one.

And don’t get me started on chair covers.

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