Andrew's Wedding

Weddings and regardless where in the world they take place, are a cause for celebration. The same gusto that a wedding in Uganda has is the same gusto that a wedding in Papa New Guinea, America, Brazil and England for example have. It is a time to party, make merry, drink more than a beer too many and for the bride and groom, to sit at the high table while trying to work out just who on earth invited the couple who have heaped their dessert on the same plate as the main meal.

The first English wedding that went to was that of Andrew Norman, an old school friend. After university Andrew joined the police force and after graduating from police academy he thought it was about time he made an honest woman of Julie. While Julie was thrilled, I don’t think she was all amused at being proposed to in a pub but nevertheless, it didn’t bother me because it was Andrew and not I, who would have to face her tantrums years to come. And she had tantrums by the container full.
In the build up, there were no wedding, committee meetings or fundraisers to attend. All we had to do was to turn up. Not to say that as a policeman, Andrew was loaded. They way the wedding system works in England, is that the bride’s parents pay for the wedding.

Hang on. I have just read through what I have written thus far and it reads like I am giving a lecture rather than telling a cowardly tale but bear with me, I will get there soon enough.

In Uganda, kasiiki’s or appropriately putting it, stag or hen nights are usually held on a Thursday night – two days before the wedding on Saturday. But in England, they hold them on Friday, a mere day before the wedding and it is no fancy affair where Groom and Best Man turn up in Silk Lounge in matching shirts and trousers as happens here. There, it is a simple case of heading off to the local pub and getting blazed. And thus my lecture ends.

It was to The Prince of Wales pub that we headed for Andrew’s stag night and it wasn’t just about drinking. Two strippers had been hired to spice things up as well as to give Groom a chance of sowing his last ‘wild oats’.

I would have told you what Strippers did to Groom but for the sake of keeping the peace with Sidney, the editor of this magazine, who would have been so NOT amused had I explicitly laid everything bare, I have decided to keep mum.

With Strippers paid, they did a number of acts which most men would be more than okay with, but which women would have defined as being disgusting. For the finale, they let Groom sow his wild oats with them on the pool table.

Groom was not a chap who could hold his ale that by midnight he started to exhibit signs of passing out and he did shortly after 11:00pm.

But who would have thought that Groom passing out would signal the end of the party. Rather, we threw him into a cab and headed across London to King’s Cross Station. There, we got him a single ticket to Edinburgh in Scotland, relieved him of his wallet and money and in his drunken and passed out state, we bundled him onto the train.

Saturday morning. Wedding day. The first call from Bride came through just after 6:30am. She wanted to know if Groom was awake and sober. How would we know seeing Groom was on his way to Scotland? The second call came twenty minutes later and this time demanding to speak to him. Though feeble, excuses were made and as the morning wore on, Bride began to suspect something was amiss.

Meanwhile Groom had woken up on the outskirts of Edinburgh. His troubles like our troubles back in London were just starting. With no money or a credit card on him, he made a reverse charge phone call to his flat where we had spent the night. We bought him a return ticket in London which he picked at the train station in Edinburgh and was on the first train back to London.

Meanwhile emissaries had been sent by Bride to the flat to report on the state Groom. Having not seen him, they went back all alarmists! And that was it. Bride lost the plot and more than wailed on the phone as to how we were about to ruin her wedding day.

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. To save time, one party was dispatched to Kings Cross Station with Grooms wedding attire and the other to the church to calm down Bride who apparently had a river of mascara running down her cheeks. If I was there, I would have lashed out at her and told her to get a grip, but luckily for her, I was at Kings Cross.

When the train pulled in, we had less than an hour to get Groom to church. He showered at the station and again to save time, we thought it best if he got dressed as we drove to church.

At church, though Bride’s limo had driven twice round the block, she was happier now that she had heard from Groom and Emissaries who had confirmed that that we were en-route to church. The river of mascara had also dried up much to my annoyance because I didn’t get to tell her to get a grip of herself.

In the van we too, were much more relaxed and settled with Groom busy musing over his train journey. However, when we got to church, it was not heaven that awaited us but rather an invitation into hell. We had everything for Groom – right down to the wedding rings but in our haste, I had forgotten to bring shoes. No, not my shoes, but those of Groom.

There was not much that could have been done for Bride, Her Father and Emissaries were adamant that they were not going to drive round the block again while we sorted out shoes. I don’t think they knew it Groom who didn’t have shoes. And so the service went ahead with Groom ever so smart in an off white winged collared shirt, silk cravat, grey waistcoat, pin-striped morning suit and – wait, wait for it, a pair of tattered white Nike sneakers!

At the reception, Bride broke with protocol to give a frosty speech. “Timothy, Damien...I hate all of you. I really hate you. I trusted you all and this is what you do to me? You get my dear Andrew drunk, dump him on a train and allow him to turn up for his wedding in Nike sneakers? I can see you sniggering but it’s not funny!”

To be fair to Bride, we were not just sniggering. We were having a raucous laugh and giving each other high fives under the table!

The true horror of the Nike sneakers was revealed when a few days later we watched the wedding video. Bride is all smiles as she walks down the aisle and as she stands by Groom who lifts up her veil, she spots Nike sneakers. Her face goes into a contortion that even the great escapist Houdini, could not muster and if you lip read what she was saying, it was along the lines of, “You f**k bas***d Andrew, what have you done? You have ruined my wedding! How could you do this to me? Really Andrew how could you?!”

In their wedding album, there are no full length photographs of Bride and Groom nor are they any photos of Damien, me or the rest of the boys. Like we cared!
I wonder what she would say if she found out the real reason as to why their honeymoon was postponed by a few weeks. You see, Groom picked up an STD from Strippers and as he convalesced, he hid Damien’s flat while telling Bride that he was away on another police training course.

Bride though has not forgotten nor has she forgiven me. While she and Groom will be celebrating twenty years of marriage this December, two weeks ago, Groom sent an e-mail in which he talks of a mega party to which I amongst others are not invited for as he put it “my hands are tied and you all know why”. “Not to worry” so Damien replied, “for we are organising our own bash in the pub to which she is not invited.” I wonder if I should ask him to include Strippers on the guest list. Hmm!