Bride and Gloom

As a long-term singleton who's had my fair share of disastrous attendances at wedding receptions*, I took a somewhat evil delight in this article on brides who sink into a mire of despair after their Big Day (which they've probably spent a year planning) is over: http://bit.ly/YkTIf

For a start, imagine spending £20-25k on one day - a day that's largely spent having a meal (chicken or salmon?), listening to a few ropey speeches and dancing to Abba. (I swear, if I have to go to one more wedding and have to pretend I'm having a good time whilst dancing to Dancing Queen, I will punch someone). Jesus, if I had a spare £25k knocking around, I'd be able to upgrade my flat to one with a garden and finally get the cat I've always dreamed of. Cat and I could live happily ever after, with none of the 'grim sort of life-is-at-an-end, jail-doors-closing claustrophobia that nearly always hits post nuptials'. (Well, Cat would never suffer from such claustrophobia, as he'd have a cat flap to escape through and could go and investigate next door's garden; for me the claustrophobia would depend on the size of the flat. But then I live in London, where the world is your Oystercard, so one need never feel overly hemmed-in).

Then there's all this mad guff about being 'a princess for a day'. Personally, I blame Princess Diana - her gigantic dress and rise from normal, Sloane obscurity to front page ubiquity because she'd managed to 'bag a Prince' (rather than bagging Prince, which would've been much more interesting in the long term), set my generation off on a quest to be the ultimate Bridezilla. The tragedies of basing your wedding dreams on a woman whose marriage was legendarily unhappy, and whose demise was untimely and horrifying, are myriad.

But why would any modern woman want to be a princess for a day? It's such a ridiculous, twee notion. You might as well say you want to be a fairy for the day. I mean, I'm as keen on a swishy frock as the next girl, but the idea of miles of duchesse satin, a veil and a tiara gives me the shudders. Trying to look all demure whilst high as a kite on stress and the fact that you haven't eaten for a week in a last-ditch attempt to look 'the best you've ever done' is a recipe for disaster. I'd be swearing like a Sex Pistol and in a heap of bad tempered tears before the vows were out.

But at least now I'm armed with defences next time I go to a wedding and, on finding out I'm there On My Own, some faux sympathetic moron gives me the, 'aww, poor you, you haven't found anyone special yet' head tilt that coupley people at weddings seem to exult in. I can print this off, whip it out of my bag, shove it at them and make them read it, whilst repeatedly poking them in the chest, bellowing, 'BEING SINGLE ISN'T A DISEASE, YOU KNOW. UNLIKE DEPRESSION'.


* The best one was the wedding I was invited to in Cornwall, by a girl whom I was at school with. Despite only being invited to the evening do (I was coming from London, mind you, which necessitated a 2-night stay at a B&B), I dutifully went along, thinking that there would be lots of old school chums to have a natter with. Me, my old school friend Lucy, her partner Peter and their son Joe spent a pleasant day by the seaside killing time before the evening. We then got ourselves spangled up in our frocks and finery, and got a taxi over to the reception, arriving in time to hear the usual speeches involving people we didn't know, and raucous antics we'd had no part in. We managed to secure a glass of champagne, but it looked like the food had already been eaten. We, needless to say, had not eaten since lunch.

Post-speeches, we caught up with the bride and groom. I'd never met the groom (why is this the case at so many weddings, that you don't actually know 50% of the main players?), so the bride introduced me as her old school friend. 'Ah, Alex', said he, 'I've heard a lot about you.' 'Oh, have you?' said I, wondering which of my many attributes the bride had told him of. 'Yes', he said, 'are you the one who's a lesbian?'

What. The. F*ck? Who the HELL asks a question like that of someone they've never met before? If I were a lesbian, is that really the first thing that anyone in their right mind would ask? It's astonishingly rude. For once I was totally stumped for words, and just muttered, 'No, no I'm not'. So much for wearing a pretty frock and doing my hair and make-up all nice and, you know, making an effort. It was after this that I found out that it was a pay bar, and none of us had any money, as we'd assumed it would be free (pretty much the only money we had needed to be saved for the taxi back to the B&B). So I couldn't even get drunk!

Matters were compounded by the fact that the only other girl who was there from school was one whom I'd never liked. Having had her third child literally about two weeks previously, she bounded over to me and immediately said, 'Alex! How are you? Married? Children?' God almighty - half the wedding thinks I'm a lesbian, the other half is sure that by my advanced years I must've done the decent thing and got married then popped out a couple of sprogs. So that was another short conversation.

I was then subjected to a truly terrible live band, and bravely hopped about with a sea of six year olds, 'hanging onto my smile' (as my mum says when she's trapped in apocalyptically bad social situations, yet doesn't want to throw a JLo-style hissy fit because she's too polite and is a trouper). I thought at least I could dance to a few rubbish disco tracks and get some exercise. But no - the band and the six year olds it was. Sustained only by a few bits of pork in a bap (there was a hog roast, which always sounds like the height of medieval decadence but is, after all, just a very large Sunday roast, but without any of the attendant trimmings) and a dwindling vodka and tonic, I was desperate to leave, but had to wait for everyone else as a/ we only had enough for one cab and b/ we were in the middle of the countryside, so there was probably only one cab every 100 miles anyway.

When I got home, I ordered a present off the wedding list (God knows why I felt obliged to do that), and chose a carving knife, in the hopes that the bride might one day stick it into her horrible, rude husband's chest.