'Tis but a hop, skip and a jump from Manchester to the rolling hills of Gisburn and the matrimonial marathon that is Ish n' Alfie's nuptials. I have fulishy attempted to assuage the raging thirst with Coke Zero(TM) and discovered it is as kark as you'd imagine. Fortunately, only men are allowed to drink it, so Loved One is spared the horror of its cancerous assault on the taste buds. I barely resist gobbing it into the carpet and am forced to have yet another soothing Murray Mint to appease my senses.
Sweeping into Stirk House we are soon ensconced in our oven/room and take to the bar as quickly as possible for a cheeky hair-dog interface. Downstairs we find Mootham in his natural habitat, scarfing chips while watching the croquet. He too is broken and blanches at the sight of our G n' T's. The crowds are beginning to gather so we take to our finery and join Mooth n' Spencer on the front lawn (No Spencer, not that Spenc..shit! Yes actually, that Spencer!) haemorrhaging water by the bucketload in their smart suits. The hotel is rammed with rellies, 300 odd of 'em, all ready n' rearing to welcome the arrival of...The Groom. The bride of course, doesn't get a look in at this stage, preferring to make a grand entrance later on in proceedings. Alfie and Papa Alfie roar up (quite literally) in an ancient vehicle held together by snot n' cat gut. Alf runs his first gauntlet of the day through a phalanx of petal wielding ladies, all intent on drowning him in rosehip before he's made it to the door.
The guests promptly head for the nearest tables, and a mild scuffle breaks out as people desperately attempt not to end up on our renegade table. Eventually a couple of mates of the bride's father, shunned by the rest of the crowd plonk themselves down with us, eying Spencer and his moist girth with obvious alarm. In filthy pig dog Westerner stylee, we all pile into the giant bowls of lamb and saucy bits, rashly forgetting this is just the first of many courses. Al-Farid is now lording it up on his throne awaiting the reading of a prayer and the contract exchange with the bride's father, which will no doubt be destroyed shortly after the event and replaced with something more suited to the bride's exacting specifications. The renegade table and new found chum, see this as the perfect cue to dart out the back for a crafty fag and some sparkling mineral water coff. Downing our double er, MW's, we arrive back at our place in time to tuck into three different types of curry and 40 kg's of rice. The temperature inside the reception area is heading into the fifties, exotic saris sway back and forth across the floor like a Bird of Paradise convention, apnabeat is laying down the bhangra vibes and events are in full swing. Bloated beads of salty sweat alliterate their way down Spencemo's cheeks and all are suffering from extreme lambasting. No rest for the sticky tho, as hurrah and huzzah the bride has arrived. She look utterly fab in her gold encrusted number, a team of engineers circling around her at all times, touching up lippie and adjusting her fringe. The woman looks like a princess to Farid's frog ha ha, ag shame Farid look tres swayve too in his bespoke savile row business. Renegades are back behind the bicycle sheds for yet more mineral action, joined by the LBC crew, who seem to have been attacking their own brand of fizz, the shame of them. The joyful couple have been plonked on their thrones for some time now, having their piccie taken with everyone, and I mean eveeerrryyyoonnnneee in the room. I have deep respect for both their stamina and their composure, which is more than I can say for team renegade who are so horribly mineralled up by this stage, they're unable to control their bodily functions. Well, one of them can't, I name no names, you know who you are you chuffy blort. Apologies to the father of the bride for the vicious blast of napalm that caught him unawares, those stains will wash out Sir. We finally wave the happy couple off, not in the ancient car, as Papa Alf forgot to put petrol in it, but in Mama Alf's handy people wagon. Finally, sheesh! Now we can get a proper drink!
Congratulations Ish n' Farid, may you forever dwell in the light of undiminishing joy.
B
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