Wedding Blues and Greys

I went to about 30 weddings last year.

Not as a guest (thankfully), but as one of many behind-the-scenes cogs in the 'big day' mega-machine. I can boast to having had a unique 360 degree omnipotent view of 'that' special day: I've witnessed every conflicting human emotion, every possible family rift, every booze-induced confession, nothing is sacred at a wedding - they are without a doubt the most drama-filled events of our lives. Nothing ever runs smoothly, and even if the bride and groom are blissfully unaware of any possible damaging undertone, someone somewhere is (inadvertently or intentionally) on the road to ruining the happiest day of their lives.

I honestly believe that these days (with all the added pressure to look beyond the realms of perfection and be seen to have spent a lifetime's wages on the 'big day') perhaps as few as 1 in 10 brides actually enjoy their wedding days. I've seen brides throwing tantrums about table settings/ flowers/ positioning of guests as soon as they've walked through the doors of the wedding venue/ stately home where I'm setting the scene for all this tension. So many expectations are supposed to be met (if not surpassed), and I think choosing a facade venue in the form of a stately home exacerbates the mounting promise of 'perfection'.

It's not big news that usually, the more money spent on a wedding: the less gratification those paying for it gain. The best wedding I've attended as a guest was for my best friend, two summers ago. I don't know exactly how much money was spent, but it wasn't much and this added to the general excellence of the day. The bride and groom are a designer and photographer, so they pulled in their own skills for all the decoration/ table adornment and personal touches. The afternoon reception was held on the splendid lawn of the bride's parent's home. The evening reception was held a minute's walk away at the local village hall - which had been transformed for the occasion. By getting every family member/friend/ friends of friends to contribute in some way or another, the happy couple had covered every aspect of the wedding for favours and the promise of a jolly good bash.

On a much higher-profile scale, but still endearing and intimately low-key, TV and film actress, Amanda Redman married her long-term beau at my place of work some months back. 200 guests (including the entire cast of New Tricks, Ray Winstone, Shelia Hancock and Lisa Falkner) graced the lawns and got royally sozzled. There was a massive amount of apprehension felt by the staff in the lead-up to the epic day... this being the biggest, most high-profile wedding hosted there to date. In my opinion, the current of stress that rippled amongst the head-honchos was a little unfounded, as the guests were not demanding the stars on a plate: they were polite, obliging and thoroughly respectful. We didn't really know what to expect, but near-on everyone behaved themselves impeccably well.

At times I had to pinch myself: my first customer of the day (at the new outside bar) was Ray Winstone along with a few of the old dogs from New Tricks. Ray asked for a vodka coke, and sent a shiver up my spine as he gave me a smoldering look and said, "thanks babe". I melted. He's literally my favourite British actor... I watched Nil By Mouth over 50 times when I was studying the film for my first dissertation. He's every bit how you'd expect him to be: smooth, witty, sexy and down-to-earth. He's the daddy after all!

His wife, Laura, was stunning - and so sweet to me just because I remembered what they were all drinking so they didn't have to ask. It was bizarre to be listening in to their conversations, I wish I was another step removed, (maybe just hovering above the bar) so that I could absorb everything, but unfortunately, I had work to do. Amanda was lovely, darling. I hear from the wedding planners that she was very nervous and so stressed she couldn't eat anything all day, but this was mainly due to worries that the few spots of rain that landed during the ceremony might lead to a proper down-pour. She needn't have worried: though the weather wasn't perfect - it didn't affect the outdoor setting for the majority of the proceedings.

I imagine that a hell of a lot of money was spent on their day, but it was by no means lavish or excessive. There were a few technical hitches behind the scenes, but I doubt if Amanda will ever know that there was a light sewage flow on the front lawn just hours before her 200 guests made their way to the pagoda or that the caterers temporarily forgot to place sparkling water on the tables for the wedding breakfast. The wedding was a triumph: everyone was at ease and in awe of the setting, the staff were buzzing from being in such company, and they all partied into the small hours without the faintest whiff of anger, resentment or bitchery in the air.

You really couldn't have predicted a bigger contrast to the next wedding I worked at. A bunch of pretentious Londoners who were bickering and complaining as soon as they arrived. There was a palpable tension between the two families and there were a few villains determined to make the weekend as hellish for everyone as possible. I think it was the worst case of bitchiness that I've ever encountered at a wedding. The bride was atrocious (though I can't help thinking that her spitefulness was a knock-on effect from those around her), demanding, from what I could gather, her family are a bit mafia-esque, wielding some special status in the town where they're from. No need to bring those airs and graces with you to the countryside, where all is meek and reserved.

The brides gran was the ring-leader in a gang of plump, miserable older ladies who plotted and moaned at a table in the bar for the entirety of the wedding day. Many tears were shed this weekend, I believe this may not have been the case if the Witches of Eastwick had just kept their mouths shut for one day. It's so selfish to cause such a scene, who's day is this anyway? I honestly can't believe that some people feel the need to vent their anger when so much is at stake. At one point in the evening, a particularly intense conversation between the witches and their other granddaughter results in all involved weeping - the atmosphere in the bar was like a morgue... any new entries swiftly ordered and went back to the dancing at a rapid gait. Things obviously got progressively worse, as two of the brides 'uncles' turned up late and in Batman and Robin costumes. They proceeded to get drunk as quickly as possible and were practically bursting with fight-juice.

The surprise 'event' of the night came from a couple of outside contenders in the 'who can ruin the wedding first' stakes. I'd watched in smug safeness as a man in a kilt and his girlfriend tried to clutch at their remaining grain of sobriety, both gripping the bar for support as they argued about his supposed level of drunkenness at the highly disrespectful time of nine pm. As the only sober party in this equation, I avidly followed the line of argument, the crux of which was about her wish to go home as he's embarrassing her and making a fool out of himself. They're both oblivious to the amount of attention their raised voices are gaining, and she seems to be getting drunker and drunker by the second as she demands shots from anyone who happens to be ordering drinks by the other side of her. They're slurring their words, he looks like he's going to be sick - but it's just a series of burps.

Their friends get involved: he's the man, he shouldn't have to go home, the groom will not allow it! She relays her anguish at them, but they don't care, he's highly amusing, he's one of the lads. Defeated, she tries to show her hurt by turning her back on him as he staggers back to the dance floor. She now swiftly downs another couple of shots and long drinks. Next minute, they're both nowhere to be seen. I hear from my colleague (who is also following this mini-soap-opera) that the couple in question have been booted out by the bride. Doesn't surprise us.

For a few minutes things settle back down into the routine set by the bitchy witches, who now have an extra thing to gossip about. Then, shock horror: the drunk girl has been found with massive wound to the head and covered in scratches and bruises. An equally drunk woman is trying to control the bleeding, repeating that she found the girl outside, that she had run out of a hedge screaming: dripping with blood. As all involved where so drunk, it's hard to fathom if this was a case of domestic violence or, if she just fell over and hit her head on something sharp.

I've seen fights and the odd drop of blood at weddings in the past, but this one had a much more sinister tone to it. The girl was taken somewhere more private, and at this point, the boyfriend arrived... and the wedding planner called for an ambulance. We had to try and remain calm, and divert any unwanted attention away from the incident. Rather impossible when these people appeared to be hounds for gossip and desperate for more woe and terror. The poor bride was livid that they had both come back inside the house, and unfortunately they would remain there for another hour - due to the lateness of the ambulance and then the girl's reluctance to go to hospital.

The police arrived. Not quite sure if they were called separately by one of the guests, or if they were alerted to handle the situation due to the ambulance's lack of attendance. Either way, this exacerbated the drunk man's anger, but strangely it also seemed to sober him up in a flash... maybe it was the guilt setting in? They questioned him in the back bar, as I was loading the glass machine: I heard his full story, my heart was flitting around, I was shaky. What a stressful night, and yet the time passed so slowly. The ambulance arrived before the police left, so they briefed the paramedics. The girl was adamant that she was fine and that she just wanted to go home.

The paramedics insisted that, although it wasn't life-threatening, she needed a few stitches as her skull could be seen - it was a deep wound. Eventually she was persuaded to go in the ambulance, aided by her now shocked-into-sobriety boyfriend. What a relief. Though they'd gone, the aftermath was not pretty. Word had got round the house, everyone was talking about it - everyone seemed to have their own little conspiracy theory about what had happened. Any atmosphere that hadn't already been poached by the witches had now been stolen by the outsiders, the underdogs - never to return. So ever glad I didn't have to serve those hideous people the following morning for breakfast.

I suppose what I'm trying to say, by way of this extreme example of wedding hell is that there is never a dull moment at a wedding, but instead of mainly being entertaining and sometimes heart-warming - they can also bring out the worst in people, regardless of who's special day it is.

Goes to show that money can't buy you love, class, style or grace - and it most certainly can't buy you a well-behaved family.

Nowt Queerer Than Folk

I love people.

They make me laugh a lot. And after an excellent weekend's-worth of people-watching opportunities in London, I was not expecting to pick up yet more eccentric behaviour on the bus home, but oh what a corker!

Katie and I were lucky enough to nab the disabled access seats (second from front for those uninitiated) which give you an extra foot of leg room. Happily settling into our as-comfortable-as-you-can-get-for-a-bus-journey positions we watched in silenced awe as an old lady tried to fight for her right to keep not one but TWO of the priority seats in front of us:

Old lady sits on the isle-side seat, with seat belt done up already, though it's ten minutes till lift off. Big momma lady with boobs as wide as her hips and crazy Afro/frizz hair bounces up the steps, deep takeaway box proudly guarded in both hands. She doesn't even glance down the bus: she wants the front seat. Old lady doesn't want to share with anyone, let alone a forthright young momma with more attitude than Russell Brand on coke.

Big Momma: "I need to sit there, (points to vacant window seat) can you move please?"

Old lady doesn't say anything, doesn't move - just shuffles her feet over so big momma has to squeeze past her very awkwardly. The window seat shakes as big momma forces herself in from a pivoted position. Old lady is leaning out of her seat so much that she may as well be sitting in the isle.

Once the driver is seated, old lady pipes up in defence:

Old Lady: "Excuse me, I booked a priority seat, not half of one!"

Bus Driver: "No, you booked one seat, so you paid for one seat, and that's what you've got."

Old lady mumbles incessantly, there is a bit more shifting from big momma, I assume cross words or maybe even rude words where exchanged... then silence.

I presume either the old lady was racist or she is one of those people who always has to have two seats no matter who wants the other free one.

Needless to say: old lady kept her half-out-of-the-seat position for the whole journey: I am 110% certain that her whole body was ridged with spite and resentment every second of that time.

Grad Bay Hell

I'm two steps from hell, stuck in a charity-fundraising-limbo worse than purgatory.

Three days without a sign-up, they'll be scraping at my back soon and I know who's going to ensure my demise.

The Grad Bay weasel. He's a shifty guy: a Dickensian caricature: part crackhead, part vermin, part jester.

Dancing around in beige slippers, greasy jogging bottoms and novelty t-shirts.

Never content, he prances and sidesteps - circling our pod, baying for someone to make a mistake so he can pounce, jeer and take us down. Or, on an all-too-rare occurrence: a swift karate chop/pat on the shoulder for good behaviour.

His hair is lank and grey-blonde: too much time spent in unhealthy places. His face is shallow; eyes as sallow as saucers.

Weasel sneer, weasel leer... why must you persist in tormenting us? Tiny dull teeth protruding, jutting your chin out to show your pathetic pride.

What pride can you possibly take, in making us wait for a tiny scrap of your wisdom? Wis-doom more like; jaded, resentment-addled deflections.

You were me once. You were scared, confused, unsafe. Only you have the weasel instinct, the thing that twists tight and forces you to beg, beg, beg. Make the sale. Rinse old ladies of their last pension scraps. No, I can't do that.

Actors play other people. You don't have to act any more. You've been promoted to head of the grad bay floor. You witness our amateur dramatic group grappling with the emotion, the tone, the inflection. But you don't care. The targets are not going up, and this affects your pluck.

How long till he shoots to kill? Do I fit the bill? Probably will, if I don't get my fill.

The sooner the cull begins the sooner I will escape the torment. Please let it be me, I've never been fired before. If it's going to happen - this is the optimum time and place. A hot house where nobody expects to thrive, sprout buds and flourish. Best to be cut and displayed outside, not left inside to fester like the grad bay jester.

Chaos with a capital "C"

Arrived in London after a refreshingly pleasant National Express journey hosted by a jolly, wholly unpatronising driver who had who good banter as well as manners. As we made the short crossing from Victoria to Putney Bridge, a sense of excitement embellished the air... the odd spray of Carnival colour dipped and weaved amongst the hum-drum weekend crowds. Maybe I'm just more alert to such hyperbolic statement in apprehension for an event I'm yet to experience: the colour and atmosphere spelling out both a dart of danger and a spell of joy.

Maybe it's just the way London makes me feel. Edgy, yet fully prepared to embrace whatever the city can throw at me today.

After a short stop in Putney to off-load belongings and get changed, we head for the tube to Notting Hill Gate. Helen and I sit next to two Rastas armored up with vuvuzelas hanging from their chests with Caribbean ribbon. The conversation between them was enlightening and amusing. Man 1 was obviously a seasoned carnival-goer, whilst the other (Man 2) was either exceedingly precautionary or a carnival virgin, like me. The conversation started with a bit of light banter:

Man 1: "Why you no got your phone, bro?"

Man 2: "I ain't got no credit, bro!"

Man 1: "Well, what ya gonna do when you get lost? You's scared you gonna get it nicked, innit?"

Man 2: "Nah mate, no point bringing it with no credit - I just got the important things here in this bag."

(He points to a cheap sports bag with a drawer string and two thin string straps, that is pressed to him on the front of his chest like a baby in a sling)

Man 1 laughs.

Man 2: "Couple o' cans o' Guinness, and me jacket, that's all I need."

Man 1: "Ha, couple o' cans o' Guinness! What if they snip here and here." (He gestures thieves cutting the strings of the bag)

Man 2: Well... at least if they do get it... it's only a couple o' cans, eh? And not me phone, camera and wallet!"

Man 1 laughs hysterically.

At this point, Helen and I are barely able to control our giggling, and luckily the doors open. Uh oh, look at the crowds. It's solid all the way up the stairs and the crowd is also just as thick from behind. Man 1 and 2 exuberantly honk their vuvuzelas, they seem to be making their way through the crowd even though it's at stand still. Just as Man 1 gets up to the first set of steps, he turns back on the rest of the masses still getting off the trains, blows his vuvu and shouts:

"GET USED TO IT!"

Priceless.

Notting Hill Carnival is certainly one of a kind. Messy, chaotic, anarchic. I get the feeling that the true heart of the matter is missing (more style over substance), it's as though the cutting loose has taken centre stage and the culture lurks in the background... not quite comfortable to perform in front of such hungry revellers. I don't think the family day is particularly child-friendly, there were times when I felt a little uncomfortable, though this was mainly due to my lack of tolerance in crowded places. Maybe I wasn't drunk enough... but after queueing for Caribbean food in the rain for what felt like and hour and a half my carnival spirit was somewhat diminished by a chill on my back and an empty belly.

Later in the day, the sun made a prolonged appearance and we were able to watch a section of the procession on a less-frequented side street. The procession was exactly as one would expect: vibrant, soulful and melodramatic. Yellow paint was sprayed into the audience, chocolate laced the air as the performers grabbed handfuls of the gooey brown stuff and planted it on their fellow dancers and the unsuspecting audience. (I admit to hiding behind a tree at this point - as good as it smelt, the appearance of chocolate can just as easily resemble a bodily excretion of a much lesser appealing variety.)

But after the procession and the sunshine vanished the mood changed and things felt a bit on the apocalyptic side. Every conceivable corner of every street harboured a mountain of takeaway boxes, chicken bones, drinks cans and smashed glass, rubbish was literally flowing onto the through-fare, god only knows what it must have looked like ten hours later in the unforgiving dawn light. The irony is explicit. I've never really seen Notting Hill without the carnage, but when you look up and see the glorious architecture and wealth... juxtaposed with the boarded up window fronts, tagged cars and messy debris at street-level, it's hard to imagine this district as a highly respectable neighbourhood... where the Hugh Grant yuppie/yucky blockbuster movie was set a few years ago. Where do the residents put their cars for the weekend? Do they dare leave their homes at all?

The rum and ginger I was swigging warmed me from the early-evening chill, but I was ready to voyage back into the 'regular' chaos of the city after the sun disappeared. It was impossible to know where to exit, every route seemed to be teeming with police ready for action. Wild eyed, wobbly legged zombies appeared to be fencing us in. A strange and eerie twilight fixed the scene, I watched the last glint of the sun fade through the obscure window of a tower block which surely marked the divide between well-to-do Notting Hill and its underbelly. The fallout seemed to reach well-beyond the periphery, the roads car-free for what felt like a mile more. Then: over a bridge and we hit civilization again, there's a bus with our name on it. Cocooned by the warm, yet stale aroma of public transport, we breath easy and watch the madness unfold at a staggeringly slow pace. There's a fight at one set of lights, but the police are swift and intervene quicker than any one could imagine.

We realise how exhausted we are. I ditch the rum and ginger and we head home, an early night and a leisurely day of touristy fluff in the morning somewhat more appealing than a convoy into rebellious mayhem.

I think I'm actually getting old.