I thought Wrinkly Joe handled the Michael Stone incident very well. The well-known bonkers killer turned up at the church and tried to poison the communion with Polonium-210 but Joe was having none of it, and in one fluid motion grabbed the overweight priest and flung him straight at the crazed loyalist, gravely injuring both of them, but averting a potentially more serious situation.
Ah, we got by without the priest and anyway he was full of blather. Wrinkly Joe and Wrinkly Paddy sang a few songs instead and Uncle Tony brought a big pile of Gimp-weed back from India, so he set fire to that in the aisle and everyone got smashed – even the people on the Dark Side.
Isn’t that a strange thing about weddings? The way everyone lines up according to their allegiances, and then they nudge each other in the church and mutter dark questions.
Oh right. So that’s the mother? I see what you mean.
Wrinkly Paddy and myself are complete unbelievers and normally an hour in a religious service without a hip-flask would kill us. However, weddings are different. There are always scores of presentable in-laws and you can pass a reasonable twenty minutes imagining them naked. Crude and inappropriate comments pass another half hour or so. Add in a bit of sniggering and you’re home free.
The hats are what I can’t understand. You know? The women’s hats? Why? Women buy these incredibly expensive hats that they only wear at weddings, and that’s because they look completely ridiculous and you’d only wear them at a wedding because everybody is drunk or stoned or out of their heads on acid or something, and they don’t notice you’re wearing a totally stupid-looking thing on your head. Well, the drunk and stoned ones don’t. The guys with the acid can see it but they think it’s a perfectly normal aardvark on your head.
Women’s hats at weddings are basically just a signal to other women at the wedding: Look. We’re at a wedding. Let’s get pissed! It would be much cheaper to buy a Kiss-me-quick hat in a pound-shop and just scrawl the words piss-up on it with a marker.
Hurricane Bongo attacked us while we were in the church and I’m not surprised. The presence of so many non-believing hypocrites inside one church would inflame even the most loving of Gods, but we struggled through the ceremony somehow or another and got the fuck out before sheets of plate-glass started to fall from the roof and cut our heads off.
Hubba hubba fukken hubba, says the priest. Yiz can all fuck off now, tis done.
Thanks be to Jesus, we all replied in heartfelt prayer and we all fucked off to the hotel to get hammered.
Well, it looks like the paralysis is finally wearing off. What a relief. God almighty, why do we do these things to ourselves? Three solid days of getting shitfaced and sitting up in the middle of the night talking shite and singing all the old John Prine songs you can remember.
Wrinkly Joe played a stormer as father of the groom. He looked every inch the Boss as he stalked the reception in his beautifully-tailored formal suit-thing, his skull glistening in the mirrorball lights. If there’s one word for Wrinkly Joe’s demeanour, that word has to be quiet dignified menace. I thought the effect was somewhat lessened, mind you, by his habit of flinging back Jaegerbombs at every opportunity. And also by the wild staring eyes and the veins throbbing at his temples.
The great thing about fathers at weddings is that they have to buy you drink whether they want to or not. So what I usually do whenever I crash a wedding is find out who the father is. He’ll normally be the guy who’s wearing a piece of curtain instead of a tie, and I stand beside him all night, although sometimes I stand beside the other guy who looks exactly the same as him. He thinks I’m one of the Dark Side and he doesn’t want to give offence, so he keeps slipping me liquor. Like all great plans, it’s simple, and it works. In Joe’s case, naturally, it wasn’t quite that simple. I had to follow him around waving an empty glass at him in front of the new in-laws and you could see the disgust mingled with contempt on their faces, but I didn’t care what they thought of me as long as I cadged another Jaegerbomb out of Joe.
The other thing about weddings is this new custom of giving cash instead of presents. I don’t like it. In the old days, you could buy a bedspread in Dunnes for about four pounds and whoops-a-daisy, you’re in free grub and liquor for the night. But not any more. So what I do is this. I buy a cheap card in the pound shop, cross out On Your Retirement, write in Happy Wedding a little gift for you and seal it. I then make a slit in the envelope with a razor and leave it at reception for the couple. It looks like those thieving Latvian fuckers in the hotel stole the money out of the card, and I’m in the clear, up to my neck in free grub and booze for the night. Great! What’s more, the wedding party get a discount from management who don’t want any police trouble, so we’re all winners, including the thieving management fuckers who charge through the nose anyway for the wedding and for food served by ex-concentration-camp guards. Step away from the wine-glass!
I discovered on Sunday night that my liver is from Ulster.
Liver Says No!
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