Mrs O and I are off to a family wedding reception this evening. It's a London one, this. Usually my family weddings are in the west of Ireland. There, hopping over the broom and the subsequent celebratory necking takes two full days. Try as I might over the years, I have never been able to get to grips with the day B itinerary of these affairs. It's torturous.
You shamble down to breakfast in the hotel at about 10.30, nudge some baked beans around the plate for 10 minutes and then join everyone in the lounge. At this point all I want to do is to stare into the middle distance and sweat. But, no. Once the last rasher has been dispatched, the Irish yard arm is considered to be behind you and the pints start piling up.
Apart from the real old soaks, who you suspect would be doing this at twenty to eleven on a Sunday morning wedding or not, no-one who starts drinking this early could be said to be enjoying himself. And it is always only the men at this stage. Everyone looks like he's drinking cod liver oil. It's joyless stuff. One of my cousins, who really really cannot drink, always joins in the fray. Christ alone knows why. It's just the done thing I suppose.
So at least I'm being spared that indignity with tonight's shindig. Mind you, that said, it's still a London-Irish wedding, so the turps will be getting a titanic nudge for all that.
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