Sunday, 7 April 2013

I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do

I've talked before of the wedding circus mafia and the arseholery that goes on, but there is also a very bright side to the nonsense. Being a guest. Sadly the wedding 'party' themselves often get too wrapped up in the photocalls, speech nerves and potential family feuds to actually remember to enjoy the day, but as a guest; no public speaking, no months (or years) of organising, no weeping wallet, just the bubbles and the dancing.
There is a little preparation involved, granted, but it never fails to amuse me how quickly the wedding visage crumbles. The hours, and sometimes days, we spend making sure we look as good as we possibly can (for some that's just about presentable, but all I can do is work with the ginger raw materials I was given) only for it all to be destroyed in a matter of hours.
We find ourselves on the dance floor in our bare feet, the shoes so carefully matched to the dress abandoned under a table, with a tie around our head and our dignity whimpering beneath an avalanche of Michael Jackson/Mick Jagger/Pigeon inspired dance 'moves'. Oh yes - we've got the moves like Jagger. The makeup, hair dos and manicures are long forgotten as we swing our sweaty mane in time with the 80s power ballads.
In addition to revisiting my rock star (*ahem*) youth, I tend to unearth a worrying passion for interpretive dance after a few dry sherries. My Kate Bush impressions are 'inspiring', so I've been told (look out for me on got to dance next year; I'll be the one who inspires the phrase 'would her family not tell her...?')
There is a delightfully unhinged quality that is unique to a wedding dance floor. Maybe it’s because it’s such a happy occasion, or that some of the guests don’t get out much, or perhaps it’s the unique mix of ‘performers’; where else do you get to share the floor with an 80 and an eight year old?
On a more serious note, I must issue a word of warning to wedding bands/DJs. If you will play Tiffany and Footloose back-to-back, be prepared with a crash cart/ambulance on standby. Some of us are not as young as we used to be, but we can’t seem to stop ourselves.
From this... this... Kiss.

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