Those of you who subscribe to Vanity Fair or Tattler will of course be aware that it was the Parsons-Sewell wedding on Friday. I am lucky enough to have a long standing friendship with the groom, dating back to an incident involving some yoghurt, a hedgehog and a hilarious series of misunderstandings with the worlds angriest Yorkshireman. As such I found myself invited to the wedding of the year, which sounds like me being snidey and facetious, but is absolutely true when framed within the context of the small monkey sphere of people I actually care about. The event also necessitated the return of one Robert. W. T. Walker from the antipodes in order to perform best man duties for the groom, who we shall call Andrew, as that is his name. This flurry of social activity is also the reason for no post last week for which I apologise.
The stag do was meant to be a quiet affair. Unfortunately it was hijacked by the bride's idiot brother, who had somehow invited himself along and proceeded to spike us in a misguided effort to liven things up. We woke up surrounded by chaos and slowly pieced together a recollection of a night which involved destruction of property, missing persons, criminal liaisons and me mutilating my face for reasons unknown. Luckily, just as we were about to ring the bride and inform her that the wedding would have to be cancelled, I realised that I had confused our own goings on with the plot of The Hangover and/or The Hangover Part II and that Mr Sewell's own stag was a more low key- though no less enjoyable affair - mainly involving a few beers at a place called Brew Dog (Which I would happily recommend to anyone getting their drink on round Tyneside way), a bit of a bar hop and then bed. We did have somebody's brother along, but it was the best man's, not the brides, and he just drank a bit and got sleepy, at no point trying to roofie us.
The wedding itself was held at Hardwick Hall in County Durham, only a few miles from the village I grew up. Set by a lake, within a nature reserve, it's a lovely place for a wedding (and popular. There were at least two others going on at the same time). Linzi - her what was getting hitched - had obviously spent a huge amount of time and effort working on all the little details; the typewriter so that guests can write messages to the new couple, the purple place settings, the games on each table, the sweeties for each guest resented in a purple and white bag, the groomsmen's purple converse (the bride, you may surmise, likes purple). The venue's obviously in the business of hosting weddings, so all this extra effort helped personalise it, making it feel not just like a wedding, but Linzi and Andrew's wedding. This was also helped by the fact that it was a fairly intimate affair, with the only non family members in attendance being me, wor lass and the Walkers, which kinda makes me feel privileged to have been invited.
The bride looked stunning, as new brides are wont, and the groom acquitted himself with aplomb, utterly failing to turn the strange puce colour that he normally does when, as here, he's outside his comfort zone. The speeches were good, nobody started a drunken punch up and I got to dance like a dickhead to Bryan Adams, much to my girlfriend's mortification. It was a long day, from 12 till 11, and I had some issues with the finger sandwich to cake ratio that I was presented with, but these issues were mitigated somewhat by being witness to two young people who have been in love for the longest time tying the knot. They're off honeymooning in Paris now, so I wish them the best of luck with that and, beyond that, the best of luck with their new lives as Mr and Mrs Sewell
If you have no knowledge of the above people, then I apologise for rambling about a stranger's nuptials, but this has been the big news in my world for the past fortnight so I kinda felt compelled to write about it. I'll get back to inane doodles, idiot rhymes and reviews of things people have already seen next week
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
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