The sun shines on the righteous

I've written in these pages before about the joy experienced when getting together with a substantial chunk of my mates to celebrate the wedding of two of them, and I was privileged to be invited to another such occasion on Saturday.

Set just outside Sudbury, in the heart of Gainsborough country (which, while still far from being in full leaf, was appropriately bucolic and entirely beautiful), this was a day when it finally felt like spring had arrived in all its glory. After what's felt like six months of unending grey and dreary cold - hang on, let's rephrase that - after what has been six months of unending grey and dreary cold, the sun warmed us nicely from an azure sky as the guests were taken to the venue on an old Routemaster. (Number 159 no less, the route home for me down to Streatham; so kind of the bride and groom to think of us south London dwellers in such a fashion when they must have been busy!)

A cracking venue, marvellous food - as I said on the night, never before in my life have I seen too much dessert, I wasn't even sure such a thing was possible - and the couple picking up the tab for the drinks all night, all combined to make this a most convivial occasion. One thing, though. No matter how beautiful the weather, no matter how lovely the setting, no matter how much fine food and booze, these things are only as good as the people which complete the occasion. And what very, very fine people these are.

As I've often said on here, I genuinely think I'm ridiculously fortunate to find myself surrounded by such good people, and privileged to call them my friends. That two of them should be kind enough to invite me and so many others to their wedding is humbling and gratifying, as was the kindness and cordiality of their families, the joy in the best men's speech and the general atmosphere of goodwill in the whole thing. I joked on these pages after the stag do that the stag (now the husband, of course) was batting way above his average, but the truth of the matter is of course that these are both people of the very, very finest qualities.

That I got so pleasantly blotto*, saw those two outstanding people get married and spent the evening in the company of most of my closest friends left me counting my lucky stars once again. I wish the new Mr and Mrs M all the very best.



*Rumour has it that I was seen front and centre, singing loudest, into the early hours at the post-reception sing-song. I can only, in response to those rumours, quote the groom's own speech, as he introduced the best men, fearful of the contents of their forthcoming address. "Filthy, lying mouths..."

What happens in Dublin...

I'd like to tell you a little bit about the city of Dublin, where I spent a fun couple of days this weekend just passed. Regrettably, I can't because apart from a restorative circuit of St Stephen's Green on Saturday lunchtime, I saw precious little of it which wasn't the inside of some drinking establishment or other.

I don't think I've been so thoroughly (or pleasantly) soaked in alcohol for a very, very long time, and in the true spirit of stag and hen affairs, what happens in Dublin stays in Dublin. (Either that, or my memory of the thing is inexplicably patchy. One of those two things is definitely the case). I can tell you bits of what I do remember, though.

We were, by any measure, a civilised bunch. Not for this intrepid eight the cringeworthy shame of humiliating the stag in a mankini or some other sartorial horror. Indeed we were described by one of the musicians playing a pub we visited as, "...the best-behaved stag party in Dublin." I recognise that this would be a source of shame for some stag groups. Not for me. I've always hated that sort of shit and have no desire to see even a good mate's bare arse on even the most ribald of weekends, let alone parade it though the streets of an unfamiliar city and then try to gain access to a pub.

So, gain access to pubs we did. Without any difficulty at any one of them, on account of the fact that even shit-faced we were a civilised lot. I was then, once inside, faced with the task of making up for the years of lost 'real' Guinness drinking I'd inflicted upon myself by never having been to Ireland before. I can report, dear reader, that I did my best. We all did. The Guinness is indeed different, though not as much as some would have you believe. But nowhere was it served badly, nowhere did it have that metallic tang it acquires if it hasn't been cared for correctly, and nowhere did it taste better than in the 360-degree Dublin panorama that was the bar at the top of the brewery.

I congratulate the eight men, good and true, who did their best to drink their own weight while at the same time not descending into that awful Brits-abroad stereotype. Good luck with the forthcoming wedding, Mr M. (Don't tell anybody I said this but he's batting well above his average there).   ;o)

I look forward to seeing all of you again on April 20th.



Edit: I've just had a flashback of one of the more vivid sights of the weekend. A lad sitting on the stone steps of one of Dublin's grander buildings, being copiously sick into his own hand, while his killer-heeled girlfriend kicked him repeatedly in the ribs. Oh, Dublin in the spring...