As for the subject in my header: all right, I take it all back about the chicken strangler. The “official” photos were worth waiting for. Whether they were worth waiting almost a month for will doubtless provide fuel for vigorous debate for as long as my marriage lasts, and will continue to be picked (or should that be pecked?) over by future generations of Hanns until the crack of doom (which is not that far off, by all accounts). The only snag is that we now have 425 “official” images of the day to choose from (and about 500 in total) making it as difficult to select the best as it is for the admissions tutor of an Oxbridge college looking gloomily at a list of applicants with straight A grades in their A-levels. (It would never have happened in my day.)
Nevertheless, in response to popular demand – well, a couple of requests from friends who were probably just being polite – here are a few more pictures to supplement the “unofficial” snaps posted on St Patrick’s Day:
The two strapping lads to my left (or the right of the picture, depending on how you want to look at it) are my godsons; the one on the far left of the picture is the bride's younger brother. Clearly we were anticipating more trouble on my side of the church, given that we chose 100% more ushers for it, and ensured that they were constructed like the better class of nightclub bouncers. On a technical note, my height when I last checked was 6' 0", so the usher next to me can perhaps only be described as ****ing tall.
“It doesn't matter if you do go down on your knees and beg, there is no way her father is going to have her back now.”
We should have been, but Rick the Vic thought it would be more fun to listen to some Handel and Monteverdi - and who could disagree with him?
Their reaction presumably reflected their relief that it was finally over. Though there were mixed feelings on the groom’s side of the church, where many people could be seen glumly tearing up betting slips and looking for the John Lewis wedding list on their BlackBerrys so that they could finally buy a belated wedding present.
Hurrah! The confetti will distract attention from the mysterious bulge in the groom's trouser pocket
Does Rick the Vic need to count his candlesticks?
The photographer had clearly got bored with photographing the bride and groom by now. And who can blame him?
Though readers with the ability to count up to four will no doubt have been able to work that out for themselves. They were under strict instructions to launch into the theme tune from Fawlty Towers whenever a member of the hotel’s management team passed by.

Though which side would you put your money on if it came to a fight, bearing in mind that wor's is Geordies, like?
No comments:
Post a Comment