Popping the question was easy, but I wasn't prepared for the madness of planning my wedding – or listening to variations
on 'Aon Focal Eile', writes
SEAN KENNY
I JUST ASKED one simple question. And lo, the terrible wedding hydra did rear its heads. Strange magazines in shades of pink began accumulating in the house. Hoteliers, photographers, bands and retailers of chocolate fountains began eyeing us up hungrily. The quest for the right dress began. I would catch glimpses of unfamiliar and baffling websites. There were instructional TV programmes to be watched, such as Brides of Franc, a terrifying introduction to wedding culture.
Let me first say that I was astonished and, yes, even disillusioned to learn that Franc was not, in fact, French. Unless Cork, as it is forever threatening to do through the medium of T-shirt slogans, had seceded from the state and allied itself to our Gallic neighbours. Franc, though, was merely the facilitator of all manner of deranged extravagance. His brides came across as hyper-tyrannical maniacs whose general demeanour suggested they would quite happily impale upon a stake anyone who messed with their nuptial colour scheme.
They would demand, say, an international airport constructed entirely of crystal. Franc would nod and imply, that, though designing and building an international airport from crystal would be difficult, not even the most epically stupid demand was impossible, provided they could pay whatever monstrous sum it cost.
Much of this madness is fuelled by wedding magazines, publications so detached from reality that they are essentially science fiction. How I delighted in stories such as Extreme Brides: Saying 'I Will' To A Plastic Surgeon, The Most Glamorous Cakes Ever(How can a cake be glamorous? Does it wear diamond earrings?), Are You Marrying The Right Man?(I tore that one out before she got to read it).
Not content with whipping brides-to-be into several kinds of frenzy, certain magazines target grooms. Advice on speeches is a staple. And what a lifesaver this can be. Because I am profoundly, irretrievably idiotic, I kept forgetting that I should not make crude jokes about my mother-in-law. But, thanks to the sagacious writers of You and Your Weddingmagazine, I avoided committing this solecism.
The magazines advise to book your band early. So, as research, we gatecrashed several weddings. I say gatecrashed, implying daring and dynamism. Really, we just stood furtively at the back of function rooms, awkward and underdressed.
We discovered numerous groups with such clarity of musical vision that they made every song sound exactly the same. All very well if everything sounds like, say, Thunder Road.Not if it sounds like Aon Focal Eile. Which it did.
We heard of one band that were supposedly less horrendous than most and were reasonably priced. By reasonably priced I mean unreasonably priced, of course, because nothing for sale in wedding-land would be considered good value in the non-loopy civilian world.
We travelled to see them play in a nightclub in Navan and hear their (non-negotiable) repertoire. Now, there are many, many things I would rather do than drive to Navan on a wintry night to hear a wedding band – undergo major dental surgery without anaesthetic, bathe in a vat of hydrochloric acid, watch Brides of Franc– and yet, there we were. The group were okay. Then, without warning, they launched into a shameless rendition of Livin' La Vida Loca, Ricky Martin's musical war crime. We were forced to leave at once (through outrage – and by the bouncer, who had noticed we hadn't bought any drinks).
We attended a wedding fair, where a woman tried to sell us a chocolate fountain, cunningly feeding us chocolate as she spoke. Many sleepless nights of tortuous internal debate later, we decided that several gallons of cascading chocolate at a price of €499 plus VAT was not, in fact, integral to our nuptial celebration.
The hotel we booked tried to sell us chair covers. Never mind that the chairs are already adequately covered. Remember, it’s a wedding, dodo! The more stupidly gratuitous items you spend your money on, the more magical your “special day” will be. Hotels constantly refer to your “special day” in their literature, perhaps in recognition of their “special” prices.
The dress – or The Dress, to accord it proper reverence – was purchased well in advance. Oddly, the dress research continued long after this. “What do you think of this one?” she would enquire, whilst browsing one of the eight or nine million wedding-related websites in existence.
“I like it,” I’d say. My strategy was to express a favourable opinion of almost all dresses, reasoning that I would not cause offence by showing dislike of one that may have been similar to hers. To give my wholesale lying a varnish of credibility, I would occasionally criticise a dress.
“You don’t like it?”
“Oh, that one,” I’d say, now actually looking at it.
“Oh, no, I do. The empire waist is delightful and the obviously hand-beaded accents are exquisite.” Then I’d rotate my head slightly back towards the TV.
In the end, our wedding day was hugely enjoyable, and our guests withstood with heroic fortitude the absence of a chocolate fountain. Looking back, I think I played my part. I nodded in most of the right places. And I sat through entire episodes of Brides of Franc without hurling a single household item at the television. That’s love, believe me.
