Last summer a friend of my sister was getting hitched to her long-term beloved just before he was setting off to finish his Army training prior to his tour of Iraq.
Admittedly, my role in the proceedings was as minimal as they come, (I didn't even get a bloody invite) but this still served to remind me that this whole business of getting married is more complicated than translating the instruction manual for the Chinese Space Shuttle. Into Klingon.
(The less said, of course, about my own pitiful attempts to even get remotely close to getting to the altar myself, the better).
This rather convoluted metaphor sprang from the fact that my brother-in-law and I were roped in to help get some cars sorted out for the big day. Wedding plans being wedding plans, family feuds had been commonplace, the caterer was adamant she wouldn’t do asparagus rolls, the vicar had said that unless the guest list was significantly trimmed down the church doors would have to be held shut with a crowbar, the marquee that was initially ordered had a brown lining and the planned honeymoon in Egypt was aborted for reasons nobody still knows about to this day.
Anyway, despite all this, surely getting some wheels sorted out would be the easiest part.
“Don't worry, my Dad works in the motor trade and I talk to uncooperative receptionists for a living. Any car in the world is a phone call away” I said. Like an idiot.
First of all, despite the fact that my old man actually WORKS for Aston Martin, it became apparent that his own colleagues couldn't organise an orgy at a strip club, which meant our first choice option was out of the window quicker than a roadrunner with a stick of dynamite wedged up his bottom trying to find his way out of a matchstick and sandpaper factory. Blindfolded. In the dark.
The man at Bentley trotted out a ridiculous message that, when decoded, indicated that the cost would be such that, in order to cover it, the wedding ceremony itself would have had to been held under the wheel arches.
Then the squeaky-voiced chap at Jaguar rather delightfully offered us up an XJR12, but considering this was an old barge of a car built during the last days of Ford ownership, the odds of it not breaking down on route to the church meant it was somewhat prudent to turn it down.
The very friendly young lady at BMW was delighted to be able to help, but at this point the bride somewhat huffily put her foot down, saying she’d rather turn up at the church in the back of a lorry than in a BMW.
As we began to grind our teeth to talcum powder in frustration, I suggested going down the ‘Top Gear’ route and ordering a bright lime green Lamborghini Aventador, but several glares and protocol put the knockers on this particular scheme. Then the groom suggested a hot air balloon, in case the wind got up and blew his future mother-in-law all the way to Tunisia. This was also shot down to such an extent the whole damn thing was nearly called off.
Finally, with no help from me, the unusual idea of going for a Range Rover surfaced. Yes, said Land Rover, they would be delighted to help. Then it got complicated …
“Would a red one do ??”
“No.”
“How about a green one ??”
“Yes, that would be super, thank you !!”
“It’s an SE model.”
“Ooh, even better.”
Then the bride piped up AGAIN, saying green was an unlucky colour for a wedding car and she didn’t want it.
“(sigh) Okay, what other colours have you got ??”
“Errrrm ... brown ??”
“Errrrm ... NO !!”
“We have one in white ??”
“Yes, yes, white would be perfect !!”
“It’s not an SE.”
At this point, we didn’t give two hoots what it was as long as it had some wheels and a method of propulsion capable of getting a young lady in a big white dress, along with her mother, two miles from a house in King’s Norton to a church in Northfield. An ox and cart would have done by this point. Various circuses were a little reticent about lending us an elephant. And we also failed to find anyone who even owns a camel, let alone someone who would let us tie some balloons to its testicles. The options kept coming and were just as quickly struck off.
"A horse and cart ?? What if it rains on the day ??"
"A steam engine, or a tractor ??"
"Errrr, the bride’s only meant to be fashionably late."
Even the suggestion of a good old fashioned Rolls Royce was determined to be ‘a bit naff’. It was then at this point, the best man suddenly stepped into the fray with a massive grin on his face and his mobile phone by his ear. He absolutely refused to tell us what he had planned; only that it would make everyone laugh.
This made the groom extremely worried. I still haven’t seen the wedding photos to this day, but I can’t help wondering whether or not it was a 1998 Nissan Sunny ZX-GT with go-faster stripes. If that was the case, his colleagues will probably still be wondering why he keeps turning up for work unable to digest solid food and with his head still stuck on back-to-front …
If I ever get married, I'm turning up in a go-kart.