Welcome to my new blog! Rahhh, huzzah, YESSSS (pumping fist action) + all kinds of celebratory shit! My own shiny little blog! After three years at the excellent Marie Claire I’m striking out alone. I’m going to try to become one of those proper writers who lives online and spends all their time tweeting hilarious things to other writers and famous people and stuff.
That said, I have my concerns. I looked at Caitlin Moran’s twitter earlier – she’s successful and cool n stuff – the kind of person I should be emulating. (She also likes a good swear.) Within seconds of looking at her page I started crying and realised that I wanted to go and binge on maltesers. Why? Because – at the time of writing – SHE HAS WRITTEN FUCKING SEVENTY FOUR TWEETS JUST TODAY! SEVENTY FOUR TWEETS!
I was at a wedding the other week where I met a guy who runs an ebook company. According to him, this is about the level of tweet I should be aiming for. Apparently, if I am going to make it as a writer in this annoying stupid modern digital age I will need to spend about 50% of my time shouting about myself in the online world and the other 50% writing books.
Basically, I’m fucked before I’ve even begun. So I’m going to ignore this worrying issue very studiously and talk instead about my first ever experience of Bridesmaidom, which happened last week.
Seriously! 32 and never a bridesmaid?! I must be monumentally unpopular.
Well, my first experience confounded all expectations. None of what I thought it would involve actually happened. Below is a list of my assumptions about what being a bridesmaid means, followed by an account of what really happened.
1. Any decent bride makes her bridesmaids look as minging as possible. Ideally they will be wearing peach satin and nasty silver shoes with thick ankle straps designed to fatten the bridesmaids’ ankles. The bride will then pretend that she didn’t really mean it by allowing her hair stylist to do the bridesmaids’ hair . . . but a good up-do is never going to disguise a foul concoction of salmon-coloured nylon and the bride knows it. Ha ha! She will be the most beautiful woman in the world! Those bitches following her up the aisle have no chance!
No. I was gifted the most beautiful maxi that money can buy. And in a further twist I was required to wear it not with fat-ankle-strap heels, but instead wellies (the wedding took place in the middle of a loch.) And, later, trainers (there was a ceilidh.) Nothing about how I expected to look came true. It was a strange combination but that made it no less excellent.
2. As bridesmaid you will drive to the wedding in a big vintage car, chatting gaily with the other bridesmaids while the bride goes on ahead with her dad. Wrong again! We were originally going to arrive in a 1960s VW Campervan driven by the bride, but it broke down. So Lucy Robinson drove us there – three bridesmaids and the bride – in her tiny three door economy hire car. The bride practiced her vows as we sped through country lanes and we all roared with tears. (Can you roar with tears? I dunno. I don’t care. That’s what happened.)
Tourists taking pictures of the castle where she was getting married (pictured) gaped as we rocked up and pulled out the bride (and her dress) out of this little cereal box on wheels. It was absolutely, totally brilliant. Then we got into a wet and grubby rowing boat and were rowed across a very windy loch by the bride’s brother who was wearing a kilt and hiking sandals. I love Scotland.
3. The bridesmaid is so drunk, by the time the dancing starts, that she just rolls around the dancefloor mumbling bullshit about her own wedding (or lack of) and eventually throws up in someone’s handbag. Oh no, my friend! Think again! I was MAGNIFICENT! Instead of a disco there was a Ceilidh (a barn dance for those who are looking at that word thinking ‘what the fuck does that say?’) and you know what? I was not half bad at it! Naturally, I was shit . . . but way less shit than the majority of the other people present. And so many of them Scottish too! Someone’s wide-open mouth actually crashed into my head during the Stripping the Willow dance. And someone else manage to swing me round by my hair. Amazing.
4. The bridesmaid gets off with the best man. Obviously that didn’t happen. Apart from anything else, The Man was present at the wedding too – looking very handsome although typically ridiculous; he somehow lost half of his suit on the way to Scotland. I do love The Man. He’s as shit at being a human as I am.
5. The bridesmaid takes a lovely gentle shopping trip to buy something old/new/borrowed/blue for her soon-to-be-wed friend. Hmmm. Again, not so much. I did go shopping, yes. For something new (bridal knickers, specifically.) But there was no dewy-eyed drift round a nice department store. There was instead a stomping rage. Here’s a thing, readers: Bridal knickers are disgusting! All I could find were sodding G-strings! G STRINGS MADE OF IVORY-COLOURED SATIN! Who, in their right mind, wants to spend the best day of their lives with a piece of satin up their crack?? Seriously! Especially on the one bloody day of your life when your dress is so big and thick you couldn’t have a VPL even if you wore a rubber ring round your arse? Jesus!
And so none of my expectations proved correct. And I’m glad. The wedding was bloody amazing. A beautiful, mad, welly-centric day replete with tears, panic attacks, beautiful bursts of sun and windy squalls. A day of lovely poetry, stomping ceilidh dances, happy snogging and Christ alive, the most amazing potato dauphinoise I’ve ever ruddy well tasted. Being a bridesmaid is the best. I’m available if anyone’s looking.