Weddings are a purely materialistic concept.
In order to finally rid themselves of expensive boarders, parents agree to part with a ton load of cash that could easily been put towards purchasing a small luxury jet. Once out of pocket, they then invite all their family friends and annoying neighbors to part with enough cash to cover the price of a pair of front seats to Hamilton and an overpriced baby sitter. When you finally get to the wedding, and after your other half has forcefully removed your check from your inside jacket pocket where you tried to hide it, it is time to wet your appetite.
BUT before that you have to wet your lips and kiss the bride's parents, the groom's parents, the bride's siblings, the grooms siblings, the dotty grandmother of the groom who immediately accosts you with her champagne glass - you get the idea right?
Now that you have escaped from the in-laws the outlaws and a middle aged woman with meter high gold shoes and a face that could sink the Titanic , it is time to tuck in. Be warned, before a wedding it is customary not to eat for at least a fortnight. Judging on the unbelievable amount that your other half has forced you to fork out, getting your money's worth is no easy venture. Let it be a challenge to you then.
A wedding reception can be one of two things:
either four spread out tables that serve miniature delicacies that can only be seen with a microscope
an international smorgasbord of sushi mixed with felafel, curry and patai.
Luckily the family have opted for the latter. For the next hour you go at it with a passion. To help it digest properly you consume the recommended amount of liquid, which in this case means 4 beers, two classes of red wine, a couple of margaritas and the house punch which could mean anything.
After a quick ceremony where vows and kisses are exchanged and everyone seems to hug everyone else, it's off to the tables for dinner. My better half and I, for some reason, are placed next to the dotty grandmother who keeps kicking me in the knee with the heel of her left shoe. In front of me is a plate the size of my kitchen table and off I go to fill it with chops, t-bone steak, sea food, oriental mishmash and a braised chicken breast - who says I never eat anything healthy? I am only half through my third helping of roasted potatoes when the music starts and the love of my life pulls me up and on to the dance floor.
In the middle ages, those times before the invention of electronic trance music, weddings used to be about drinking four bottles of beer mixed with cheap champagne and then displaying your expertise in performing hysterical movements with your hands and feet while three hairy teenagers from southern New Jersey delivered warped noises, barely reminiscent of the Eagles, from their newly purchased electric guitars.
Then some descendant of Satan himself invented electronic music to the delight of ear specialists everywhere. Luckily I had taken this into account, and had readied myself by putting back 6 or 7 alright 10, but who's counting, peach chasers before reaching the dance floor. I was entirely oblivious to any sounds pretending they were music blown at my ears through mega-sized speakers. The lack of coordination between my hands and feet were accepted by the crowd as being really in and I would have got a standing ovation if I could have kept standing and not fallen head first onto - you guessed it the bride's grandmother who was laying on the dance floor recovering from an overdose of old age or Gin & Tonic.
This would definately be an opportune time to take my leave and retain a bit of my dignity.
I almost made it out, but then my wife whispered in my ear the cursed word that is the essence of all temptation: