Over and Under: Confetti Magazine
Title: Part 4: Over and Under
Author: Jonathan McCrea
Date: 8th January 2009
Publication: Confetti for publication
Okay, I’ll admit it: I was naive. To everyone who so smugly assured me that compiling the wedding list would be my biggest nightmare, you were right. Bravo. Our initial target was 100 guests not including children. We began buoyed with the foolish optimism of the soon-to-be-wed, strongly believing that the venue might actually be too big. We had two strong reasons for this ill-fated confidence. One: we had somehow gotten our parents to agree to a no-extended-family clause as my fiancee Dara comes from a good Catholic-sized family already. Two: I don’t have a lot of friends. So we began compiling names. Best friends, people who’d been there through tough times, close workmates and those token invitees that you hope will be flattered, but have the sense not to actually show up on the day. It took a while to complete but we finally found ourselves with a list of 182 guests. In other words, an extra wedding full of people. Nuts.
Everyone on that list will expect to be invited, yet for many reasons (all of them being money) that’s a complete impossibility. We despaired for a few days until eventually I came up with a simple yet cunning plan. I sat Dara down to explain. “I propose a series of secret tests to grade each guest on a scale of worthiness. We borrow a car from 5 friends and see who lets us keep it the longest. The top two get an invite. Or invite everyone around to help with some painting and see who turns up. You could even feign an illness and see who sends get-well-soon cards and who brings soup”. It was a truly majestic idea, and were I getting married to a man (more specifically myself), it would have been a fait accompli. But for better or worse as the saying goes, I was marrying Dara. She gave me a look of pity. “This is why you don’t have a lot of friends, my dear” she said. Maybe she had a point.
As yet we still have no plan. Sending out all the invites at once is too risky, but staggering means we still have to prioritise between friends. If you have any bright ideas, answers on a postcard, please – we’ve less than 5 months to go (just writing that freaks me out).
The more pressing issue is that of my upcoming stag. Over Christmas I was bonding (read drinking moderately and discussing sport) with Dara’s brothers. At the end of the evening, after we’d finished disagreeing about football, I sort of spontaneously invited them to come along to the stag. Now let me start by saying these lads are great craic and I know they’d fit right in with the rest of the crew, but the next day I realised it sort of put an air of responsibility on the whole thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m reasonably classy. I’m not one of those idiots who shouts football songs at strangers in a “Lads on Tour” t-shirt stained with Harp and kebab fat. At the same time, I’d rather not have to pretend that I’m a considerate, intelligent and cultured human being for the entire weekend (a charade I’ve managed to keep up thus far with the in-laws).
I bent the ear of my best man, Graham. “I’m not booking Swan Lake”, he said imploringly. I tried to reassure him. “No no. All I’m saying is, let’s try to be adult about the whole thing. No Eurotrash rave dens, no wasabi challenges, and for the love of God, let’s not provoke any more biker gangs.” He thought about this for a moment and then said “But…we are going to see naked women dance, aren’t we?”. The situation was indeed very grave. I lowered my face and shook my head. “I don’t know Graham. I just don’t know”, I said. God bless him, he looked like Tiny Tim.
This may sound ridiculous, but going to a gentleman’s club is a rite of passage for a stag. I’m aware that this is Confetti you’re reading, so let me explain myself. Yes, on pretty much every level the whole thing is base and childish and stupid. But on another level, it’s a way of closing a chapter. Think about it: it’s almost certainly going to be the last time I’ll ever see another naked woman until I die. As a red-blooded male, that’s a pretty overwhelming concept. Really, it’s not that I want to go; it’s actually my duty as a man. If not to honour an age old tradition, then to say shake the hand of my former self and bid him farewell, so I can embrace my new one as a considerate, intelligent and cultured husband to my beautiful wife.
At least, that’s how I plan on selling it to the brothers-in-law. Do you think they’ll go for it?