The Irish Tales

A very Irish wedding.
　
　
I start drinking once we land at Rosslare and I don’t stop until we board the return ferry.
It’s not as if I have a choice.

The groom starts drinking at 8am with a voddy and water for breakfast and doesn’t ever stop. It would be the height of discourtesy not to join him, would it not ?

The groom is my very good friend and possible twin, Tomas Dunne. I taught him to ride when he was very young and took him out cub-hunting with the Wexford pack, when I was fit and stupid.

He would fall off his pony almost every day, but a good smack would have him back up in seconds. A plucky lad. If occasionally a little,well, camp ?

Later in life, I taught him the rudiments of polocrosse and serious drinking. He has never thanked me for it, although he did the same for my wayward daughter when I asked, so I guess we are even.

I am deeply honoured to be Tom’s best man and even more so when I meet his intended, Angela. A sweet, pretty, kind-hearted lady. Aye.

We are mob-handed, there being my self and Kate, Jay and her husband David and their two kids, Charlie and Alex.

So when we arrive at Angela and Tom’s place, Tom puts two chickens on to roast.

At first I put this down to simple double vision, but then I realise that eight people can do very little damage to a single chicken, in all life.

So, the week before the wedding proceeds and one day, Tom and I venture down to Wexford town to get our wedding suits, which I have many doubts abouts.

You see, I am, for want of a phrase, a large man nowadays and the idea of formal wear scares me not a little.

Tomas, of course, is indifferent, as his sparse frame will take anything a bad tailor will deliver.

So we walk to the shop, which is a kind of a mistake, as I do not walk anywhere these days, least of all to a tailors.
Even so, we arrive ; Tom gladfaced and friendly, myself hot, bothered and glowering.

But I have forgotten how well Tom understands me and my foibles and sure enough, a genteel young man takes me in hand, in a very manly way you must understand.

Before I know it, I am transformed into a seemingly distinguished dinner-jacketed gentleman, complete with bow-tie and smile, acceptable in most of Dublin’s better gambling clubs, at least.

This pleases me greatly, as you may imagine and I am doubly disappointed when, for first, Tom says we may not go playing roulette and secondly that we must go home to the girls.

I wouldn’t mind this so much if Tom hadn’t insisted on us removing our glad rags and carrying them up a fucking great hill to the car.
Dear reader, I could have gladly killed the Fenian bastard there and then.

Clearly I didn’t, as the next day, the wedding day, dawned bright and clear and dry, apart from the vodka Tom and I consumed as the pre-ordained rituals took place.

The agonies of the bride, the stupidity of the guests, the absence of cuff links for the men, the terrible desire to simply sleep off the night before………

Aye, but……..I then find myself outside the very pretty church, with Tom next to me, begging for a drink.
I am an oak.
I refuse.
"Ah, ya fucking English prick. Have taste of this," says Tom, handing me a handsome silver flask.

I sup well, then choke and spit. "What the fuck is this?" I gasp.
Tomas stands tall and grave.
"Poteen, ya fucking sop. Drink it up boy and look English. For fuck’s sake. It’s what’s expected….".
I will say this for Tomas; he always knew what was expected.

Now. I am a good catholic boy from birth and I understand all the rituals and liturgies and so on, but I have been absent from the church so long. that what followed left me a trifle bemused.

I stood beside Tom and Angela and proffered the ring when asked, no sweat.
So far, so good. They seemed to be married, Hurrah ! Ring the bells, sing Hosanah!
But after that, there was a procession before the Father, which I felt obliged to join. And then it hit me.

Holy bloody comunion !
For me, this would be the the first time in thirty years. And I haven’t confessed to my sins, which are many and manifest.

I mention this to the holy Father and he smiles and waves it away, like all really truly good cattlick priests do.

"You are here, my son and willing. That is all God really asks of you."
I look at him with puppy dog eyes, whilst thinking that a God who asks so little needs a kick in the banana skins, forgive me Mary, Mother of all that is sacred.

And so we proceed to the reception, at a very lovely inn nearby.

(To be continued.)