Unpublished Author goes to a wedding (Oi Gevalt)

Never invite an unpublished author to your wedding. We’re not particularly good at moderation generally; moderation with alcohol specifically. Therefore, an open bar – an integral and inseparable part of all good weddings – is a nightmare in waiting. Initially socially awkward, after a few drinks I’m funny, witty and even charming. After a few more though, I’m a bore, and nearing a bottle (an inevitability, really) I’m a train-wreck. Wife is very good at moderation, however, so I can always count on her to a)nbe bored, b) get me home, and c) be ruthlessly vengeful in the cold light of day. Blackout usually arrives with the second bottle, and so she can delight the next morning in running through a best-of of the most excruciatingly embarrassing moments in torturous detail.

Last night I apparently:

– Kept an entire table rapt while I listed most of the countries of the world without, unfortunately, ever finding a point.

– Couldn’t understand that an amateur singer wasn’t a professional. I was even more perplexed that the British Home office doesn’t employ singers.

– Was sure nobody would notice my chronic hiccuping.

– Didn’t recognise that I didn’t speak Italian.

– Found a set of business cards in my suit pocket and proceeded to hand them out to complete strangers.

– Left without Wife and sat down on the floor of a petrol station when I realised I had no idea where I was going.

All in all, it was a rather tame night by Unpublished Author wedding standards. I didn’t throw up in a moving cab. I didn’t insult the bride, or the groom, or any important close family. I didn’t pass out or punch anyone, and I even didn’t tell anyone that I hated them and wanted them to die. Maybe it was due to my  three piece suit – unpublished authors rarely get to dress like a pimp, so for once I was feeling like a right Don Juan.

Sure I was still drunk as we made our way to the airport, and sure when the hangover hit it was (and remains) the definition of brutal (I’m pretty sure there’s now an orangutang sitting on my head an poking an ice pick into my eye), but even Wife resentfully admitted that, by my own yardstick, I had behaved rather well.

For her sake, I’ll make sure to be less well behaved next time… I know who I’ll use as my inspiration…

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