Sat.29.07.06. The wedding was looming, but by Saturday evening we did not have a vehicle to travel to the Tickled Trout Hotel then later to the venue at Salmesbury Hall. At 6.45 with a flat battery on the ‘Smart car’ with no access to the ‘Disco’ both plans A and B had gone ‘tits up’: Jo began to panic, somewhat. Danny should have returned to the flat with the keys to the Disco but he was detained in Manchester. Thankfully, Robert suddenly emerged from next door, Salty towers, with the suggestion that I could borrow the 500 Merc, knowing that Danny would have no use for it over the weekend. Fuck me; I’ve won one at last. The thought of swanning up to the hotel in this symbol of obscene ostentatious wealth brought a wry smile to my face. I was still smiling when Rob’s girlfriend emerged from the kitchen doorway, albeit a tad sheepishly. I immediately assumed that I had caught them ‘at it’ in Captain Salty’s matrimonial bed, her embarrassed reaction being the proof of the pudding. I could not have been more wrong, for this was Kristina Woods, the Post and Chron hack journalist who had compiled the article “Prick goes to France in a crap kit car for more booze”. Live and let live, I thought as I roared off in the shiny black Merc.
We reached Salmesbury Hall with time to spare even after having chugged back a few vodkas to ease the pain of the bar prices. Greeted with champagne, which we had to search out, we chatted with other guests. Billy Green and Anne, Ian Thornley and Rita, Andy Lewis and Janet, Richie, Margo, Gerard, Brenda, Jimmy the Axe and Knocker. It seemed as if it had been a ‘good do’ with several ‘day’ guests already swaying and bobbing. Old un’s, young un’s, fat un’s, thin un’s, plus the usual collection of family misfits. Some with body parts they had borrowed from second cousins, blue hair, purple hair, shaven heads, tats and rings, best dads, worst dads, twinsets and slappers. In fact, I heard a couple of young girls chatting by the bar casually exchanging their expectations of the night ahead. “I’ll tell you what, I’m going to shag two blokes tonight, I’m gonna take one up the bum an’ one in the drum.” To which her friend asked, “Why don’t you take one in the gob as well, an’ go for a three’s up?” Wardrobes varied from Primark to fake designer, personalities ranging from the confident to the shy, the penniless and the not so penniless. Regrettably, the only way to enjoy the evening was to be sociable, join in. Fuck that, in the main I stayed outside, even when it was raining, having a quiet smoke. I obviously could not get away with this tranquil exile forever being duly summoned by Knocker to relish 15 verses of Appin Rye. “Fuckin’ beltin this, stated ‘grinning Knocker’, just look at Lewis’s face playing bass and throwing in the odd backing vocal sympathetically supporting Tim’s feeble voice, he’s loving every minute of it”. Lewis raised two fingers.
The party continued at the Tickled Trout after 12.30 am. Carriages were provided in the form of a Wigan Double Decker bus that ferried any survivors down from Salmesbury Hall. We all reluctantly piled on to find the best ‘spex’ had been gobbled up by the ‘Ferengy’, ‘Clingons’ and ‘Jabba the Hut’. But, sneakily, I managed to sprise a spotty leaking teenage ‘cousin’ from the upstairs front seat, thus becoming the driver. ‘The Axe’ seated close by glanced around commenting to his roommate Knocker that, “this was in fact a Chocker Knocker Double Decker”. We poured off the bus leaving behind what looked like the crumbling remnants of some ancient civilisation. They were travelling back to Wigan, whilst we, being the clever ones happy to stay in £65.00 a night bedrooms gratefully over indulging in hotel bar prices of sandbag proportions.
But, secretly, we were tooled up.
Billy had visited Tesco in the afternoon after a warning from ‘the Axe’ regarding the state of the prices at the hotel. Cases of wine and slabs of beer were smuggled onto the terrace. The vodka emerged from Margos bag. Cokes were purchased, spare glasses liberated from behind the main bar. We were off and running. The guitars came out, the Irish ballads rang out, Knocker pushed his Oasis anthems, Jimmy the ‘Axe’ fell asleep. A few hours later when the songs had evaporated, the fags had been stumped, most of the alcohol drained a cream linen suited, waking Jimmy tumbled off his chair into a pool of discarded red wine. It was then we realised that we had consumed more than enough. We retired at 4.00am. having, at last, enjoyed the wedding.
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