WE’VE worked it out. On a good day, with no delays and the wind in the right direction, it’s just two hours from our cast concrete doorstep in Town to our friends’ black and white chequered- tile one in Brighton.
And that’s the journey the Gaffer and I took on Friday of last week to celebrate the marriage of our friends at the church formerly known as Holy Trinity but now called Fabrica.
The Gaffer has an impeccable sense of direction. I have a lousy one but cover this up with persuasive argument.
‘It must be down here,’ I said as I lugged and she trundled behind our two nights’ worth of gear.
‘It doesn’t feel like it’s down here,’ she said, slowly losing her patience.
Then she did something which I never do because I believe as a modern, urban traveller you have to retain a certain level of mystique and independence.
After she had asked someone where Fabrica was and we were forced to do a 180-degree spin in its right direction, I conceded silently that my beliefs, weighed up against heavy luggage and blistering feet, were absolute rubbish.
We finally reached the church to find Cath – the bride – and her mother, Jackie, putting the finishing touches to the decorations.
Shane – the groom – was out buying the drink.
There are many things that Shane and Cath do right. They both work at Channel 4 (he in comedy and she in music), they have a great house just 30 seconds’ walk from the train station and they got married in Vegas with what Shane described as ‘probably the worst two Elvis impersonators going’.
They are both extremely generous and one of the things they do the most righteously is put on a bash.
The former church was festooned with handmade bunting, there were old photographs of them both through the ages, each table was named (such as the Liberace Table, the Eartha Kitt Table, the Dolly Parton Table), with a cardboard cut-out of the titular celebrity taking pride of place, and Cath showed me where we would be delivering the speeches from. At least 10ft above the seated crowd in the church’s old, wooden pulpit.
Gulp.
They said they needed no help, so with the front door key we wound our way to the house. Or rather I did.
The Gaffer – much after the fashion of her mother and her three sisters – can touch down in any city, anywhere in the world, and no matter if she is hindered by such piffling details as a military coup, malaria, fire or widespread looting and rioting, she will always manage to get in straight away her first instalment of clothes shopping.
I trudged to the house and fell asleep in the armchair.
That night we went out for a meal at a huge restaurant and for the first time since knowing Shane, about 18 years, we met his parents.
His mum was a small firecracker with curly hair and a wicked tongue (which he joked is how one could describe Cath) and his dad was a cross between the Irish comedian, John Redmond, and Dick van Dyke and had a constant supply of laidback gags that would make Roy Walker look like Robin Williams on a coke binge.
Myself and the Gaffer spent the next day shopping (she’d already bought a pair of shoes the day before which turned out – surprise, surprise – to be completely unsuitable, painful and not what she really wanted) and had brunch at a favourite spot called Bill’s, which is like a cross between a canteen and a deli and where they serve the best ever eggs Benedict with bacon.
Afterwards, she did some more shopping and I had a couple of Timmy Taylors in The Battle of Trafalgar and wrote my speech (I was sort of the best man).
At the do I was sitting next to Lee, who writes the comedy series, Star Stories and The Kevin Bishop Show.
He told me that the next series of Star Stories was going to start with a bang. It is about Elton John and recreates the death of Princess Diana, with an irate Prince Philip chasing after her car on a moped. He was a really nice bloke, as was John, who did the animated show, Modern Toss, with the forever-swearing character, Mr Tourette.
Having known Shane for a while, I’ve met quite a few television writers, but these two were definitely the best. Friendly, funny and genuinely interested in what you had to say.
Then the panic gripped me: how the hell was I going to crack the funnies in a room full of comedy writers, actors, actresses and TV folk?
Cath went up the wooden pulpit first. Brilliant, heartfelt, honest.
Her mother went up. Laidback, improvisational, relaxed, extremely funny.
Shane’s dad went up. He was like a professional after-dinner speaker.
Then it was my turn.
On every step up the wooden tower my bangers and mash dinner returned to haunt me as noisy, raspberry-blowing little ghosts. When I reached the top I couldn’t see a thing because a spotlight shone full in my face.
I opened my little Moleskine book and looked at the poem inside. A poem? What in the name of Jehu was I thinking? I’d be ritually slaughtered.
Seven minutes later it was over.
Shane was beaming, Cath had tears in her eyes and Lee said: ‘I write TV shows but I could never write something like that. Brilliant, mate.’
Tears of relief and joy rolled uncontrollably down my inside trouser leg. I hadn’t let them down.
After the meal, the happy couple danced and to the strains of Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now, the dance floor was mobbed and the party turned into a bacchanal.
The number of guests was two-and-a-half times the population of Herm. Shane, ever the affable host and with an in-built fear that people will at some point go dry, had got enough drink in for Alderney.
‘Can we do this again for your 50th?’ he suggested. ‘We’ll still have enough booze left.’
The party moved from the ex-church to Shane and Cath’s house and didn’t stop until 5.30am.
By the time we got back home in Guernsey, my mother, who had looked after the Princess and Little Red, had cooked us a chicken.
As I sat there chomping on a leg, I looked at the kids and the Gaffer and thought: friends and family, what else is there in life?
And then I thought: oh yeah, work tomorrow. And it was bin night. And the kids’ uniforms needed ironing. And the dishwasher needed emptying…
Article posted on 6th December, 2008 - 10.00am
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