Such a perfect day...

Another weekend, another wedding, but no ordinary wedding this. Fellow blogger and comic Nick Swift tied his knot with vivacious redhead Harriet, on the same day as Jordan and Peter Andre.
We had fewer paparazzi, horse-drawn carriages, flocks of pink doves etc, but what we lacked in chintz, we more than made up for in sentiment - beautiful humanist ceremony, which involved the lighting of candles (bizarrely, no comedy gusts of wind, nor wrist-scorching hot wax spillages), and some great readings.
Most of all, beautiful friends and beautiful surroundings.
I haven't felt so moved since my wee bro got married in July - there were tears of joy and songs of laughter that day too (but no Russ Abbott, sadly)
The classic was the bride's speech, during which she described how her and Nick's first date together had been to go and see him in a play (ever modest). Lurking behind the wobbly amateur scenery, seeking out Harriet's visage in the crowd, Nick had been too tall for the stage-flat, and had been clearly visible to anyone who cared to look. Harriet said "...so I got five inches of Nick all the way through the play", which resulted in a breakdown in the proceedings while everyone wet themselves.
What's ironic, of course, is that he doesn't have five inches. (Only kidding Nick)
Anyway, congrats to Nick and Harriet. A day that will live in the soft warm squidgy places of everyone's hearts.

It's-a me-a Mario!

Good old London Underground. Why shut one line for maintenance, when you can shut two at once? The whole of West London is at a standstill because the District and Piccadilly Lines are both closed at once. That's like shutting off the M1 and the A1 at the same time, and this on a Saturday afternoon when there are 2 big football matches on in London, and, more importantly, I have to get to Wandsworth to go on a brewery tour as part of my Italian friend Simone's stag do.

He's one of those charming continentals who are passionate anglophiles (so much so that he watches Only Fools and Horses with Ceefax subtitles to glean every new idiom he can), so I think a tour of a British brewery is as much a cultural adventure as an alcoholic one.

And what a brilliant stag do it was too. The brewery was fascinating - I never thought I could get so excited about hops. I'm buying a pair of sandals and cultivating a beer gut immediately. Plus, it culminated in a tasting session, which was splendid, and set us up nicely for the obscene drinking binge that ensued. We lined our stomachs with raw fish from Yo Sushi, and then proceeded to neck cocktails like they were going out of fashion (whaddaya mean they're already out of fashion?).

To top it all, Simone spent the whole evening dressed as Super Mario, and loved it!

I have no memory of leaving the jazz bar in which we were ensconced when my drinkometer started making klaxon noises, no memory of staggering to Guanabara to hook up with the hen party and collect my missus, no memory of the taxi ride home, and no memory of attempting to pour myself a whisky when we did get home (fortunately Clare prevented me, and bundled me into bed)

I do however, have a very vivid memory of feeling poorly the whole of the next day.

Bleurgh.