Dad was right. It was a posh wedding. April 26th 1969. Cup final day. Just as well it was Leicester v Man City. If it had been Tottenham we would have had to change the date because he would have kicked up a fuss.
I think it was the first time I felt embarrassed about my upbringing. Dad looked smaller than he normally did, Vi was blousy and overdressed in a yellow outfit that showed too much of her cleavage, and my old school friends seemed to think they were only there to look at the women and get drunk. At one point I was worried if I even belonged myself, if this was really me, here on my wedding day dressed in a morning suit. I kept expecting a tap on the shoulder and a man saying, ‘Come on, Martin, admit it, you don’t really fit in here. This is far too good for you …’
Ade, my best man, had brought a packet of condoms and put one in his right hand so that after he had greeted me I was left with sticky handshakes from then on. He even put one in the cucumber sandwiches. George pulled one out and started to blow it up. Claire’s mother thought he’d done it on purpose.
‘Who is that revolting man?’
And then there were the speeches. Claire’s father had written a poem to his daughter that said her smile was like the sun coming out and even when she cried as a child there was always a rainbow after the storm. Then he began to cry himself, holding it back as much as he could, but ending by saying that the best present everyone could give would be their love and understanding throughout our marriage. Loyalty mattered more than anything in the world.
‘Be ye steadfast,’ he said, ‘unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord.’
I thanked him and said what an honour it was to be part of their family. I tried to be generous without upsetting Dad or Vi, and I could tell they felt out of place, sitting apart with all the Canvey people, toying with their sparkling wine and chickpea vol-au-vents.
Ade made a drunken speech beginning with the old joke: ‘The trouble with being the best man at a wedding is that you never get to prove it’; but that didn’t get a laugh so he upped the ante. ‘Martin, old son,’ he said, ‘I’m telling you that your wedding night is going to be like a Christmas dinner: a bit of leg, a bit of breast and a lot of STUFFING …’
Claire’s father tried to pretend he wasn’t there and her mother did her ‘boys will be boys’ look.
‘She’s a vegetarian,’ Amanda shouted.
Ade then moved on to perform his trademark impersonations of a dog being sick and the boys got behind him and started jeering along (‘Bone up, Mart! Go for it, Mart! Hey hey hey!’). Then he said that although marriage could and should last a long time, it came in six-inch instalments.
Half of the room was silent.
‘Sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. Anyway. I’m stopping. Yes, I’m stopping. Claire, Martin, may the blue bird of happiness crap all over your wedding cake. The bridesmaids!’