In which Creampuff might actually get to the part where there's a WEDDING. She might.
As the bride Jecr eschewed a wedding rehearsal (so as not to "ruin the intrigue", according to her comments on the last installment), Jeba and I and Caho and Barty were rather at loose ends the day before the wedding. Jeba and I spent the morning pretending to be Queens University students in order to do our laundry in the campus laundromat. Between the summer-ish weather and the heat of the washing wachines, it was more of a laundromat/sauna combo. If we could smell ourselves BEFORE, well . . . now so could everyone else. After a certain point, we stopped fighting it and surrendered to the sweating. Other students gave us a wide berth. It was oddly freeing.
Our laundry done and impurities purged (partly by the sauna and partly by the shower we took back at the hostel, where I trod in a pile of dog hair and had to shampoo my foot), we met Caho and her swain Barty in a nearby park. We proceeded to sit on the grass and discuss girly things like dresses and strapless bras and how the wings would go over at the City Hall and, finally, bridesmaiding duties. Mainly the part about the speech.
"Hey, how's that speech coming, Roro?" asked Barty.
"Ha ha. Well, about that - I thought that we all of us do the speech together, you know? You know, as chief bridesmaid, I think my job is mainly to coordinate the speech. So maybe we could jot down some ideas and go from there."
"How did YOU get to be the chief bridesmaid?" said Caho.
"Well, clearly," I said smugly, "it is because she likes me best."
"Caho, Jecr put Roro in charge because she probably knows you'd just cry incoherently through your speech, like you did at your sister's wedding," smirked Barty in a way I would not describe as "loving".
"Oh no," I thought, all in a panic, "if I rip his nuts off, I'll miss the wedding!"
"Oh, right. Ha ha. I did cry pretty hard, didn't I?" chuckled Caho.
"I'll say," said Barty and then he made some mocking weeping noises.
My gorgeous friend Caho looked a little stricken and I wanted to RIP BARTY'S FUCKING FACE OFF. Jeba and I exchanged glances. Though he had had us fooled early on, it seemed that perhaps Barty, like some of Caho's previous fellas, could be kind of a dicksmack.
Keeping a close eye on Barty in case of further dicksmackery (mercifully, there was none), we compiled some of our favourite teen memories of Jecr, including her many, many gerbils, her passion for writing long serial stories in which each of her friends hooked up with the hunks of our dreams (mine was MacGyver's Richard Dean Anderson - shut up) and the brilliant essay she wrote about badger discrimination. We clearly did not lack for material and, satisfied that we'd worked out who would say what, Jeba and I wandered off to Marks and Spencer in search of a strapless bra that wouldn't draw blood. We found a bra - but I still have the marks.
We were to meet up with Jecr, her squeeze Roch and the rest of their friends and wedding party folks at a pub that evening. When we got there, some football team or other was having a very successful night and, in celebration, pints were a mere 1£ each. Barty, Caho and Jeba got right into the cheap pint action. Not me.
When it comes to alcohol, I am . . . oh, what's the word? Oh, that's right - a pussy. One drink and I'm red-faced, sleepy and inarticulate. There is only one drink that I can tolerate any amount of without drooling on myself and trying to put pants on people's cats and that drink . . . is Bailey's Irish Cream. That's right. Sweet, creamy, pussy-skirt-drink Bailey's Irish Cream. Naturally, the pub had Bailey's - we WERE in Ireland after all - but when I ordered a "double" of Baileys on the rocks, the bar man looked at me as if I had crapped in the bowl of pretzels. I decided not to ask for my customary umbrella, but I think the bar man may have added his own special flair to my "drink" by ashing into it.
By the time Jecr, Roch and the wedding entourage arrived, we were all good and tight. Barty was having a heart to heart with Quincy, my dog-shaped purse, Caho was crawling around under the table looking for the lipgloss I knew to be in her pocket and Jeba was enthusiastically hoisting her pint and shouting "Show us your lad!" at the hunky footballers on the tv along with the rest of the ladies in the bar. As all the family and friends got to know each other and the soon-to-be newlyweds bought round after round, things went from tight and polite to wasted and overly familiar. Bawdy songs, rump slapping and Quincy-molesting ensued and I knew, when I leaned over to Jecr, said "You were RIGHT, man. FUCK rehearsals, man. Let the wedding happen ORGANICALLY, man, like, from the heart, you know?" and then to frenched my Bailey's glass to extract the last drops of sweet, sweet liqueur, that it might be time to go home.
Sodden, screeching and staggering back to our hostel, Jeba and I decided that we'd better eat something before we went to sleep, to lessen the effects of the hangover. Something healthy and hydrating. Something with nutritional value. So we stopped at the Spar for some Snickers.
The Spar is a 24 hour store, like the 7-11, but after regular hours, instead of going to the store, you had to go to a special window and tell the clerk behind the bullet-proof glass what you wanted. Jeba and I bickered over whether to get four or six Snickers (in case you barf up the first two, you know - you might be hungry later.) We decided on four and told the clerk, who then went into the store and got the Snickers. Then we slid him the money, using a special drawer. Then he slid the Snickers to us in the special drawer. This whole experience would have been rather sobering, had we been sober. Since we weren’t, it was just HILARIOUS. And I believe it was the hilarity that caused me to choke so badly on the Snickers that I almost blacked out.
I'm telling you - you haven't LIVED until you've sat on a curb in Belfast, wasted on Bailey's, choking on Snickers, seeing stars and watching your life flash before your eyes (holy shit - I wore STIRRUP PANTS?). Jeba gave me a good hard wallop on the back and I turned to gesture to her to hit me again, when I realized that the wallop was actually caused by her passing out on the sidewalk next to me. This, and my imminent choking death, both struck me as SO funny that I managed to cough up the candy bar and finally get some air.
"Whew," said Jeba, as she came to. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I said in a choked, gravelly tone, "yeah. You?"
"Yeah."
"That was close," I said.
"Totally."
And then we unwrapped our second Snickers and crawled back to Arnie's. The wedding was mere hours away - and we were ready.
