Simon Harris

You might as well rock up to a Lidl car park with some fairy lights and bunting.

Where is the class?

Where is the massive overspending in a country hotel, people?

The humanists, which ones are they now?

Ah, you know them.

Usually posh, proddy versions of Catherine Connolly.

I have you now.

I mean, if you're not being looked down on by a sneery priest ordering the couple to have children from the lofty heights of a celibate altar, it's not a real wedding.

So long as they don't try to skimp on the four-hour dinner, I'm actually alright with the New Age hippie marriages.

That was their whole livelihood.

Exactly, Moira.

You can't beat forcing young ones the colour of a tub of Ron Seal into a cold, hard pew.

Then a sermon with a bit of a threat buried in it and none of this personality business.

I'll tell you my least favourite part of a wedding.

The bit in between the church and the hotel where you're wandering around some bypass village in your good shoes with the hunger on you and not a carb in sight.

Oh, stop.

Man is the time I've had to settle for a sweaty chicken and stuffing sandwich from Accenture.

Oh, that's nonsense.

Hoteliers have the right, bestowed upon by the good Lord, to charge mad money per head for rubbery beef, microwave brownies and warm white wine that has never seen the inside of a fridge.

Or a Guinness in a Heineken glass with a bishop's collar on it.