Far from the Wedding Crowd

Pop quiz: What is the one failsafe way to send your newlywed friends off on honeymoon in style?

Answer: Any way on Earth apart from being silhouetted in an upstairs window of the hotel having acrobatic sex whilst the happy couple are being waved off down the driveway.

Two friends had their very lovely wedding yesterday in the onlyatinybitinconsiderate location of the Scottish highlands. It took longer to travel there and back than we were there for (by a long way), it was absolutely freezing, you couldn’t see the scenery for fog, and my hat continually threatened to act as an aileron, with it catching a gust of wind and lifting me up into the air above the assembled congregation. But despite all that it really was lovely. A dashing groom, a beautiful bride... But most importantly of all: a wealth of attractive ushers and groomsmen in kilts. And everybody knows kilts are never better than on a slightly windy day.

[The rest of the outfit is a bit hit and miss... The white hockey socks set-up shouldn’t be sexy but sort of is, the knife tucked into the sock is fairly standard in South London and therefore no longer excites me, and the weird gladiator sandals brogues are a bit... well, gay. But say what you will about the knife wielding and the morris dancer-y sock shoe combo, they all looked great. Men in formal wear are just... fit. Posh peacocking, I suppose, why wouldn’t it work?]

So anyway, I was having an altogether very fun day drinking pink champagne and ogling Scotsmen. The reception began with a ceilidh – my worst nightmare. I hate organised fun, especially if it involves line dancing. So instead I drank a lot more pink champagne and talked to the waiter. He sounded exactly like the Scottish hobbit, and I spent a lot of time trying not to develop ‘sympathetic accent’, a mortifying condition where I unwittingly imitate the regional/national dialect of anyone I’m speaking to, often (always) with disastrous results.

I eventually dragged myself away from Alasdair the beautiful champagne topper-upper, and rejoined the wedding party proper. By this point most of the ceilidhing was over and we all seemed to be allowed to actually chat to each other. I was sitting near a very handsome guy called Alec, who works for General Motors. I bemoaned my Nissan Micra; he seemed impressed with how easily I bandied about the terms “high clutch” and “rubbish steering wheel”. We were getting on well. I changed gear (see, I’m Clarkson) into serious flirting mode...

It wasn’t until some time later during a particularly energetic bout of hand jiving - no euphemism... I may hate the line dance, but I love a good hand jive - that Alec leaned over and said (please picture sexy highland purr) “You look like Rizzo from Grease in that dress.” I asked if that was a good thing (of course it’s a good thing, that woman is sexy as. The dress is incredible – 50s, red with black polka dots, halter neck, corseted, lots of cleavage. I knew it was a good thing, I was being coy. You can’t go wrong.) Anyway, youlooklikeRizzofromGreaseinthatdress, isthatagoodthing... Next thing I know, before you could say “Is that a sporrin in your pocket?”, Alec was frog-marching me from the room and towards the stairs. *purr purr* “Get upstairs your filthy bitch”.

And yes – I hadn’t thought it possible, but it turns out you can purr the word bitch.

Now, as a brief sidetrack, I should probably explain how I feel about being sworn at. Normally – notsogood. In a sexual, getupstairsyoufilthybitch context, it never fails. I don’t know what it is. I think it probably has something to do with making you feel naughtier; it’s like “fuck”. If someone says they want to fuck you, it’s unlikely they’re going to gently lay you down amongst the rose petals.

Alec and I found a room in the lodge above the reception and got down to it. It must be all that striding up and down mountains that they do in the highlands (I must continually remind myself that Alec works in the motor industry, and does not, in fact, live like the Monarch of the Glen), but the sex was certainly fast-paced. As I alluded to earlier, it was pretty athletic... There were points when I thought Alec might have a checklist of positions to get through before the night was out. But the sex was good, he repeatedly swore at me, and I was having fun.

After a particularly loud outburst from myself, I realised the music from downstairs that I had been relying on to mask our noisemaking had stopped. How odd... It was still relatively early, I thought, surely they wouldn’t have finished the party already...? Half an hour or so later and Alec and I re-emerged downstairs. I had managed to make myself look more or less respectable, as had he, and we snuck stealthily into the room where the music was now playing again.

I was immediately dragged to one side by a friend... “You missed the bride and groom leaving”. “Did I? I was upstairs...” and then the spine-chilling retort: “We know, we saw you having sex through the window.” The dirty little voyeurs! Oh. Dear. Apparently I had been unmistakeable thanks to the fact that I had kept the dress on. That bloody dress! Cheers, Rizzo. You’ve really done me this time!

Without drawing the conversation out for too much longer *blush blush blush* I managed to ascertain that – thankfully – not everyone had seen the rather too public display we had been putting on upstairs. The bride and groom remained blissfully unaware, as did remaining elderly relatives. Alec was completely unfazed by the entire event. Maybe he knew all along that as Mr and Mrs pulled out of the drive, he was coming into... No, that sentence doesn’t even bear thinking about, let alone finishing. Shame on me.

Still. What better way to celebrate the union of two so thoroughly in love as my newly married friends than by furiously shagging a man due to move to America in a matter of weeks, who I will therefore almost certainly never see again?! I love weddings – so romantic.

In the last week I have received two more wedding invites for later on this year. I wonder if they’ll all end in such an exhibitionist manner. I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ