My travelling pen and wandering feet have led me to a casino down in Broadstairs, Kent, where you will find me happily making cocktails, serving drinks and making tips off poker players by night, secretly plotting to become a croupier and play cards on every cruise ship and every casino in Vegas, while by day, I write my little socks off using up half a rainforest in paper, printing material I’ve sent to anyone and everyone I think will read it. I feel that someday soon, someone will decide they just need to make me what I describe as the next Carrie Bradshaw/J.K. Rowling and set me one more step forward in finishing this post-uni answer this blog has generally aimed to explore.
A good old Kent update is sorely needed, but my moijto-making skills were recently called upon back in the Land of Essex at a friend’s wedding and I do love a bit of ‘Essex writing’ so in the meantime… here is the story of a beautiful bride, a wonderful groom and a whole lotta snow and jaggerbombs…
I had what can only be described as so much fun that day, I feel guilty calling it work. My beautiful friend was getting married and I was running the bar which was I was pleased to find was very well stocked, and had enough fresh mint and brown cane sugar to keep the whole of Essex in mojitos.
One word. Snow. It’s very pretty and all, but a pain in the arse after the novelty has worn off (about thirty seconds after its stared to fall and we remember our country is ill-equipped and too tight to invest a bloody snow plough.) The night before the big day, snow fell out of the sky all night long and all morning, and anyone else perhaps would have been slightly miffed, but this girl was getting married and God and his good old white stuff was not going to stop her. After the wedding car got stuck in the snow, the bride of our story hopped out and stuck her thumb out- hitch hiking a ride to the registry office in a truck. Personally think it’s a fabulous way to arrive at your wedding and I would have paid good money to see that truck driver’s face, but I was busy chopping lemons and setting up the bar back at the marquee- when it all went dark…
The newlyweds and fifty guests were due to arrive at the venue shortly, having been delayed (thanks to the snow) when the lights and the heat went off. Since none of us between me and the caterers knew where the generator was and none of us had anyone’s number apart from the bride, and since I guessed she wouldn’t want a phone call in the middle of the ceremony informing her we’re all freezing our arses off in the dark as we might kill the moment to say the least, we sat tight and waited.
Between us we lit all the candles, lanterns and tea lights and I have to say, it looked spectacular- worth being a little bit chilly to see the beautiful silver candelabras lit against the perfectly laid tables, lanterns alight to guide the guests down the path to the entrance of the marquee in the early evening. The bride had designed the whole thing- everything was black and white and in the snowy dark with flickering candles, she’d done a impressive job. It looked gorgeous.
I know all brides look beautiful on their wedding day, and this is not a biased opinion because this particular bride in question is a friend, but this girl was something else. She’s stunning anyway- and I don’t say that lightly, but this girl is one of those maddening people that even with no makeup and a one year son to run around after- she still looks good enough to eat. Clear complexion and bright white smile, she was wearing the perfect dress- strapless and fitted perfectly with a fish tail kind of finish, wonderful soft layers that hit the floor and stole the show as all brides in their dresses should. She arrived at the marquee along with her lovely groom, both slightly bewildered at why all the staff were shivering in the dark. The groom in his first job as husband, saved the day- as being the only person out of the lot of us that possessed the knowledge and the know-how, turned the generator back on. Light and heat and a glass of champagne later, we had a party on our hands.
The speeches are my favourite part of any wedding. There was a perfect mixture of jokes and tears between the mother of the bride, the groom, father of the groom and the best man. I didn’t even know half these people and I was choking up slightly hiding behind my apron. I’m not exactly soppy, but doing a speech is hard, and telling someone you love them is hard when there’s a room full of smart-looking people all staring at you, so a speech deserve credit. Words that have been crafted with care and love deserve a tear in the corner of your eye, even if you are just the barmaid who doesn’t know anybody’s last name.
I’m serving wine as the guests enjoy the dinner when the bride says “Come here, have a bit of pudding.” The groom joined in, “Yer, sit here.” Pointing at his knee. I’m not quite sure if he’s joking, but between bride and groom I plonk down, happily taking a spoon of creamy dessert. So to recap- I’m sitting on the groom’s knee eating the brides dessert. An interesting wedding picture. I officially love this couple.
I have to admit here, as day turned into night, even I was slightly taken aback at the evening guest’s ability to gulf down jaggerbombs at quite the rate they did as the party really kicked off. I should have had a little more faith in my fellow Essex-landers, a tux can be deceiving…
These guys went through 16 bottles of jaggermiester in the form of jaggerbombs- the beverage which defines this generation. That’s two crates. In the end even the father of the groom, even the old grandmother in the corner- they were all on the jaggers! And their faces when I told them that there was no more of the devilishly delicious beverage… To paint you a picture, I’d compare it to a child being told Christmas was cancelled. Forever.
Jaggerbombs confuse the brain in so much as the red bull stimulates the mind while the jaggermiester deadens it. I remember being given a shot of the black stuff as an after dinner aid to help digest your meal when you’re suffering chronic digestion pains. This stuff has a medical purpose of burning the contents of your stomach and cleaning out your intestines- so what do we do? Mix it with another slightly dubious drink (which is interestingly only available on prescription in Scandinavia- I swear to God I’m not making that up) and viola! We have before us a drink that makes brain cells die in a confusing stimulated death, all for our drunken pleasure.
“What shots can we do now??” was the howl of despair at 2am.
A word on shots. Why, being the main word. Why do we do it to ourselves? I’ve long suspected that the line between being ‘merry’ and being ‘out of your nut/on the floor/memory wiped/completely panined/utterly bungalowed’ (take your pick) lies between this option of shots; sambuca, tequila, jaggerbombs- gin shots seemingly being the latest fad. They are the undoing of any good man or woman.
But I am a good and helpful bartender, so out came the tequila rose- pink gooey liquid that looks like Frigi strawberry milk, but contains more of a kick shall we say. Then there was southern comfort and lime, then, well then everyone started getting involved behind the bar. By this point I’d worked nearly twelve hours, had a joined in a fair amount of jaggerbombing shenanigans and so welcomed these volunteer bartenders (especially the best man I’d taken a bit of a shine to.) I was taught a man’s cocktail- none of your fancy ‘chill the martini glass first and garnish with a slice of something pretty.’ Nope, this was served in a pint glass- a green bogey colour potion that consisted of a shot of gin (we were free pouring by this time of the morning) shot of vodka, half a WKD blue, and half an orange Bacardi Breezer. This wonderful concoction is apparently named after a football player, (forgive me the name escapes me) who was given the honour of having a bogey-green cocktail named after him after consuming so much of this delightful coloured beverage, he proceeded to smash up most of the nightclub he happened to be in at the time.
-Bravo Mr. footballer, cheat on your wife and sleep with a couple of prostitutes and who knows- you may even get a pay rise as well as your own cocktail…
The evening drew to an end around 4am whereby the groom and his friend got butt naked and ran around the marquee, despite the fact the diesel ran out for the heater by this hour and it was cold enough to see your breath. I wasn't sure where to look, but was told- ‘this is his (the groom’s) party trick.’ Magic.
All in all I’d say it was the definition of a successful wedding- everyone was happy, more than happy- joyous; there was snow, family, first dances, live music, cupcakes, tears, nakedness and jaggerbombs (obviously not in order of importance there) So all that along with the phone number of the best man, made this best night’s “work” I’d had in a long time. And no, there aren’t inverted commma’s big enough there.
Much love to a beautiful couple and their beautiful family xxx
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