My Big Fat Tipsy Wedding

There are times when one hangs on the long-range weather forecasts from a variety of sources which, for me, have always previously revolved around cricket matches. They generally change over time but accuracy improves the nearer the day comes. I'm rather pleased, however, that the BBC and Met Office were so disastrously wrong on Friday.

On the morning of our wedding, both were forecasting cloud and rain at around 4pm in the vicinity of the venue, exactly the time that photographs were scheduled to be taken in and around the golf club grounds and its sunken garden. How pleasing it was, therefore, to enjoy an hour of uninterrupted warm sunshine just as the cheeky chappie with the camera was moving guests around in front of various backgrounds.

That was just one of many potential hiccups which happily didn't materialise. Six months after our decision to 'go for it' and initial bookings being made, the day simply couldn't have been more perfect.

I'm not going to bore you with extensive details, but there are some highlights which some may be interested in. The first was my one committed anti-smoking uncle turning up prior to the ceremony and dropping a bag containing 55 cigars in my lap! Damn good ones too. Gobsmacked? Of course.

My long-term partner, and now officially Mrs P, was moved to tears during the vows ... which in turn pushed me close, I can tell ya'!

Speeches - of which I have performed many over the years in front of a wide variety of audiences - have never posed problems before, yet my Groom speech occupied my mind, and shattered my nerves, like none before. I can only assume it was because I had afforded this one the utmost importance and that I was desperate that it be delivered well (for the first time in my life, I even planned it and used notes, which is alien to me). The laughter and tears at all the right times suggest I did OK.

Regularly reading fellow jewel thief - and occasional commenter - Bear Witch thought the whole day was great, and Penny Dreadful, who came along with Katabasis, was rightly impressed with the shapes I was throwing once the pre-speech Dutch courage kicked in heavily.

Tony Manero, eat your heart out.

In far too short a time, we were heading off to our hotel for the night. Rose on the pillow, fruit bowl, chocs and Champers and, YES, a celebratory Cuban thanks to this fine piece of forward planning, even if I say so myself.

Because there are still hotels which recognise that people who spend a hell of a lot of money would like to be catered for, despite the attentions of miserabilists seeking to eradicate all time-honoured pleasurable activities - in their march for further state funding utopian health - at the expense of property rights and personal choice.

I even gained a new reader for the night. She being my new wife, who doesn't normally do all this tabloid guff but read all the 46 messages that were below Friday's article at the time, with a Champagne flute in her hand and a tear or several in her eyes.

Yes, you made her cry on her wedding night. For that, I thank every one of you.