How many weddings have you been to? It’s hard to put a number on it when you start to think about it. There are your own, of course, and, for some, that could be four or five in these modern times. Then there are the occasions when you might have had the honour of being a best man, maid of honour, bridesmaid or usher. Next on the list is being lucky enough to be invited as a guest to someone’s special day, through family or close friends.  

For the purposes of this collective calculation, I will also accept evening reception invites. You know the ones I mean. Not classed as close enough to the adorable couple for the main event but acceptable enough to add to the newlyweds’ stack of presents. I am not a fan of this type of invite. You are an afterthought. The overspill of people they think they had better invite so they don’t have to explain why you didn’t make the important cut. 

I nearly forgot. Finally, there are the weddings you may have attended as a child, if you can remember, that is. You personally hadn’t been invited of course; it just so happened that you belonged to someone who had. I am sure when you add them all up you will be shocked at the number of ceremonies you have attended. How much cheap fizz or sherry you have consumed, even as a young boy or girl. Some will live long in the memory, that you still discuss to this day, but not always for the right reasons. There will be others that you have a vague recollection of, but were so dreary and boring, that you have to rack your brains for the actual year it was held, let alone who Mr and Mrs were. 

I remember my first one very vividly. I was ten years old and had just been announced as head choir boy for the local village church. This was a big deal for me. I had been working my way up the cassock ladder since the age of seven. I could hold a tune better than most, looked good with my baby blonde hair and would have made an excellent model in a Freemans catalogue, if they had a child choir section, that is. I do believe I got the top job on merit but I did get a rather helpful hand from my predecessor, Alan Greenfold, aged thirteen, who unfortunately dropped the cross, halfway down the aisle, during one Sunday morning service. I still remember the gasps and sniggers to this day. The gasps were from the congregation, of course. The sniggers were from us choir boys and girls, looking from behind, as poor Alan tripped and fell in a heap, the large heavy cross gliding like an archer’s arrow, down the aisle, and landing rather loudly some six feet away from his ‘holster’. He never recovered from the shame, poor lad. He was also not forgiven by the tough, but lovable, Reverend Digby. And so it was, that the said Vicar offered me the coveted post. 

To say that this extra responsibility went to my head was an understatement. There were fourteen of us in the choir. Four girls and ten boys. Apart from the Sunday morning service we attended in full cassock, we would rehearse once a week on a Tuesday and have a sort of mini-Youth club in the village hall on a Thursday. It was here we would play the usual daft children’s games, and from my recollection, we did play ‘Spin the Bottle’ an awful lot. Is that even allowed now as a ten-year-old? It was whilst playing this particular game that I sampled my first kiss with a girl. Her name was Katy Redd. She was slightly older than me, at the grand old age of twelve, and had a lovely gentle persona with the aura of someone who would also kick the shit out of you if you crossed her.  

And so it was, that my first wedding coincided with me having the honour of holding the newly damaged cross. You couldn’t see the destruction if you held it a certain way but, in essence, the gold cross at the top had a large round dent that looked rather similar to the comedian Ted Robbins’ chin. As long as said chin was pointed in my direction nobody would see what had happened. 

The wedding was of a local couple from the village. Farmers. They had the monopoly when it came to utilising the church for nuptials, but then that’s where the majority of children came from. I include the lovely Katy in this group. I hadn’t yet moved to the small town with the five pubs, so I was surrounded by cows, sheep, and farmers’ kids, with a whiff of hay accompanying them wherever they went. Don’t get me wrong, it was idyllic.  

As we stood backstage, a final check that the frills on our cassocks were crisp and pristine, the vicar took me through my final instructions as the new head choir boy. A reminder to walk slowly, not to forget which way round the cross must now be and finally, once the cross is placed in its holster by the church organ, not to forget to kneel and nod towards Christ before taking my seat. He was at pains to emphasise taking my time in all my movements and outlining the importance.  

Katy approached me to wish me luck. I responded that her hair was a bit messy and needed tidying up. Can you believe that? She turned on her heels, returning shortly after, with a can of Coke in hand and a big beaming smile, asking for approval. I nodded silently. As she turned away, she knocked her hands together, by accident, and the fizzy drink landed on my shiny black shoes. I was livid. I desperately wanted to throw a childish tantrum but we were behind a curtain, with the guests arriving a few feet from where we were congregated, so for the first time in my young life I threw a mute one instead.  

Katy was all apologetic, whispering of course, and told me to take my shoes off and she would quickly clean them. Off she went, returning in double quick time, with another beaming smile on her face. To be fair, she had done a cracking job and so it was we got in line, waited for the church organ to play us in, and started the short journey down the aisle. I couldn’t have been prouder at that moment. 

I slowly made my way down, head upwards, like something out of Trooping the Colour. I made it to the end of the church, placed the heavy cross in its rightful place with no hiccups, and walked back to the carpeted steps to kneel and nod. This was done facing a statue of Christ so the guests and congregation only got to see the back of me. As I kneeled and held the moment, I heard loud gasps, followed by a trickle of laughter. This quickly became louder and more sustained until it felt like the whole church was at a Ken Dodd gig. 

Rather oddly, and for no reason at all, I started to laugh too. It was all very infectious, and I was an immature ten-year-old, so joining in felt normal. I had no idea what was going on, especially behind me, but not for one second did I think that this packed holy venue was laughing at me. I finally got up from my kneeling position as the chuckling subsided. I knew I needed to get into my seat as that was the cue for the bride to make her grand entrance. It was as I stood upright that I felt a large hand on my small shoulder. I turned round to face a young man in morning dress, possibly the groom or best man, smiling gently at me. He leant towards my ear and I got a faint whiff of hay. 

“Hey little fella,” he whispered. “I think you have something on the sole of your shoes. Might be best if you go and get them cleaned up.”  

He gently ruffled my beautiful blond hair and gestured with a nod to a lady sitting opposite. At this point, I was a very confused little boy. My eyes were darting everywhere, not understanding what had been said and what was happening. The lady now had hold of my hand and we were walking back down the aisle towards the changing rooms. I remember looking up at her, gripping her hand rather tightly. She glanced back with a warm but sympathetic smile as we disappeared from the main event and behind the curtain. I sat on one of the benches and slowly took my shoes off.  

“Don’t worry about it love,” the kind lady said, as I undid my shoelaces. “We have all been part of pranks. It’s a part of growing up. You will laugh about this when you are older.” 

I looked down at my shoes and gradually turned them over to see the soles for the first time. I just stared for a few seconds as the enormity of what had just happened sunk in. My left sole was the first one that got my attention. Written in bold white was just the one word. ‘Fuck’. You will probably guess what the right shoe said. Yep, you are right. The word ‘Off’. 

“I have to go now,” the lady suddenly said, as I continued to stare at my size 4s. “The opening music has started. Will you be alright?”  

I looked up at her, trying desperately to hold back the tears. “Yes,” I lied, “I will be okay, thank you.”  

She bent down, gently stroked my left cheek and then went through the curtain, and back to the ceremony. I sat, silently crying, my shoulders shuddering like a pneumatic drill. I realise, looking back, that that was the first time I had ever felt true loneliness. 

As I heard the organ playing the introduction, and the hustle and bustle of the bride arriving, I was all alone, a laughing stock. Whilst I knew that there would be repercussions, post-ceremony, I knew there and then that I might not be head choir boy going forward, and that hurt more than the humiliation that had just occurred. 

In hindsight, I deserved it. Today it would probably be stated that I was a bully in that environment. And that would be the right call. A condescending, critical, self-centred little shit who rightly got his comeuppance.  Ironic that, instead of battering me behind the bike sheds, Katy Redd used a far more subtle way to put me in my place. I have a sneaking admiration for her now and sometimes ponder where she is these days and what career path she followed. I think she will be doing just fine…