“And when the king came in to see the (wedding) guests, he saw there a man which had not on a wedding garment….Then said the king to the servants, bind him hand and foot, and take him away, and cast him into outer darkness. There shall be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. For many are called but few are chosen.” – Matthew 22 vv 11-14.
Morning glory: blogger and wife
On the day of the FA Cup final, and at much the same hour, we were invited to a (very) posh family wedding in Buckinghamshire – her side of the family, obviously, not many posh folk in Shildon.
Style guide? “Morning suit encouraged” said the gilt-edged invitation, a code as diaphonous as that employed in former times by Big Chief I-Spy.
Hire of morning suit? £129. Thus do the tails wag the dog.
Formally attired, a haircut (said the lady of the house) seemed imperative. The operation was performed by a Mag beneath a replica street sign reading Stamford Bridge SW 6. It’s the price you pay.
Posh? The groom and best man were both Old Etonians – had, indeed, enjoyed a cricket net at the alma mater that very morning. Susannah and James had met at Cambridge, she now a high-flying financier and he a specialist lawyer in stratospheric circles.
Even the organist -a mighty good organist – was a baronet.
Thus encouraged, and perhaps for fear of outer darkness, the men without exception wore morning suits. The ladies, similarly, had been down some milliners’ millionaires’ row. The reception was at a magnificent Georgian country mansion, the text atop today’s blog wheedling to mind half way through the venison.
It was a fantastic, memorable and wonderfully happy occasion. News of the FA Cup outcome arrived about 7 30pm and could hardly have been greeted with greater indifference.
*Following an exploratory chat with me (at Heaton Stannington) and a slightly more formal meeting with Ebac Northern League officials, the league has a new chaplain to succeed the late Canon Leo Osborn. He is the Very Rev Lee Batson, since last autumn the Dean of Newcastle. He seems a very nice chap.
Perhaps they’ve invited him to the league’s annual dinner this Friday where the dress code is (shall we say) a little less less formal and more honoured in the breach than in the observance.
It would offer opportunity to ask him what on earth that blog-topping text is all about.
*In the olden days, that is to say until about five years ago, it was customary to convene a meeting of the FA Cup Final Escape Committee (and Scotch Pie Fest).
They were great occasions, always to a Scottish junior ground, always accompanied by a mutton mountain. It was a bit like that classic Likely Lads episode, save that we not only didn’t want to know the score, we didn’t remotely care about it, either.
The Cup just wasn’t our hype.
The first had been to Dunbar in 1999, among the more memorable to Livingston a decade later when the party was joined by four Sunderland season ticket holders and Newcastle had just been relegated. “Goodbye Geordie Nation” they sang to the tune of Ruby Tuesday, perhaps euphorically oblivious to the fact that schadenfreude is a double-edged sword.
Always the occasions were accompanied by references to “wee man” and to Oor Wullie, frequently by Mr Pete Sixsmith’s famed impression of Gerald Campion – that is to say, Billy Bunter – another with a marked liking for pies.
Several supplementary trips followed Gretna’s Scottish Cup progress in the days when the late Brooks Mileson became their Rob Roy of the Rovers. Hampden’s pies were usually kizzened.
The annual outing seems to be in abeyance. Unless posh weddings intervene, it really is time we had another.
*Starting about 5pm, the wedding breakfast (how does that out-of-time term survive?) had been followed on Sunday by a splendid lunch at Susannah’s parental pile, the dress code “summer stylish”.
It meant borrowing a flamboyant jacket from the elder bairn – cost? about four pints – but otherwise dressing down a bit.
Four hours and about 240 miles later, we arrive home at 8pm this evening. As Big Chief I-Spy so esoterically observed, odhu ntinggo
Grass Routes 