The cost of a wedding

It's all a bit too familiar.

The Final Countdown to Love

It's literally the final countdown to the wedding now. I don't want to say this, because it sounds like an old Aunt or Uncle, pinching the cheek of their favourite Nephew and remarking 'My haven't you grown fast?' but it's come around so quickly.

It's been over a year since we got engaged, over a year since we first start looking at venues, and everything seemed like it was a such a long way away, they was so much time.

Now time's pretty much run out. In a few weeks it'll be all over, all the hard work, all the fights, all the months of planning and the continual colour scheme changes, and all the dieting and binge eating, and saving and worries will be over and done with, and we'll be sat in the Jacuzzi comitting it to memory and to a finacial debt that will last until we retire at the age of 90.

Love. Thank God I'll be over and done with it soon.

YSM

A few days ago, I spent half an hour in a private room with an attractive young man, for a mere £8,000.

I’ve been looking for wedding loans, but like most Englishmen, I hate talking about money, and can only approach the subject after an hour of small talk and 40 cups of tea. This is difficult for me as I hate small talk and am a strict coffee drinker.

In England, if you wish to express your level of wealth you complain about how much everything costs; burglars frequently canvas potential targets by sitting in pubs and seeing who complains the loudest. You do not however, sit down with a complete stranger and discuss it in an open and frank conversation. But having as much financial knowledge as George Bush, I was forced to go ask advice from my bank's loan advisor.

And the thing that scared me most can be summed up in three letters - YSM.

Perhaps I better explain.

My loan advisor is a good looking twenty something male, about 6’, slim build, blue eyes and blond hair. Talking to him petrified me.

It wasn’t his looks that were the problem, In fact, being largely self-absorbed, it wasn’t until I’d left the bank I even realised he was relatively good looking.

The problem was that he belonged to that group of homosapiens of straight men under 30. For ease I’ll call them Young Straight Male’s or YSM for short.

Now most YSM’s are wonderful people, and have given me hours of 'entertainment', often unconsciously. And I’m sure that if you engage them for long enough they enjoy witty conversation about the later works of Mozart. But it can't be avoided that when you first meet them, their talk is limited to roughly four things - sport, cars, woman, and any mixture of the above.

The only thing I know about sport is that I don’t watch it. The only thing I know about cars is that I don’t drive one. And as most straight men don’t keep up with the gossip in Heat, I’m at a loss when talking about women. And so conversation is a dangerous game as they gradually discover my sexual preference and I struggle to appear as manly as possible.

The conversation with my ‘financial advisor’ went like this. The italics represent what I wish I’d said, the roman the wuss answer I actually gave.

‘So getting married huh?’
(Yes! To a lovely, sexy, gorgeous man.) ‘Haha! Yes!’
‘My lady keeps trying to pressure me into that too.’
(Afraid of commitment are you? Typical straight man!) ‘Ah!’
‘I swear she’s planned the whole thing out in vivid detail already.’
(Well you weren't going to actually put any effort in to it were you?) ‘Sound’s familiar.’
‘So, how much was you thinking off.’
(How much you got Punk?) ‘Um, About £8,000,’
‘Expensive Bride huh?’
‘Sound’s about right.’ (Sound’s about right.)
‘Well let’s have a look, but it shouldn’t be a problem. You see the game last night?’
(Unfortunately, I had better things to do, like cleaning out my ears and examining the cotton buds for anomalies.) ‘Um, Nah’ I was out.’
‘You support Arsenal?’
(Well I don’t know about the ‘nal’ part) ‘I’ve watched them a bit this season. Don’t normally though.’
‘Oh? What kind of repayments you thinking about?’
(I have no idea! I’m useless when it comes to this kind of thing. Perhaps you could be a big strong man and help me decide.) ‘Uh…’
‘About £300 a month?’
(Did I ask for your help big mouth? Go back to your TV and watch your brain dead football playing idols chase after a ball like the dogs they are!) ‘Sounds Great.’
‘I suppose you’re paying for it all then are you…?’

It goes on like this. Sometimes I wish I was as camp as a Baz Lurhman movie, at least that way I wouldn't need to get into these kind of conversations. Straight men would avoid me like the plague...

He gave me his card. It had his personal number on it. In a few months time I’ll ring him up an meet up to arrange the loan. Maybe this time, before I meet him, I’ll watch the game, pick up a copy of Auto Trader, and practice fluttering my eyelids.

After all, he is kind of hot.

And I can always do with more 'entertainment.'

Previous Posts

• Funny Article
• Building Bridges - READERS' FAVOURITE
• Shelved

Building Bridges

There is a street corner in Bristol where the Beggars and Charity Canvassers hang out. A corner I walk past twice a day. And a corner that I hate.

Beggars, for one, confuse me. My Christian upbringing tells me to help them, but the 'anti-drug flyers' around Bristol tell me ‘don’t’. Thus, ignoring them makes me feel guilty and giving them loose change makes me feel even worse! The only way I can avoid the guilt is to pretend I haven’t seen them, or to hurry past, avoid eye contact and mutter, “Srry mate.”

Charity Canvassers, although more annoying, are easier. Doing a similar job as myself I utterly detest them, and make fun of them whenever possible. This is remarkably easy; most of them open their patter with the same line (i.e. “Hi I’m Gary from Greenpeace.") to which there are at least three possible replies,

• The short and sweet - “Good for You!”
• The baffler - “Really? What a coincidence! I’m Simon from Bristol.”
• Or my personal favorite - “Wonderful! I had no idea you people looked so clean!”

Any such response causes them to think and gives me time to get away. And I can generally make it home, past beggar and canvasser, largely unmolested and with a morally intact opinion of myself.

But yesterday it went horribly wrong.

I was walking past the corner, accelerating wildly so I’d be harder to stop, when a woman carrying an umbrella walked towards me. The umbrella is an old trick used by canvassers - they offer you shelter, numb you with pictures of starving Ethiopians and then steal your wallet. As such I had no intention of talking to her.

'Excuse me?' she said,

“No Thank you!" I barked out and strolled into the middle of the road.

Her words trailed off behind me, “Do you know the way to…?”

She'd been asking for directions; I'd brushed her off like a pushy New Yorker and she'd only been asking for help. I was halfway across the road before I realized what I’d done, and I had no idea what do about it. Should I turn back and pretend I hadn’t been rude? Should I carry on walking, ‘tutting’ loudly at the ‘bloody tourist’? Or should I shout sorry over my shoulder and run away like a schoolgirl playing kiss chase, making it difficult for her to get a positive ID?

Thankfully, the lights changed and I darted across the road.

I felt like a deserter; like an evil, bitter old man who hates foreigners, and spends his weekends at rallies for the National Front. And I went home that night with my moral righteous in a state of crucifixion.

If we meet again I’ll make it up to her. I’ve got it all planned out. Pacing past, staring at the ground, I’ll wait till I’m just in earshot. And then, avoiding all eye contact, I’ll wave in her general direction, and mutter, “Srry mate.”

Previous Funnies

• Shelved
• Wheels on Fire
• Warner Busers

Shear Paradise

I have a Britney Spears relationship with my barber.

I experience culture shock every time I go; being raised to believe £10 was the right price for a haircut, paying £7 makes me feel wonderfully white trash. The walls are covered in cut-throat razors, newspaper clippings and family portraits; the barbers speak to each other in Arabic (or something), whilst making fun of the customers; and the main clientele have just stepped off the boat.

I seldom go there, partly because I hate spending money and partly because I’m desperately scared of the place. Each time I do however, I ask to have my hair cut short. And for some reason my barber always seems reluctant to do so.

I thought it was communication issues. Being beautifully Asian, with an accent stronger than the average Bristolian’s blood alcohol level, he no doubt considers my Thanet accent (imagine the Queen’s English as spoken by cockneys) as impenetrable as his own, and so neither of us are particularly sure what each other is saying, the same way that you may not be particularly sure of the meaning of this rambling sentence and have to read the whole thing again to get the point.

But he had other reasons for avoiding my shearing desires.

This time I carefully explained the concept of “an inch” to him to make sure he understood and reluctantly, after much questioning, he acquiesced.

I noticed his hands running through my hair, his cold, smooth palms pressing against my scalp. It was exotic. His reflection seemed more handsome than normal; I found myself enamoured to him. Then I realised. He was unintentionally giving me a head massage, his hands sending a heated thrill down my body.

I’m gay. I may lose some of my slower readers for being so blunt, but frankly I can do without them. I’m pretty straight acting (finding camp acting an outmoded theatrical style) but some things, like wearing Pinky and the Brain T-Shirts, may give away my natural tendencies, especially to straight men who, I assume, are on the look out for such things.

And having my head massaged by a tall, dark straight man – well - it felt good.

And that’s why my young masculine barber, whose straight as a Muslim and can spot gay from 50 paces, makes me keep my hair long – so I can’t feel his hands pressing against my scalp, don’t get a strange rush from it, and he doesn’t have to deal with a homosexual’s unwanted and unexpected sudden attraction to him.

That’s why he was reluctant to cut my hair short. That’s why it was so hard to make him do it. And that’s why I’ll be going there more regularly from now on.

At £7 a go it’s the cheapest happy ending I’ve ever had.

---

I seem to write about the Barbers quite a lot possibly because it's the only contact I have with straight males. Here's an old article on the woes of haircuts from the now archived Freelance Cynic Site

Some Previous Feature Lengths

• The re-fitting of the Lord of The Rings
• The all new Agoraphobia
• A declaration of love
• Things that go Bump in the late Evening
• Don't. Imagine. Your handy

Why I'm Getting Old... Part 4

I find pleasure in grumbling over the price of Coffee Shop Coffee

Previous Aging Concens
Part 3, Part 2, Part 1

Why I'm getting old... Part 3

News about a 2% council tax increase worries me enough to look up from my drink...

Previous Aging Concens
Part 2, Part 1