No seriously, it is. I had to move these cows out of a field so that myriad guests could park their cars and pick their way through the dung. I did it in flip-flops and an Hawaiian shirt, waving a stick. One of the more unusual pre-wedding rituals, I suspect. Perhaps that explains the brown cow's quizzical and slightly bemused look. I can only speculate. How now brown cow?
I enjoyed organising the wedding immensely; there is no greater accolade than the appreciation of married-women wannabes who agree with your own choices. It's X-Factor with better food. It was also good to be able to use the little-known skills and objects our friends have hidden or not had cause to use before; marquee erection, cake-making, pig roasting, bouquet-building and iPod DJ? I can point anyone in the right direction.
I could go on for hours, or poorly constructed paragraphs, about what a wonderful day it was or how lovely my wife, our guests and the venue looked. Yadda yadda yadda. Isn't that every wedding? No, we had a field, two questionable blokes cooking an equally questionable pig, Ade Edmondson singing and a best man whose speech referred to me as a 'massive gay'.
And cows.
Perfect.
