For weeks beforehand, I briefed Husband on the realities of an Irish wedding.
“You may be required to sing with your eyes closed,” I warned him. “If you don’t close your eyes, the Irish will think you’re shallow and you will be thrown out of the wedding. There will be alcohol involved – no surprises there – but prepare yourself for chasers. Maybe involving Guinness. Also, the dancing is carnage.”
To which Husband usually responded, “Sweet shite, I’m feckin not feckin singin’.”
It surprised me that he focussed on the singing, but the man himself has been known to engage in somewhat violent “dancing” after several chasers. Husband’s friend ScotJ recently noted that in Tropic Thunder, Tom Cruise’s character stole his moves directly from Husband’s School Of Dance. Cruise will be hearing from our lawyers.
The night before the wedding, Róisín’s father Gerry exhibited questionable judgement by organising a shindig in Fennessy’s Pub. There was plenty of eyeball-free singing and a nightcap involving a shot of Baileys and Jameson whiskey dropped into half a pint of Guinness. It is apparently known as a Depth Charger, or alternatively, the Irish Car Bomb. It is absolutely foul regardless of what you choose to call it, and best not tried at home.
Around midnight, the pub passed around trays of nibbles. It’s always tricky – virtually impossible in Ireland – identifying vegetarian or fish-based options from a platter of pub grub, but I congratulated myself on identifying an egg mayonnaise sandwich. I was halfway through it before I realised it was laced with ham. Since nobody else was interested in the sangers, I riffled through them and they all featured dead pig: tuna and ham; cucumber, cream cheese and ham; smoked salmon, capers, onions and ham.
This must be a new development in the country: butter being interchangeable with ham