Quite early on in my doggerel writing life, Paul was asked to be the best man at Oliver Barratt's wedding.  The wedding took place in Cumbria but he was planning a second party in Edinburgh for the many friends that he couldn't fit into the little church he was married in. It was Paul's task to write an account of the wedding to relate to the Edinburgh guests some weeks later.  It occurred to us all in the car going home that it might be fun to write it in verse, and so with help from Paul, Gilbert and Sophie I came up with this. I thought it might as well be included on this blog.

Note: the house is called Cowmire, pronounced Coomer. An Umbaraq is Paul's nickname for Oliver. (A whimsical reference to his interest in the Middle East.)

OLIVER’S WEDDING (THE BEST MAN’S IMPRESSIONS)

We piled in our Peugeot, by M6 we drove

Past motorway cafes and brown signs we strove.

We stayed not for steak – nor for chips – we were heading,

For the Hare and Hound Inn, and for Oliver’s wedding.

On Saturday morning, through weather quite Gothic

(Without the marquee, ‘twould have been catastrophic),

I arrived good and early at the great house of Cowmire

Delighted to find Umbaraq in good humour,

And finely upholstered in elegant waistcoat

With Lancastrian roses, it fair took the biscuit.

And once he was crowned with top hat, and umbrella,

You could not have wished for a handsomer fella.

With bold disregard for the wind and the weather,

Encouraged and cheered on by Patrick and Heather,

We walked to St. Anthony’s church, Cartmel Fell

To await the arrival of Oliver’s belle.

As we sat there (and I checked my pocket to see

That I still had the ring he’d entrusted to me),

My good friend beside me, with rising euphoria

Watched, as up the aisle stepped the enchanting Victoria.

Adorned all with pearls, in silk gown trimmed with gold

What a fair bride she made for my dear friend of old!

Vicki’s eldest son, Simon, gave his mother away

Most willingly, so he said later that day.

It seemed that he honestly felt that he had

Not so much lost a mother as gained a step-Dad.

Louise, Hamish and Adam we learnt felt the same:

They were happy to see their dear Mum changed her name

And become Mrs. Oliver Barratt at last,

(The courtship was gradual rather than fast).

When the priest read the vows, said the bridegroom, “I do”

Just a moment too soon – he was eager it’s true:

Love swells like the Solway, and this is no myth

As we all bore witness, his kin and his kith.

As that fine little Cumbrian church braved the weather

The Scots and the English were packed in together.

Stanley, Bagot, Fitzherbert, Cheape, Simpson and Berry,

Ramsay and Stewart, a throng bright and merry.

The newlyweds mounted a pony and trap

(Regardless of age is the rising of sap),

And gaily the brave little steed tossed his mane,

As he trotted away in the bucketing rain.

After the service we went back to Cowmire

Where excellent champagne ensured our good humour.

In that handsome marquee there were people exotic,

Amicable, Prudential, gay and quixotic;

Architects, lawyers and company directors

Jostled with farmers and Anglican rectors.

Hospitality ordered with great generosity

And no doubt a touch of bulldoggish ferocity

And the typical optimist’s spirit unsquashable

And the regular cry, “Surely it should be possible!”

So daring in love and dauntless in war

(With developers, planners and councils galore)

So boldly he and Vicki with Barrattrian sword

Cut the rich sticky wedding cake down to the board.

Oliver’s speech though quite long wasn’t boring

And practically no one was heard to be snoring:

The bridegroom told how his beloved he’s courted

And plans for his kitchen romance almost thwarted,

And how Vicki’s studio moved to his garret

And the charming coincidence of Emily Barratt.

As the good champagne flowed and the grooms speech grew zanier

And he touched on their honeymoon plans for Albania….

Vicki took over, expressing her gratitude

To all who had helped, and established an attitude

Which made clear that in future the newly weds’ jollity

Would be greatly enhanced by unquestioned equality.

Outstripping all wild expectation and rumour

There’s nought that could match this grand wedding at Cowmire.