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The Rawlinson-Watkins Wedding
We're going to get mediaeval on your ass...
Saturday 28th August 2004

The final thing I had to do before leaving the UK in August 2004 (besides packing) was attend my flatmate's wedding, which was an involved task due to the sheer number of other things I had going on at the time. During the week preceding the wedding I'd had to shift all my stuff out of his flat and back to my parents' place, which took more time than I'd anticipated and two runs in my dad's van. I'd forgotten the size of my desk and swivel chair and underestimated the amount of stuff I'd crammed into the built-in wardrobe, even with the Big Barny Sale that I'd been plugging to try and get rid of some of my unnecessary but financially (if not sentimentally) valuable things.

Once out of the flat, I'd had to sort out what stuff was going to Australia and New Zealand with me and then pack it, and what stuff wasn't, and get that packed and cleared away. The former task was actually complicated by my parents' gift of a brand new, but fairly enormous, suitcase as I now had the problem of not what would fit in the case, but what I could fit and still be under the increasingly stingy weight limits imposed on baggage by international airlines. If you fly via the states then you're allowed a pretty generous 32kg, but the rest of the world has to make do with a measly 20kg, and I was flying Singapore Airlines via, surprisingly enough, Singapore.

To be fair to Singapore Airlines, I'd called them a few weeks prior to my departure and asked whether the limit on baggage could be increased in some way as I was effectively emigrating not just popping over for a holiday, and thus needed a bit more variety of stuff with me. I was informed that baggage over the 20kg limit was charged at a phenomenal £32 per kilo, which was a little dismaying. Luckily the girl decided to take pity on me and after a chat with her supervisor, said that I could have an increased allowance of 25kg, which wasn't a huge increase, but was still greatly appreciated.

Even so, the days before the wedding (don't worry, I will get back to it eventually) were mostly passed by repeated attempts at packing the case, standing on the bathroom scales holding it (as I couldn't read the bathroom scales when I placed the case on them by itself, and besides it wouldn't balance), swearing, and finally opening the case again and trying to work out what I could ditch and which preferably was the heaviest item.

In the end I got the case under the weight limit, mostly by judicious stowing of everything heavy in my laptop bag, which I would carry on as hand luggage. This plan backfired slightly on arrival at Edinburgh Airport when the (now extremely heavy) laptop bag slipped off my shoulder and in trying to catch it I dislocated my thumb, but that's another story. Now I was packed and could turn my attention to the impending nuptials of Peter and Catherine Rawlinson-Watkins (as they're now officially known).

The wedding itself was being held at St. Thomas the Martyr Church in Upholland, Lancashire, where Cat's parents and even grandparents had been married if I remember correctly. The only realistic way of getting there was by car, and I'd arranged to drive down there with three friends, Jess, Bob and Sarah, and to make sure we got off on time in the morning, I stayed at Jess and Bob's new house on the Friday night. In the end I messed up the early start anyway by misplacing my PDA case in their lounge and having to spend far too long looking for it in the morning. Even then it seemed to have disappeared without a trace and has yet to surface even now.

I had to give up on the search eventually though, and we finally left, picking up Sarah on the way. The drive was pretty uneventful, although I had to drive with reasonable alacrity to get there on time.

After a brief deviation to the hotel so I could get changed, I drove down to the Church to meet everyone else and work out what on earth I was supposed to be doing. Due to Pete's seemingly intense dislike of kilts, as an usher I (along with the other male members of the bridal party) had to wear pale grey morning suits that, in my case, made me look like a washed-out penguin with a dubious taste in hats. Only Pete's dad seemed to have escaped the kilt embargo and was happily wearing one with impunity.

To answer the question of what I was supposed to be doing, I had to locate Rich Gregson, Pete's best man and University roommate, from back when they, and a massive chunk of those attending the wedding, had attended St. Andrews University. This I succeeded in. Finding out what I was meant to be doing, on the other hand, I pretty much failed at. Pete's brother and Cat's best friend (whose name I've unfortunately forgotten) had the job of standing at the church entrance and demanding “Bride or Groom?” from incoming attendees covered, so I resigned myself to taking a few photographs and generally wishing my top hat fitted a bit better. Despite having had one fitted in Edinburgh and picking up one of ostensibly the same size from the nearest shop in Upholland, neither my top hat nor anyone else's seemed to fit correctly. Certainly if it wasn't for my ears it would have sank completely over my head, like some medieval battle helmet made of felt. It certainly did when I let Simon try it on, his head being considerably smaller than mine. And this was after it had had wadges of tissue paper stuffed into the brim.

The service was fairly brief but involved the usual readings, mumbling along to hymns and signing things that weddings seem to demand, and despite a couple of trivial errors during the signing of the register, it all went pretty smoothly. Even the weather, which had been a bit grey and spitting with rain, cleared up by the time the service was over and in time for the obligatory photographs featuring every possible permutation of friends, relatives and bridal party the photographer could think of.

Once we'd finished grinning and gurning to the photographer's satisfaction everyone else had headed back to the hotel for the reception, but fortunately I found someone to follow, having been a bit fuzzy on the directions on the way over. When I say hotel, I should point out that Pete and Cat had decided to go for a medieval theme for their reception (a motif carried over to Cat's outfit, although thankfully not to Pete's – the morning suit was bad, but doublet and hose would have been almost infinitely worse) and the locale was the Camelot Theme Park a short drive northwards.

Although my initial expectations of this were that it was going to be unmitigatingly cheesy, it was actually done rather well. After some convivial drinks to catch up with people in an onsite bar, we slowly filed past the wedding party (doing the shaking hands and kissing cheeks as required) and into a mock Medieval Hall. At one end sat the bridal party, whilst at the other, Arthur and his court held reign. Between them we mere plebs were arranged along long trestle tables, with a raised dais in the centre of the room to allow the double act of Merlin and Igor to make announcements, banter and fools of themselves. I wasn't previously aware that an Igor (or at least an Igor-alike) was part of the Arthur mythology, but since Merlin looked like a cross between Aragorn and the lead singer from The Darkness, it was obvious that mythological verisimilitude was being sacrificed for entertainment value. A court jester, previously seen doing tours of the pub and making smutty jokes and balloon animals, rounded the company out to a trio.

Between them they announced Arthur himself, looking slightly like an amiable, middle-aged game-show host, who entered the Hall to great applause and was seated in a wooden throne next to an inexplicably young and attractive woman whom we were left to assume was Guinevere. I can only assume, as a perk of the job, the actor playing Arthur had gotten a say in whom was going to be his date.

After bidding us welcome to his court, Arthur explained the rules of the court, the only one I can remember now being that the “privies” were a royal prerogative and those wishing to use them must ask the royal permission to do so. Something Sarah was too embarrassed to do and after trying to sneak into them unobserved was retrieved and brought before Arthur to explain herself.

Shortly though, the floor was passed to the wedding party and the traditional welcomes, speeches and toasts were made, none of which I can now remember at all. I do remember thinking that Pete got off particularly lightly in the best man's speech though, but those of us who've known him for many years ensured that sordid tales of his past were kept flowing to the newcomers to make up for it.

In keeping with the medieval style, the food and drink was served on earthenware dishes and cups, with cutlery only conspicuous through its absence. They did concede to provide a sharp knife with the lamb chop course however, but eating a whole (if small) roast chicken with fingers alone was a messy albeit entertaining experience. Thankfully, large cloth bibs had been given to us all to prevent expensive (and possibly rented clothes) from bearing the brunt of ill-attentive feasting and quaffing. The latter of which was severely curtailed by the cups being pottery along with the plates. In order to really get in the swing of things I couldn't help but feel the mugs should have been metal (pewter for example).

Aside from looking more impressive, they could have allowed greater swinging, toasting and clanging possibilities, although they might have needed panel-beating back into shape afterwards.

Whilst the characteristics of the drinking receptacle might have deserved scrutiny, its contents did not. The menu had specified that 4 mugs of wine were free with the meal, but I'm sure I had a significantly higher number of refills proffered by the not-terribly-buxom wenches that were serving us.

At the end of the meal, after some “magic” from Merlin involving making members of the feast leap out of their chairs (which I was genuinely impressed by until I had a second look at some of my photographs{link}) and fire juggling (with the oh-so-Mediaeval ballad “Theme from Lost in Space” as accompaniment) Arthur presented the happy couple with an honourary knighthood. Or fiefdom. Or something anyway which let them call themselves Lord and Lady Rawlinson-Watkins. I couldn't really hear what was going on properly due to a lot of ambient noise and an old injury to my inner ear from diving. They seemed as pleased as punch about the honour anyway, and Pete continues to sign in to Messenger as “Lord Fluffy” to this day.

The remainder of the evening was spent…. well, I'm not entirely sure how it was spent. There was dancing, there was singing (by Neil “I've met them!” Colquhoun of the band Calvin) and I'm pretty damn sure there was a lot more drinking. Everyone certainly seemed to have a pretty good time, and looked equally the worse for wear the next day in the hotel lobby as we slowly and painfully checked out, and worked our way northwards and homewards.