The unmentionable ingredients

The exact moment that the Tipping Point is reached.
Anzac Day, Sydney 2008.

A number of my regular readers (I think there may be two, possibly three including Anita) noted in relation to my last post on the recipe for a successful wedding, that there seemed to be one or two details about the Charleski bash that I omitted.  Yes, I admit it, there are a few non-essential wedding ingredients which I neglected to mention.  So here goes.


First, excessive Champagne consumption. A few years ago Anita and I went to visit some some friends of ours in Spain for a weekend.  I won't reveal who they were other than to say they live in Valencia and share the same first name.  Lets call them both Alex Harris for argument's sake. We were on our way back from a week's climbing in the high granite peaks of the pyrenees and were generally smelly, tired, and looking forward to a weekend of relative luxury.  Fast forward a few hours and between the four of us we had consumed an enormous omelette, half a side of the finest Serrano ham, several bottles of hearty Rioja and almost an entire bottle of very nice single malt.  Amid the hangovers and general carnage of the following morning, Mrs Harris admitted that since they had had children they didn't really party that much, so when they did, they tended to "go for it".  I was shocked and awed in equal measure.  Is this what happens once you have children?  Well, in my case, it would seem the answer is a resounding yes.  The Charlski wedding marked our first weekend away without Lara, and we were determined to make the most of it. In my case by cracking into the pre-dinner Champagne with gusto. Which was excellent, by the way.


Second, Cigars.  You either love them, or you hate them.  I generally hate them. Even the expensive, high quality, hand-rolled-on-the-thigh-of-a-cuban-maiden types.  That is, until I've consumed enough alcohol to reach The Tipping Point (the point at which all rationality is abandoned, judgment becomes warped and previously Bad Ideas suddenly appear, with absolute certainty, to be Good Ideas). Once the Tipping Point is reached, even the fattest, longest, strongest smelling cigars seem like a fantastically good idea.  It has happened many times - my friend Phil's 18th Birthday (I bought us both fat cigars to symbolise him becoming A Man); my university freshers ball; the 1998 UBBC dinner dance (although the Cigar Incident was overshadowed by the Debagging Incident in which my friend Tom's trousers ended up hanging from a chandelier).  On each occasion I reached a point where all I wanted, more than anything in the world, was to smoke a big fat cigar.  At this point I think I need to offer an apology. Jono, I'm sorry - I appreciate that you spent a lot of money on some very expensive Monte Christo No.4 cigars and I am flattered that you shared them with me. I really did enjoy it - right up to the point that the room started spinning and I had to retire to the toilet for an extended "rest".  


Third, Raspberry Vodka shots. Bad Idea suddenly becomes Good Idea on achievement of the Tipping Point (see above). In a state of misguided generosity I think I bought twelve, which I distributed to those foolish enough to get involved. I hope you enjoyed them more than I did. 


Finally, a Person Who Is More Drunk Than Everyone Else.  Every wedding needs one. It allows you to go home, safe in the knowledge that no matter how drunk you were, you weren't as drunk as That Person.  Unless you were That Person. Which in my case, I was.  In general I would like to think that I added to, rather than detracted from the entertainment  (for the record I'm sorry if I hit anyone when I hurled my (single) birkenstock sandal across the dancefloor whilst performing my one-legged air guitar tribute to Bon Jovi). 


All I can say in my defence was that I am a father of a young baby; I don't get out much; I am out of practice.  In short, I blame it all on Lara.