I loathe weddings.
No other festivity provides such fertile ground for drama, from the planning stages (I’m looking at you, Meghan and Kate) to the day itself (that Beckham-Peltz wedding clearly saw some action).
Indeed, some of the most outrageous behaviour I’ve ever witnessed, or partaken in myself, has been wedding-based. So it didn’t surprise me at all to see the news story of the poor bride who was drenched in black paint by her vengeful sister-in-law in Kent that went viral.
The two women had clearly been at war for some time before this final dress-destroying blow. And the genesis of this spiteful act? The attacker, who received a suspended prison sentence, blamed her own disastrous wedding in 2023 on the victim and wanted to take revenge.
A wise elderly lady I knew once referred to weddings as ‘funerals for friendships’ and I will never forget it.
When I was in my 20s, I always presumed my deep dread over such occasions was simply because I was deeply bitter about not having found ‘The One’. I got so drunk and bereft at my former best friend’s wedding – I was so very single at the time – that I passed out in the cloakroom. This was hardly my finest moment – but more on that later.
Then several years later I did find ‘The One’. And after we got engaged, I was surprised when not even 1 per cent of my soul yearned for a wedding. Instead we married in our kitchen at home, with a neighbour we hardly knew serving as a witness.
I’d seen enough nuptial disasters by then to be put off for life. Take my friend’s countryside wedding, which might have gone off without a hitch had one particular guest not been invited. She was a histrionic blonde actress with a cocaine addiction and at some point during the evening she ran out of her stash.
Gemma Monk’s wedding dress was ruined after her vengeful sister-in-law threw black paint over her on the big day
Annabel Fenwick Elliot admits she got so drunk at her former best friend’s wedding she fell asleep in the cloakroom
It’s terribly narcissistic, when you think about it, to throw a massive party in order to bathe in the smugness of having found a suitable partner, writes Annabel Fenwick Elliott
Desperate to source more, she tried to get into her car – drunk as a skunk and high as a kite – and so I deftly whipped the keys from her fist and hid them, much to her very public fury. Later on, after everyone had gone to bed, most of us – bride and groom included – awoke to hear her breaking into a toolshed on the property of the grounds.
Shortly after, wide-eyed and in a frothy rage, she retrieved a large screwdriver, got into her car, and proceeded to attack her ignition with such force that she broke the whole dashboard trying to hot-wire it.
That’s what we all remember about that wedding. Not the lovely ceremony or the averagely funny speeches. No, it was calling a mental health hotline seeking advice about how to look after her and a vehicle recovery service to tow her mangled car away in the dead of night.
At another memorable wedding I went to, the quarrelling mothers-in-law were the stars of the show; the bride and groom hardly got a look in. The mother hens started off by shooting each other death-stares from across the church pews, but by the time champagne had charged them up at the reception, the frosty atmosphere had descended into an all-out yelling match by the ladies Portaloos.
The argument was, apparently, as so often, about money and who had contributed more funds towards the big day.
And lastly, my own regretful tale. My then-best friend – the only woman I’ve truly loved – and I, had been drifting apart for many months in the run-up to her big day. Or rather, she’d been drifting away from me… in a sailboat headed for marital bliss while I was flailing around in the shark-infested waters of singledom. I had tried so hard to cling on to the remnants of our once unbreakable friendship but her wedding was the day I knew it was finally over.
I did my best to smile in the photos and be a good bridesmaid but in the process I got quietly hammered. There was no bust-up, I made sure to hide when I felt the tears emerge somewhere around midnight and went off to sob alone in the cloakroom underneath someone’s coat until I fell asleep. It was one of the saddest days of my life.
It isn’t always a mess. Jack Whitehall’s wedding to Roxy Horner over the weekend looks, from afar, like it went quite smoothly. The worst thing that happened was Jack’s wardrobe malfunction. ‘I squatted down to pick up [daughter] Elsie and my trousers split, my whole a** was hanging out,’ he told Vogue. I’d say they got off lightly.
Overall, I continue to find the whole concept absurd. The guest list and the table plan is always a social minefield. That extortionate white dress (the most easily stainable colour!) will only ever be worn once. And you have to spend months persuading the vicar you’re sincere about the religious importance of the day.
It’s terribly narcissistic, when you think about it, to throw a massive party – often financially diabolical for both the couple and their guests – in order to bathe in the smugness of having found a suitable partner. That’s just blind luck. What about celebrating hard-earned achievements, like getting a big promotion at work, or making it through the toddler phase with your children without going mad?
The whole industry is nonsensical. And inescapable. Silliest of all, certain members of my husband’s and my family were genuinely cross with us for failing to have a proper marriage ceremony. Proof that refusing to have a full-blown wedding can cause its own dramas, too.
