Llama stench

A stag do is always a time for silliness and possibly even a little childishness but more usually when our subject is involved mainly it involves alcohol and, being brutally honest, him passing out.

Having a stag do the night before the wedding is a bold option but when one considers the John is marrying Helen no-one was going to do anything seriously damaging to John for fear of having to answer to the lovely Helen.

Our subject sensibly had a half-gallon of beer before the stag do (a curry night) even started but other than sending some silly texts to the lovely Helen on John’s phone and drinking up all the flaming sambucas that no-one else would drink (before passing out and spilling one all over himself) it was a vaguely civilised affair for all concerned.

The wedding itself was fantastic despite the occasional wobble in John’s voice and our subject’s fit of giggles half-way through his reading:-

O Tell Me The Truth About Love
W.H. Auden (1907-1973)

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.



Although we suppose one should be glad he did not forget the reading this time as he did last time he was entrusted with this honour.

The after-party was a more than usually splendid affair and we just pity the poor bridesmaid he was sitting next to.