Giving Away The Bride - No Refunds Permitted!

Save the date! the fridge magnet in my Dubai apartment screamed at me every time I went on a midnight snack raid at around 2 o’clock in the morning. 25^th September 2010. Lee & Genevieve’s Wedding Day. Formal Invitations to Follow.

My daughter Genevieve had wanted to make sure that I, and a cast of thousands likewise, didn’t double book the date, so she gave plenty of time to get it into everyone’s diaries. Well, I thought it would be churlish to refuse such an invitation, so jumped on a plane to Gatwick the weekend before to give myself plenty of time to prepare for the “big day”.

The duties of a Father-of-the-Bride are not really that onerous I discovered. Or maybe it was because Genevieve had got everything sorted out so well. A case of Been there; Seen the Video; Got the T-shirt perhaps? Except that to press the point home, I was given a pair of socks reminding me of my special role. So scrap the T-shirt and insert the word Socks!

Being FOTB automatically gives one VIP status I discovered. OK, it means dressing up in a suit, and wearing a tie for the first time in ages; but that’s a small price to pay for being chauffeured from the hotel to the castle (Tamworth Castle, where the wedding was taking place) and having total strangers coming up to me and being everso nice.

The other goodie thing is that you don’t have to get to the venue early in order to grab a good seat. There is one already reserved right at the front, and everybody turns round when you enter the room and appears genuinely happy to see you…. Oh OK, perhaps they were more interested in Genevieve walking up the aisle than me – though I was still able to bask in reflected glory.

The Castle theme was a continuation of the overall theme for the wedding. Gen and Lee are into these historic battle re-enactments big time, which explains why Lee had decided to dress up in chain mail and Gen was dressed up as a dead ringer for Lady Guinevere. Luckily the FOTB did not have to dress to fit in – just had to try to appear a little smarter than normal, wearing a grey suit; that’s all!

Come the BIG MORNING, the sun shone beautifully. But that was no surprise. Genevieve had had the presence of mind to order a dozen golfing umbrellas, whilst the rest of the family between us must have easily doubled that number. So in the event, we could practically guarantee good weather. Not a cloud in the sky. Brilliant!

After breakfast we had fun decorating Drystan’s car. As brother of the bride (BOTB for short) he had valiantly offered his shiny red pride and joy to be the Bridemobile; and we set to with a vengeance covering it with tie-bows and white ribbons for the four minute journey to the castle.

Though I might well be accused of bias, Genevieve looked an absolute picture in her wedding dress; whilst FOTB looked equally dapper in a Chinese red and black waistcoat, and BOTB wore a Fraser tartan dress kilt. Bridesmaid and Pageboy wore maroon in a close match to the wedding dress.

Time waits for no man, not even a Bride on her wedding day. I did the normal honourable father-to-daughter thing of reminding Genevieve that it was not too late to back out of the wedding if she wanted to. No way, she riposted…. Only then to revert to bargaining mode, suggesting that if I were to pay off their mortgage she might consider it. But a quick calculation showed that it would be cheaper to get a quickie divorce after the ceremony, quite irrespective of my investment in the wedding day itself, so she valiantly agreed to go ahead with it all, and we ploughed on to the castle.

Tamworth castle is one of those edifices that are ideal for small-ish weddings. With a baronial hall decked in flags and pieces of armour stuck haphazardly onto the walls, it makes for a perfect setting. And afterwards while the official photographs are being taken, guests can wander at will around the castle, killing time until either the photographer’s memory stick runs out of space, or he can find no one else to shoot (figuratively speaking!).

The killjoys at the Castle didn’t want confetti littering up their cobbled courtyard, so we were all shepherded down to the bottom of the drive, there to chuck dried rose petals - which had been pre-wrapped in little gauze bags - at the happy couple.

Next on the agenda was the Wedding Breakfast. No matter that this didn’t start until after 3 in the afternoon. It is still called a breakfast. Eight tables were laid out with flowers and candles and disposable cameras for guests to capture any embarrassing moments that came their way. The order of ceremony specified that after the first course of melon topped with red-goo, it was time for FOTB to deliver his speech. Finally months of feverish preparation (well, a couple of hours at least!)  were to be put to the test. And so … I began…. 

Ladies and gentlemen and … friends of my daughter

This speech is the moment where, as Rowan Atkinson said in his famous sketch, 'the man who paid for the damn thing is allowed to speak a word or two of his own.'

Speech-making is a bit like prospecting for black gold. If you don't strike oil in 10 minutes, stop boring. So, as Henry V111 said to each of his wives in turn – I’ll try not to keep you very long

For those of you who don’t know me, my name is ….Genevieve’s dad. In the past I’ve been called lots of other names, but today, for one-Fine-Proud-day, I have a new name: Today, I, am Father of the Bride. I even have the socks to prove it!  And on behalf of Simone and the family, I would like to welcome you all here today – to celebrate the marriage of Genevieve to Lee.

Well, not being one of those who does this too regularly, I thought I might look up some ideas of what goes into a father-of-the-bride speech on the internet. And to be honest I really wondered why I had bothered…

A good tip, I read repeatedly, is to suggest that the groom or best man will soon be 'entertaining us' or 'treating us to their words of wisdom' or something similar. This creates an air of expectation and anticipation amongst the guests, and to some extent takes the pressure off the bride's father with the implication that 'the best is yet to come'. Yeh that’s what it said!

Confirm what everyone already knows by saying what a lovely day it is, And that way, You get everyone to agree with you.

And a piece of advice that kept cropping up again and again was Get the groom's name right. Apparently this is one of the most common mistakes made by the father of the bride. Well, I’m one of those people who uses triggers to remember names. And what better trigger for Lee’s name than The Dukes of Hazard? You all remember that orange car in the TV series? Yes of course you do. The only trouble is that I now have to keep telling myself that Genevieve is not marrying someone called Daisy!

But you know, I thought I would ask Genevieve what she wanted me to put in the speech – after all it is her big day. Whatever you do, she told me, just don’t embarrass me. And as she has as much dirt on me as I do on her, and in the interests of self preservation I reckon I’d better not tell you - - - - that… or that… or even that…

You know, one of the things that really gobsmacked me about Lee was that he actually asked permission to marry Genevieve. Not once, but twice! I normally live and work in the Middle East and one day Lee waited until he could be alone with Simone and asked her if it would be acceptable for him to marry Genevieve. I’m led to believe that taken aback as Simone was, she could only blurt out that as I wasn’t in the UK she couldn’t possibly give her permission without my knowledge. Now in my book, any red-hot-blooded male at that point would have said…. to hell with it.  If Genevieve’s dad can’t be bothered to be around when he had steeled himself to ask the question, then why should he bother to do the right thing?

But no. Not Lee. He actually waited until I was next back in the UK, made some lame excuse to Genevieve that he was going out and instead headed 200 miles up north.  No doubt Genevieve thought he had just popped round to the pub for a quick one. Anyway, Lee DID ask my permission for Genevieve’s hand in marriage …which I found very touching – and of course I wanted to know if he would be able to support a family? The answer was no! –  He was only planning  to support my daughter – The rest of us would have to look after ourselves.

Now when I wrote the first draft of this speech, I wrote some glowing words of praise about Lee. I described him as kind, courteous, caring, witty and courageous. The problem was, living three thousand miles away, I hadn’t actually had the chance to spend a lot of time with him, so I had no idea if I were telling the truth. I guess I’ll just have to rely on Genevieve’s say-so…though she might be a little biased?

I might have mentioned that I live in the Middle East –  in the United Arab Emirates to be precise. Anyone been there? Anyone know where it is? It’s actually one of those places where the locals have far more money than sense. Those of you who aspire to keep abreast of this rapidly changing world might well have read in the papers recently that the son of one of our Sheikhs went to Birmingham University to study. A month later, he sends a letter to his dad saying: “Birmingham is wonderful, the people are nice and I really like it here, but I’m a bit ashamed to arrive at college every day in  my gold-plated Mercedes when all my teachers travel in  by train.” Sometime later he gets a letter from his dad with a ten million dollar cheque saying: “Stop embarrassing us, go and get yourself a train too.”

Actually, Arabs love giving out advice to others, even if they never follow it themselves. So here’s a little story for Lee…. A sheikh employed a sprinter to run from the palace to his harem, which was about three miles away, to fetch one of his wives whenever he was in the mood. The sheikh would nod and the sprinter would take off. This event usually took place about three times a day until the runner died at the age of 36. The sheikh lived to be 96. And the moral of the story is, "Sex doesn't kill you...it's the running after it that does."

You know it’s quite hard for a father to objectively judge the beauty of his daughter. Over the years, I have been forced to rely on the opinions of several of my friends. The usual accolade ran along the lines of “Ooh err she’s a lot better looking than you mate!” from which I was able to deduce, by a simple process of logic, that she must be extremely beautiful indeed. Seriously though, I think you will all agree that today she really does look a picture…And Lee…also…looks…a…picture…

So back to the happy couple – I now need you both to participate in my speech – Genevieve please put your hand on the table – Lee place you hand on top of Genevieve’s. Any photographers to capture this historic moment? - You enjoying that Lee? – you should be – it’s probably the last time that you will ever have the upper hand in this relationship!

Now, according to the internet sites I looked up it’s customary on these occasions for me to offer the happy couple some worldly advice on marriage…. So… Let’s start with Lee "The best way for a peaceful marriage is simple - lie. If Gen asks you if you've done whatever you've forgotten, say that you have - and then do it.

Genevieve - If he catches you doing something you shouldn't, say it was a surprise for him. Men are stupid, they'll believe anything if they want a peaceful life or at least they’ll pretend to!

Genevieve again: If you want something from Lee, ask for it. Remember, Lee is a man, and hints just do not work.

And a further thing: You will find in your marriage that you make ALL the MINOR decisions whilst Lee makes all the MAJOR decisions. Lee, you will find out that all future decisions turn out to be of a minor nature.

Now that you are married, Genevieve will always have the last word in any argument – any word that you come out with afterwards is by default, the start of the next argument!

And remember, when you buy her flowers . . . it proves you are guilty (but of course, beware the far more serious consequences of not buying her flowers!).

And finally to Genevieve, the definition of a perfect wife is one who helps her husband with the washing up ....

To be serious for a moment, I have to tell you Ladies & Gentlemen we really wondered if the time would ever come when these two would get married.  Let me tell you about the time Genevieve put an advert in the Lichfield Gazette that read “Husband Wanted” and she had 97 replies all saying the same thing . . . “You can have mine!”

Lee also tried hard before he found my daughter. I understand that he sent a photo to the lonely hearts club but they sent it back saying “we’re not that lonely!”

I think it was Dr. Johnson who said that Marriage has many pains, but Celibacy has no pleasure - Which reminds me of a story that they always tell in Saudi Arabia: Mohammed is talking to his friend. …."Did you know, Abdullah, that during sex, an average man loses about 250 calories whereas the average Saudi loses 1,250 calories?"  "How do you explain that?" asks Abdullah. "Well," replies Mohammed, "the Saudi  uses up 250 calories during sex and a further 1,000 calories whilst he’s running around telling all his friends about it afterwards."

Well, a good speech, they say, should be like a mini-skirt: short enough to be interesting, and long enough to cover the bare essentials.. And as Lee’s just looked at his watch I presume that means he is in need of a drink so, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado please be upstanding and raise your glasses …..

I give you Genevieve and Daisy … errr, sorry Genevieve and Lee. . . the bride and groom!

Cue rapturous applause at this point, FOTB takes a bow and everyone can get stuck in to the next course, their hunger having been heightened by having to sit through this FOTB drivel.

The next speech was for the Groom himself. Before thoughts could wander on to the profiteroles in waiting, Lee delivered a moving speech, saying exactly what needed to be said;

And for FOTB there was an unexpected bonus. As a special thank you (thank you for what, I wondered?), Lee produced Niles – a baby camel that was looking for adoption. (I knew he was called Niles, as the name was printed on a label protruding from his bottom which told me he had been born in China, that he was surface washable and that he had a coat of polyester fibre. Niles and I developed an instant rapport and he is sitting beside me even now as I write this blog.

The Best Man’s speech didn’t disappoint either. It is the BM alone, I understand, who can tell smutty jokes and get away with it. (Sample: I understand that Lee & Gen are going to North Wales for their honeymoon …. At least I am sure I overheard Lee saying he was going to Bangor for the next week!  Cue sounds of unbridled mirth and ribled applause!)

Fast forward a few hours now to the wedding disco. Suddenly the 50-strong crowd of wedding guests was augmented to double that number. As is normal, the first dance was reserved for the Bride & Groom. B&G performed their slushy roles to perfection; after which it was time for the Bride to dance with FOTB. Now, I had been warned some weeks back that I needed to choose the music for this (yes, yet another onerous task for FOTB) but as luck would have it, one of my favourite artistes is a country singer called Suzy Bogguss. And one of her really nice songs is ideal for a B/FOTB dance – It’s called When She Smiled At Him. Not only is it slow (essential when one of the couple is wearing a long dress that flows onto the floor) but it is also a beautiful song and as an added bonus it reinforced Genevieve’s mistaken belief that she is able to twist her dad round her little finger. And on her wedding day, who am I to be a killjoy? I am told that there was hardly a dry eye in the place by the time we had strutted our stuff.

I could go on (yes – really I could!) but I think the point is made by now. A lovely day was had by all; and as an added bonus, I have ended up with a new life-long companion. One who is happy to share my bed and gaze adoringly at me as if to say we were meant for one another. So as Genevieve and Daisy enjoy a sun soaked holiday in Turkey (or should that be Wales?) Niles and I are about to settle down in front of the TV before hitting the sack. Life can be good; life can be very good indeed.

Now this is what I call service!

I guess I have to face it. The time has come when it’s getting more and more difficult to bullshit people into believing I’m still only 29. It’s probably those white hairs that insist on making such an unwelcome appearance when I’m viewed in profile mode; and claim as I might that in fact I only painted them in to make myself look more distinguished, I’m finding that there are actually one or two people who tell me the equivalent of ‘pull the other one’.

Perhaps another dead give away is the fact that my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. And though my vari-focal glasses allow me to see all distances in focus by the simple expedient of raising or lowering my head, my reading glasses are something else.

I used to use them for working on the computer but lately they really haven’t helped at all – either that or the computer monitor deliberately detects when the reading glasses come out and then acts all funny so I can’t read the words dancing in front of me.

I have always got my glasses in the past from a highly respected chain or two in the UK. You have to make an appointment two weeks in advance to see the ophthalmologist; you turn up at your appointed time and normally only have to wait for a maximum of 20 minutes. But the glasses take up to 10 days to arrive and this causes a problem if I am only back in blighty for just over a week.

So today I decided it was high time I got an eye check up. I jumped into the car and pottered off to the Mall of the Emirates and found loads of opticians. After inspecting some of them and crossing them off my mental list (I can’t stand shop staff standing at the entrance with arms folded, waiting for some hapless individual to dare cross their threshold) I plumped for one called Pearl Opticians, right next to Carrefour, and loped inside.

There I am met by a smiling young Filipina.

How much is it to have one's eyes tested, I ask.

It's free sir.

Oh, well can I make an appointment for an eye test please?

Yes sir. Just one minute....

Filipina backs off to the rear of the shop keeping her eyes fixed on two Arab guys who are trying on kool shades from a rack at the front of the store. It is clear she is not going to remove her eyes from them for one second. She calls over her shoulder to another Filipina to take over on ‘Arab watch duty’ and then goes into the back to ask a third Filipina to come out.

Yes sir. Please fill in your personal details on this form, she says, circling name, Date of Birth and phone number. Do I detect a slight tweak of that smile when I decide to play honest and give my real DoB?

The rest doesn’t need filling in, she tells me

I give back the form, asking when I might be able to get an appointment for my eye test.

Oh sir. So sorry to keep you waiting. Please come now to the eye test room!

I am ushered to a high chair and sit through the various tests: which has darker black circles? - red or green?

Which leg of the criss-cross pattern is stronger?

Can you read the bottom line (errr… actually I can’t read the top line!)

Eventually the tests are all over and I am escorted outside once again. I am told about the different lens options, but they being reading glasses only I go for the cheapest.

How long will it take to make up the order, I ask handing over my old frames.

I'm sorry sir. Because of Ramadhan we cannot be as quick as we would normally like.

Sure, I understand, I answer. So they will be ready...??

Around 2.30 sir (it is now 12.20).

You mean 2.30 today?

Yes sir. Sorry sir. We cannot do any faster!

Then that will be fine, I say magnanimously, wondering what a normal turn around time would be.

So I have two hours to kill. Well, I need some new trousers so let’s take a look in some of the clothing stores. But it being Ramadhan, all the good stuff has already been snapped up. Never mind; let’s go see what is on offer at the Outlet Mall – an out-of-town shopping centre which sells itself on having the biggest discounts in Dubai.

I drive the half hour to the Mall, and wander inside. OK. It is certainly stuffed full of fashion shops, and every single sign on every single window shouts at you what a bargain you are going to find inside (50%? 60%? 75%? even 90% off!) but the place is virtually deserted.

I find a couple of shops that I have just inspected in the Mall of the Emirates. The same trousers on sale, but both cost 20 dirhams more than I saw at MoE. And a much smaller choice as well. No wonder the place is deserted.

I head back into town and get to the MoE at 2.30. I go to Pearl Optics, but no Filipinas are in sight. There has been a shift change and I am greeted by an Arab lady – she looks Jordanian.

Errr, I was here two hours ago, I begin waving my till receipt.

Oh yes, she cuts in, lifting the receipt out of my hot and stickies, and goes over to a shelf on the wall. Here you are Mr Brian. Please try them on. They are good? Yes?

They are good, yes, I assure her, thanking her very much as she stamps my receipt, and I back out of the shop.

I am impressed.

Excellent service; excellent price; excellent job done. What a lovely change!

Could the opticians in the UK learn a thing or two from these guys!

I pass by a full length mirror.

I like what I see.

All I need do now is to top up on the hair maintenance; and perhaps for the time being at least, I’ll try passing myself off for 35.

Who was it who said that old age is not for wimps?

Should we pass around the begging bowl for Géant?

Readers of these pages will know that I get fed up with the perpetual ethos in the Gulf region of ripping people off at every conceivable opportunity. Not that it is just in this region, of course. My most lasting impression of Delhi will always be the way the entire population appears to target foreigners as rip off victims and inflate their prices accordingly, sometimes by many hundreds of percent.
But whereas in Delhi it is done quite openly – you know that if you are a foreigner the prices are actually posted up showing how much you are ripped off (!) – here in the UAE, stealth rip off is more the norm.

Now, maybe it’s because it is the holy month of Ramadhan, which – we are led to believe - is especially a month of generosity and giving – that the continuing antics at hypermarket giant Géant are rubbing me up the wrong way. The religious web sites would have us believe that during Ramadhan, charity and generosity toward fellow humans are akin to prayer.

 رمضان كريم – Ramadhan Kareem, scream the posters from all over the store, as if somehow to get us into the mood and improve our joie de vivre.

Many of the products have special Ramadhan labels affixed – such as a special offer pack of three litres of Nada juice for a mere 10 dirhams. Oh what a bargain. They know how to tempt the cheapos like me into parting with our cash.

I check again. Yes. Sure enough. On the shelf itself is a pricing ticket confirming this bargain of the century.

How can I resist? Answer: I can’t. I grab a three-pack… fighting back the urge to take two or three to tide me over… and head off for the tills.

The Filipina checkout girl, well trained in the art of tempting cash from the hapless customers, asks if I would like a plastic bag. She doesn’t tell you that it will automatically add 25 fils to the overall price of your checkout trolley; but we’re all wise to that one by now. But wait – what is this? A large sign below the counter telling us to Say No to Plastic Bags.

I tell her that it would be churlish to accept a plastic bag when the store begs us not to. Filipina is not amused. Perhaps she has heard it too many times before.

She swipes my precious pack of Nada juice… Dhs10.50 please.

Errr, no. I think you mean 10.00.

No, it has come up as 10.50.

But it even says 10.00 on the pack.

Sorry. It’s 10.50

I start to explain to her that such a practice is actually illegal in Europe, but she doesn’t want to know.

Eventually a store manager comes over to see why the checkout queue is growing at such an alarming rate. This just isn’t right I explain to him patiently.

I agree with you, he replies. I will get a merchandiser to check it out straight away. (He has obviously been trained in the art of keeping the customer happy) and instructs the Filipina to charge me 10.00.

Two days later, having savoured the delicate taste of Nada Raspberry and Orange juices, I decide that I can hold back my desires no longer and hurry back to Géant for another pandering to my inbuilt gluttony. Yes, sure enough the offer is still there. I check the bottles. I check the pricing ticket.

I grab a 3-pack and head for the checkout once more.

Would you like a plastic bag sir?

Not today thank you.

Ok sir. That is 10.50 dirhams.

Oh no it’s not! It is 10.00

No sir. 10.50.

I point out once again that this is a mark up of five per cent on the published price, but again to no avail.

I tell her she can keep her Nada juice and storm out of the shop.

Well, storm is maybe not the right word; for this little game I play is a regular occurrence at the Géant store. This charade probably happens to me at least once a month – you get to the check out and find that the price posted bears no resemblance to the price they charge you.

I wonder how many other people check their till receipts at Géant?

But wait…. generosity and giving are the hallmarks of Ramadhan. Perhaps Géant is going through lean times itself? Maybe it is our charity and generosity that is missing?

Hmmm… I hadn’t thought of that.