Liza’s back and she’s wearing her comeback dress. After eight years, I felt it was time to update High Heels image because after all, I’m hardly a ‘Girl about Town’ anymore. Nor do I want to be. I may not be in the corner perusing the dancing through a lorgnette, but I enjoyed my turn and now it’s someone else’s.
For the first time in years I’m now in a job where I’m allowed to express my political views online. However, looking around at the dispiriting, toxic balls-up that’s unfolding around us, it’s hard not to believe that the only thing at the end of this particular road is Jacob Rees-Mogg playing The Last Post on a cracked bugle. This is an image that makes me want to emigrate/never speak again, but still I’m sure it will all come right in the end because we’re such an extraordinary and superior nation.
But let’s turn our attention to something that’s almost as nauseating as people losing their rights to citizenship. Let’s talk about the behaviour of married breeders. Wow. Some of you people want and expect an awful lot, don’t you? I’m only raising this having observed the goings on of some of my younger friends who are currently in the throes of wedding hell, coming at them on a conveyor-belt of over-priced misery.
No more can you expect to attend someone’s special day, hand over a small gift, get drunk and upset a few people. Now you’re expected to participate in a year-long extravaganza of foreign-based activity involving villas, flights, ubers, cocktails, meals out, massages, new outfits, afternoon tea and chocolate fountains. And this before you’ve even put a toe near an altar.
Hen weekends should be put in a bin and rolled off the edge of the earth. I have far too much style to ever attend them so thankfully no one invites me anymore. This ultra-competitive, arriviste nonsense causes unnecessary stress and demonstrates the kind of pack mentality that usually ends with someone sobbing onto their inflatable penis because they feel inadequate. This is what they’re designed to do.
The absence of self-awareness from (usually) the bride-to-be that her impending nuptials aren’t the epicentre of everyone’s universe is a well-known phenomenon. Don’t get me wrong, we’re absolutely thrilled that you’ve finally found your penguin but – and I know this is a shocker – it isn’t actually as important to us as it is to you. For that same reason we probably don’t want to empty out the contents of our ISA to participate.
I was told a story recently by a friend who’d attended a wedding and was issued with a sticker on arrival, bearing his name and the word ‘waiter’. The adorable couple had had the audacity to put their guests to work because they were too tight to hire their own staff. The only compensation for this lapse in taste was at least he didn’t get the one that said ‘sweeper’.
If you can’t afford to feed, water, take care of and entertain your guests on the happiest day of your life, you’ve no business inviting them. Want to marry abroad? Hire a villa for your friends and fill the fridge with food. Be a host. And as for the ubiquitous baby shower, you’re the one that got up the spout dear, buy your own frigging Fisher Price.
As Carrie Bradshaw once said, where are my gifts?