Achy, breaky...muscles. Gaah

Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow.

My muscles HATE me. I feel like they’ve all been out on some stag do in Vegas for a week drinking nothing but sambuca, eating nothing but cocaine and doing nothing but severely overdoing it on every possible level. I have spent the day stretching and yowling and generally feeling that what I need is to be put on a medieval rack and stretched for a few hours so that I end up looking like Mike Teevee at the end of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

I blame Status Quo. Rick Parfitt is the boss of me.

It was my UK wedding reception on Saturday night, which explains this fiasco in its entirety. As we got married in Australia, it was obvious that not all of our friends and family were going to be able to come over for the event – most notably the Hubbo’s mum and stepdad, who gave up long haul flights last year due to the fact that unless you’re in first class they’re a pain in the arse. So we decided to have a major piss up in Essex so everyone could come along, see us in our wedding garb and get spannered for free while jigging about to Summer of ’69 and other classic tuneage.

I wasn’t entirely convinced about the re-wearing of my wedding dress, not least because I was unsure I’d fit back into it after the lager and cake fest of Australia and Thailand. Also because the back of the bodice bit features about eight million tiny little buttons that have to be done up by someone other than me, and it’s the sort of task that sends Hubbo round the bend (one of the wedding’s finest moments was us nearly calling the concierge at the hotel at 3 in the morning to lend a hand, as we were both too boss-eyed to make any sense of it. Pleasingly, I did not take the advice given, which was along the lines of ‘Make like Moll Flanders and rip it’.) I managed to get into it in the end though, and we even managed to get all the buttons done up thanks to some crafty handiwork with a pair of tweezers.

I had my hair done in the morning – which I was dreading as I hate the hairdressers with a passion. Apart from Charles Worthington in Covent Garden, where they give you a glass of champagne and a copy of Vogue and get on with it. Actually, the new place I went on Saturday was good too – my fabulous male stylist was pretty hot, and also fairly quiet, so I didn’t have to spend an hour talking about my holiday plans (which would have made for a 30 second long conversation in the first place, considering I can’t afford to go on holiday ever again).

I was going to wear my veil again, but didn’t in the end. Fifteen minutes of swearing and poking my head with Kirby grips convinced me that it would have been overkill anyway.

We made sure we got to the golf club half an hour before the japes were due to kick off, as the last thing we wanted was to be late, make a sweaty entrance and get applauded by everyone. We beat the first guests, but only by about five minutes. My university mates rocked up early doors, which I was really pleased about because I hardly got to speak to them for the rest of the evening. I felt terrible, especially as two of them had come down from Newcastle for the occasion. I kept on trying to fight my way to the table, but kept on being apprehended by various relations and carted off to meet other people, so I barely got the chance to talk to them. Bad friend!

It seemed to me that one minute there were five people there, and the next minute there were a hundred. Nearly everyone arrived at exactly the same time, which meant that we ended up having a meet and greet line anyway, even though we said we wouldn’t. Good thing really, as I hardly spoke to some of the people there. Still, we paid for the booze so I don’t suppose they minded that much.

After the buffet - which went in about five minutes, impressively - we decided to get the dancing started with a first dance. The band we hired were more of a rock and roll bunch and only had the option of three slow songs – none of which were the song we had at the actual wedding (Someone Like You, Van Morrison). So we went for Wonderful Tonight instead, which is quite short and also had the added comedy bonus of getting half the women crying and having to depart to the loos to repair eye make-up.

It seems that everyone felt it was rude to kick off the jigs before we’d got up and danced, because as soon as we left the dance floor (escaped outside as it was about 100 degrees in the room) pretty much everyone in the room was up. Excellent! The band were fantastic; and in their breaks we had the CDs from the actual wedding full of songs that people had requested, so there were some comical musical moments there. Such as the Home and Away theme tune. And Cold Chisel.

The muscle abuse started when the band revved up with Rocking All Over The World. I must have been more pissed than I thought, because I found myself doing the patented Status Quo dance (you know the drill: hands on hips, grab a partner and bend over to the left and to the right while they go the opposite way….yeah, humiliating) with one of Hubbo’s work mates. Oh dear.

Then – and I’ve no idea how this happened – I had a dance off with my dad. To Come On, Eileen of all things. I remember very little of this particular part of the evening, but numerous people have rung me up crowing about the comedy of it. Apparently we managed to match each other move for move all the way through – which seemed like a great idea at the time but I fear is now part of the reason for my muscular trauma.

In short: an excellent night. There were all the elements of a great night there: friends, family, beer, food, the Quo and, of course, air guitar - courtesy of my brother. I reckon I should have a wedding reception every year.