The church was a perfect example of a quaint village church. It had a green lawn with a tree hanging over the entrance to the church, it had olden style tombstones dating from the 1980s, a huge bell tower which dominated the village sky-line and a plasma screen just inside the door. They even had a WOMAN VICAR. I suppose if the Vicar of Dibley has done one thing, it has shown that just because a vicar has tits it doesn't stop her doing what vicars do - crack really bad jokes and annoy everyone. Without that show, a village like this would have dragged the WOMAN VICAR into the village square and stoned her to death.

The bride looked lovely. Well I say that only because that is what you're meant to say isn't it? But in my honest opinion she looked a bit pale and skinny. The ceremony was very short, which was a shame as the church was nice and cool. When we got outside, we threw petals rather than confetti because confetti can poison the flying rat, more commonly known as the pigeon. (Now I have learnt this piece of information, I will now be throwing confetti in Piccadilly Gardens every day.) I think I threw my petals to hard as I managed to knock the groom over.

The reception was a two minute walk away at the village hall. The bride and groom were obviously feeling lazy as, in a move which would please Two-Jags Prescott, they were driven there. The village hall looked like a Challenge Anneka Project which was completed in 20 minutes by builders who gave their labour for free if they could squeeze Anneka's bum and have their company name shown on the BBC for 10 seconds.

And so to dinner. The good thing about being a clued up metrosexual liberal minded wuss is coming to backward places like this and enlightening the locals with the latest opinions I have been spoon-fed by the Guardian. As I sit at the table, I decide which topics I will cover - Aren't asylum seekers great? I think we pay too little in taxes... Well burglars have rights too you know. How would you like it if we sent you out in a field and had you torn limb from limb by a pack of wild dogs?

The speeches were not bad, which, for a wedding, is a good thing. The father of the bride was, unintentionally, the funniest person. His voice quivered as he talked about how giving a speech was like a batsman being in the nervous nineties in his first test at Lords. If this was anything to go by, even Australia would've been able to get this guy out. But he did give us two juicy snippets of gossip, apparently the bride's been suffering from post-natal depression and her brother couldn't be there because he's had to go back to Lithuania with his wife, because she's having problems with her visa (the immigration kind not the credit card).

A wedding speech is the best place to air the family's dirty laundry.