I'm off to the motherland again on Wednesday for the wedding of the year at Castle Leslie, previously only famous for being the site of the McCartney-Mills nuptials. An inauspicious start, but I have every faith that the events on Thursday will do more than enough to dispel that unpleasant heritage.
My friend Julie Anne is celebrating finally breaking in her Aussie boyfriend John by making an honest man of him. You may remember him from his scene stealing dancing at my friends' wedding in December. I've known John for about 6 years now, when I arrived back from New Zealand to discover a real life antipodean living in my home town. It was the first sign that the 20th Century had finally breached the Presbyterian Force field surrounding the town and persuaded me that, if an Aussie could make his home there, then I could too.
Julie-Anne I have known since we were 4, as we were in primary school together. She used to drive me to work in Belfast whilst putting on her make up with one hand, and turned up at our school formal wearing a pair of green Puma States, thus ensuring legendary cool status in my heart. What can I say, I was impressionable at that age.
I'm taking my trainers home with me on the off chance I get an opportunity to live out my fantasy of running along a windswept beach, like in the movies. I'm trying to find a suitably epic soundtrack to accompany me, but have only managed the National Velvet theme tune so far. A childhood spent in the country having my pop culture references influenced by my sister comes back to haunt me again.
We return from Ireland late on Saturday night, and head off straight to Get Loaded in the Park on Sunday. Awesome line up this year, with Iggy & the Stooges, Supergrass and Gogol Bordello on the main stage. I can think of no better way of avoiding thinking about the end of the summer (already) than by getting drunk in a field and moshing my little bits off.
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