If Euro 2012 Was a Polish Wedding
It had to be a summer wedding. Pawel and Anastasia had been neighbours and sweethearts since they were born. They grew up playing in the fields, throwing mud at each other over the fence and, later, stealing kisses behind the barn.
The day when the happy couple were to be united was announced way back in 2007. All the neighbours were to be invited, even cousin Rus, but there was a lot to do before the guests were due to arrive. The road to the house hadn't been repaired since 1964, the field out back was wild and overgrown, and nobody could remember the last time they had seen the bunting.
The youngsters were wild with excitement, trying on their face paint and knitting coloured scarves. The mums and dads wanted the kids to be happy, but they worried. They remembered the last time all the neighbours came to a party, and just how long it took to heal the broken heads and clear up the mess. Grandpa and grandma sat on their stools by the kitchen stove and muttered darkly, appalled by the folly and short memories of the young.
As the big day came closer, important decision had to be made. Auditions were held in the village hall to find a band. When auntie Helena and her friends from the church choir won with a song about chickens, Mama held her head in her hands and wailed: "What will Edith and her fine friends from Paris make of us? The shame!"
Invitations were extended in the traditional manner. The young couple, dressed in their stiffest, smartest clothes, visited relatives close and distant, sat awkwardly on the edges of sofas and exchanged chit-chat with cousins they hadn't seen in years. "Yes of course we've bought the vodka uncle Rus," "We'll be sure to remember to get some tea uncle Kevin," "So, how have you been cousin Hans – you never call anymore!"
Rivalries and feuds were played out. Gossip was exchanged and backs were stabbed. In the end it was decided: sixteen families would be there on the day, and each would bring their eleven boys. The Papadopouloses enclosed a note: "Money short, we'll be hitchhiking. Start without us if we're late."
There were bound to be last-minute hitches. Papa's attempts to fill in the holes and resurface the road were a little behind, especially after his Chinese friend decided to go home. The marquee was up and looking professional, as long as it didn't rain. And with just a few days to go, uncle Kevin and his boys demanded assurances that they weren't going to have their testicles bitten off by local dogs.
The ceremony was spectacular, and the first dance was judged to be an even match. On Table A, Uncle Rus and uncle Lech had a little too much vodka and got into a fight about that time Lech overstayed his welcome in 1612. Across the room on Table D, uncle Kevin and cousin Pierre had refused to speak all evening and were silently kicking each other’s ankles under the table. Table C were having the best time of all. The Murphies, the Corleones and the Sánchezes hadn’t stop singing all night, and now they were hugging and loudly declaring how much they had always loved each other.
Tension rises as midnight approaches and the serious business of party games gets closer. After all the fancy footwork on the dance floor, the sweat and the singing, who will catch the veil and the tie and move to the centre for the final dance…
Jamie Stokes
