I DON’T get invited to too many weddings, which is good because they’ve become a bit too ‘Hollywood’ for me in recent years.

Too much fuss. Too much what Mam considers ‘faff and palaver’. Like stag nights.

Time was when a stag night involved a night train to Morecambe – a minibus if the groom’s dad was ‘high up’ at work.

The measure of a good stag night was no-one getting their head kicked in for not being from Morecambe.

The young bucks of today are more ambitious, as I found out recently.

“Yeah, 40 of us are stagging in Ibeefa for a week, dressed as the Flintstones. It’s gonna be legendary.”

That’s a foreign holiday, by my narrow definition.

In fact, if I was being really picky, the Nato statute book probably considers it an unwarranted act of aggression against another country.

When it comes to weddings, I’m happy with the well-trodden path of church/register office, nice pub, pie and peas, disco upstairs. I draw the line at dancing to Lady In Red.

Anything outside of this and I can’t emotionally connect.

The more society tries to cynically manipulate my emotions, the more I withdraw.

So I’m not a fan of grand gestures at weddings. Like the bride arranging for her lifelong pet guinea pig to be flown into the church on a model aeroplane carrying the rings.

Or when the groom, in an open betrayal of manhood, gushes into the mic: “Our wedding planner Fronk, has now arranged for three archers to fire flaming arrows into the sky towards Venus as an enduring symbol of our love. Will you join us outside please.”

No, I’m going to the bar.

Another problem is that I’ve always bitterly rallied against social obligation, and you’re not allowed to say certain things at weddings.

Things like: “It’s not too late to back out now, you know.”

Not when you’re at the altar. Not when the microphone’s switched on. Not when the bride’s just silently arrived behind you, the so-called best man.