Oh the scorching sun, reflecting on the reposeful millpond in all its refulgent glory. Oh the glamorous PRs, replete in diaphanous designer dresses. Oh the Louis Roederer Cristal, flowing like a spring whose waters never fail.
Cannes? Nah, the Boathouse in Bexleyheath luv, for the McContent & Design Wedding of the Year of course…
That’s right Foxy fans, while the advertising glitterati were poncing around on the beaches of the Côte d’Azur, Roxy and I – and the rest of the team – were holed up in North Kent, attending the nuptials of our very own glamour star, Ian “George Clooney” McCawley.
And it certainly lived up to its billing. The Bolton Massive were out in force, and I am sure you will believe me when I say they were MASSIVE too. The Bexleyheath School Mums put on a great show, especially on the dance floor, almost putting Roxy to shame. The School Dads, who made Ray Winstone look like a pussy, had other things on their minds, however.
They simply couldn’t keep their eyes – and hands – off me, on account of my ample bosom filling out my Alex Perry, Lovell organza and tulle midi dress.
Oh yeah and Simon, who claimed to be Ian’s best mate from school, took a real shine to me as well. For some unknown reason, he kept banging on about how I looked just like their teenage crush, Patsy Kensit, and that how, back in the day, he and Ian had spent many an hour up in his bedroom practising their “mutual admiration”.
Next up was Paul, who claimed to be Ian’s best mate from his first job in Blackburn. One minute we were comparing tales of “sick note” McCawley’s hypochondria; the next he was all over me like a rash, telling me how he had a thing for blondes. He was so bladdered, he didn’t even notice that I have a touch of the “ginge”.
Anyway, no sooner had I said I was feeling a bit peckish than both of them offered to make me the filling in their very own “pasty barm”. I must admit, I was rather tempted, but for once old McKelvey was in the right place, at the right time to talk some sense into me and ensure I wasn’t on the “after’s menu” after all.
As the clock struck midnight, we all jumped in a cab and headed back to the Premier Inn. It had been a marvellous team day out, and so much better than anything the Promenade de la Croisette could ever offer…
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