James Marston: An mere bystander at the wedding of Michelle Keegan and Mark Wright in Bury St Edmunds
- Credit: Archant
Alongside my plain speaking photographer friend Lucy’s wedding I have three others this year – well two and a 50th anniversary, which sort of counts.
So I am in the market for some bulk buying of glass bowls – my usual gift on these occasions which generally thwarts the couple’s somewhat cheeky plan in my view for me and other guests to pay for their honeymoon.
Anyway this week I found myself at a celebrity wedding with all sorts of other lovely looking people. Well, I exaggerate a smidgen. The truth is I just happened to be passing through Bury St Edmunds on Sunday and there were huge crowds and photographers all over the place.
Naturally I thought they were out in force to welcome me though I found it odd they had heard I was popping to the cathedral library – a little discovery I have made – to watch me return a book.
Anyway I asked my old chum Andy Abbott, who captured the moment, what it was all about. “They haven’t come to see you James. It’s Mark Wright,” he said.
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Apparently he’d come the only way from Essex, though why his wedding required quite so heavy a police presence at tax payer’s expense is something I struggled to grasp. I must be getting old.
“What’s he famous for?” I later asked Lucy. Had he furthered mankind’s knowledge or cured the common cold? “Well, she said, he’s very fit and on TV,” which made me think that if I trimmed down people might want to watch me returning my library book after all.
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An internet search tells me Mr Wright often wears few clothes though perhaps he did for his wedding, at least during the day. I was amused to read Bury described as a “sleepy Suffolk town” – they’d obviously never heard about the time the town ransacked the Abbey in the 14th century!
After all the excitement I motored to Felixstowe where I have a small flat with sea views (distant) to spend the rest of the bank holiday cycling and watching films.
In other news I have reapplied nicotine patches in yet another effort to kick the awful weed following a relapse caused by two glasses of Friday night white wine and an accompanying disappearance of any will power whatsoever. I also pulled out of the hat a birthday party for a few intimates in honour of my mother Sue, who enjoys barbershop singing. I cooked medallions of pork in mustard, though I forgot the mustard. Thankfully I made up for it with a cake (bought) and a game of after dinner bingo. Told you I was getting old.