They should change the show’s title to ‘Don’t Tell The Groom’ because the men don’t seem to have a frigging clue, writes Paul Eksteen.
|||Gone Surfing
Someone should seriously consider changing the title of “Don’t Tell The Bride” to “Don’t Tell The Groom” because, let’s be honest here, the men don’t seem to have a frigging clue.
And why would they? There can’t be many single men out there who already have an idea of what their dream wedding would be. Dream wedding night maybe, but the minutae of guest lists and invitations and clothes and venues? Well, that’s a woman’s job isn’t it?
Because women have been envisioning this day since they were little girls. And so, even when things like a tight budget curtails some of their wildest fantasies, they have a blueprint in place to ensure that their day is perfect. Their day, as in her day. “ This is my day,” insist a good number of brides on this show.
The groom may as well have stayed at home. About 20 minutes into “ Don’t Tell The Bride” he’ll be wishing he had.
For this, and for the tears streaming down her freshly made-up face, I blame the bride. Surely once you’ve signed up for this show, when the BBC calls and tells you a camera crew is on it’s way, you sit your husband-to-be down and let him know what you want. Maybe even, and I don’t think I’m asking too much here, keep a few bridal catalogues handy, something he can refer back to when he invariably forgets what you had told him.
It’s not that men are disinterested, per say. It’s just that our idea of a perfect day is never going to be the same as yours.
This past weekend, former soldier Jason thought his master plan was bang on. He went hell for leather on a war-themed wedding, splurging most of his budget on a WW2 Tiger Moth aeroplane and a tank. Then he sent his wife-to-be Sasha, and her bridal party, off on a hen-do that required her to claw her way through the mud and muck of an army obstacle course.
Alas, poor Jason. He clearly meant well. He had given up his military career for Sasha, a vocation that was inspired by his gallant grandfather, who had served in the great war. This was an ode to the man who had had such a profound influence on his life. I wonder what dear ol’ grandpa would have made of Sasha though?
A spoilt princess if ever there was, Sasha, egged on by her seething mother, was more than ready to stand Jason in front of a firing squad after her hen do ordeal. But the chickens hadn’t yet come home to roost. For that, Sasha needed to try on the dress Jason had picked out for her.
Ladies, those catalogues. Seriously. I once saw a guy design a wedding gown on this show. His creation: a black and red corset atop a frilly black skirt. He may as well have changed his name to Ver-Sucky. Jason’s pick wasn’t a disaster by any stretch of the imagination. But still, Sasha hated it. It didn’t help that she had visited a bridal shop earlier in the week and had found her dream dress. Jason’s pick was simply never going to do. And so she cried. Then she fought with the dressmaker and cried some more. And her mother tutted furiously and, without saying it, let the world know that Jason was never going to be good enough for her daughter. Mothers-in-law are unfairly stereotyped, but if this woman was ever held for ransom ala Ecclestone, I’m sure Jason would launch a rescue party and save the kidnappers.
In the end, those tears turned into goofy smiles as the couple officially tied the knot. But Sasha nearly didn’t make the wedding. She refused to fly in the vintage plane Jason had organised.
“Who does this to someone on their wedding day?” she raged. Their, as in her. At least she played ball with the tank, but she did look rather like a candle stuffed into a beer bottle.
Serves her right, I think. Clearly, she didn’t think this whole TV thing through.
And Jason? I think Jason had a splendid day. Just don’t tell the bride.