Spit

I want the food at our wedding reception to tap into the charms of the West Country. When you combine the American love of beef with the fact that Somerset has more cows than any other county in England, the beef vibe seems like a no brainer. But I don't think it's very weddingy.

So that leaves us with one word, shirelings: pig.

I love the simple wildness of a pole shoved up the ass and out of the mouth of a wild animal. So I went ahead and booked a hog roast. Can you believe they give you the option of having the head or not having the head. I chose having the head. Obviously.

So that's the big three done: church, venue, catering. This means I can move onto something a bit more fun: what to wear. I'm a skinny man. Ergo: I look a bit of a twat in a wedding suit with tales.

Not so funny story: on the morning of my twin brother's wedding I discover that my suit is already a bit too big for me. Then the two-sizes bigger than me groom says that he'd like to swap suits so he can look more defined. It's his wedding, obviously, so I take one for the team and end up looking like Tom Hanks at the end of Philadelphia. 

All this to say that I'm exploring suit options. I like the idea of a bow tie. Below is an option from Topman. No rush, plenty of time to decide.

Quantock Lodge

We've just booked our reception venue. 

About ten miles away from the church there is a range of hills called the Quantocks. They're gorgeous. Coleridge and Wordsworth hung out there back in the day and created the whole romantic movement. It was the first place in England to be labelled an 'area of outstanding natural beauty'. I was the second. Laughter.

The venue is called Quantock Lodge and it looks like this:

Abby has a lot of ideas for decorations. The Friday before the wedding day will be a day of crafting and making the whole venue look something similar to her whimsy page on Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/alyndsay/whimsy/  

We'd love for the front of the Lodge to look like this Tim Walker image:

Every good hero needs a sidekick. I'm not the only one planning this wedding. This is my older sister, Steph:

Back in August, Steph was diagnosed with a brain tumour and underwent surgery for 5 1/2 hours to remove it. 5 months later, she's helping me plan my wedding. 

Bit awkward really, because she thinks she's helping me run for President. Keep smiling...

Right, church and venue: booked. Next stop: catering...

The Save The Dates

So our first major decision was where to have the wedding ceremony. What would normally be a fairly stress-free decision has proven to be a rather complicated one due to us being from two different countries. 

We want to do a ceremony in both places for anyone who can't make it over and for anyone who wants to fly over and celebrate with us. But, which one first? To cut a VERY long visa/lawyer/immigration story short, our main ceremony will be in England first and then a smaller blessing in LA 7 weeks later. If you're from the UK, you're more than welcome to come along. Go on, buy a flight - it's the perfect excuse for a holiday!

The UK service will take place at St George's Church, Wembdon, Somerset. It looks like this:

I was Christened in this church. Cool.

So, we've confirmed the date(s) and we've booked the church. I guess now we need to book a venue for the reception. That's the next job. We've got an idea on that already, so, in typical Arsene Wenger-transfer rhetoric there 'should be some news soon'. Until then, take a look at a couple of Save the Date prototypes I got my brother to make. These aren't the final ones - those bad boys have been sent to the printers and will be in the post soon.

Thanks to Ed Powell for the design and Daley Hake for the pictures: daleyhake.com

Don't Tell The Bride

Christmas 2012 brought with it a betrothal, young shirelings. After years of wandering, the boy from the shire finally found his elven princess and proposed to her high atop the mountains of... Burbank, Los Angeles.

A third airport goodbye took place two weeks later and, just like in all good trilogies, the third installment was more brutal than the previous.

There's a TV show in England called Don't Tell The Bride. The basic gist is that the groom has to plan the wedding and the bride has no idea what is going on until the big day. Yes, it IS the greatest show ever. Due to an unknown twist in our X&Y chromosomes, it turns out that the groom is way more excited about planning the wedding than the bride.

So, seeing as we're having the main ceremony in England first, we've decided to split the tasks right down the middle: bride takes care of visa and future housing (she's American and we're planning on living there first); groom takes care of the wedding.

This is, I feel, prime blogging material, so I will be documenting the planning of our wedding for the next few months.

First off, tea with the vicar and then a trip to the doctor's, because I think I have tonsillitis. Or 'strep throat' to you Yanks...

Richard Branson

Back in March I traveled to Los Angeles. And like, so, like, I met someone...

I was there to have some meetings for a romantic comedy I had written and ended up experiencing the real thing first hand. If you knew the subject and goings on in the script, I think you'd join me in chuckling at the prophetic life imitating art thing.

I returned to England and knew my sights had been changed. I'm currently trying to get my head around VISA stuff - not an easy business. But, I'm hoping Mr Richard Branson can help me... Upon my return to the homeland, I swiftly found a job in an attempt to save as much money as possible, but, I thought it wouldn't hinder proceedings if I wrote to Virgin Atlantic asking them for a free one!

Below is a link to the letter I sent. The leading lady of this story flew over to the UK a month or so after I returned and has been here for the past 6 weeks. She flew back to the States yesterday. Cue emotional Facebook statuses and teary eyes brought on by not much at all. Yesterday's favourites include 'Viva Forever' by the Spice Girls and 'Cheaper By The Dozen 2'.

Virgin Atlantic replied about 2 weeks after I sent it saying that they couldn't help. But, I'm not stopping there. Next destination = straight to Mr Branson's secretary. Will let you know the outcome. If you know anyone who can help in this regard, please email me on tom_powell@hotmail.com

You can read the letter here: https://www.dropbox.com/s/74aiyvjiz3e5w0l/Virgin%20Atlantic%20Letter.pdf?dl=0 

Raspberries.

I started this blog 3 years ago when I traveled to the USA and Canada.

The Canadian part of my trip was based in Langley, British Columbia, where I stayed with my sister, my brother-in-law and their 2-year-old daughter.

One night we had a couple over for dinner. I forget their names, but I remember it was one of those affairs where conversation was hard work. Really hard work. This couple were very prim and proper and I had to be on my best behaviour. These environments are torture for me. The collection of stock anecdotes that I save for such occasions had run out. I had nothing in the tank.

It was at this moment when the lady asked me if I enjoyed being an uncle.

Now, when I was a child, my siblings and I all called raspberries a different name. I don't mean the fruit, raspberry. I mean the blowing harmlessly on the tummy of a young person, raspberry. You know what I mean. Just before bed time and all that. And for some reason, we called raspberries...

Blowies.

Yeah. And so, when this couple asked me how I got on with my niece, I replied...

"Oh, I love Gracie. I'm a big kid at heart. I love giving her blowies."

Silence. Stunned confusion on the face of the couple.

"You know... giving someone a blowy?"

Their confusion turns to uncomfortability.

"You know, remember, when you were a kid, and your Dad would chase you around the bedroom and give you a blowy?"

Their uncomfortability turns to horror. I realise why. But, nonetheless, to finish...

"...I love giving blowies."

Sweden

This morning I remembered something that I had tried my best to forget. It happened about three-and-a-half years ago, and today was my first recollection of it, so I had been quite successful.

It was the summer of 2008 and I was part of a 5-person team that went on a speaking trip to Sweden. There was a big Christian conference happening and I had to give a seminar on 'Movies & Storytelling'.

As we were the visiting speakers, the Swedish team wanted us to take part in a 'chat show' on the Friday night. Every Swedish person we spoke to were very excited about this idea. Apparently the chat show was something that happened every year and the guy who hosted it was 'absolutely hilarious'. So we agreed.

We went to the big hall where it was taking place and there were literally hundreds of people crammed in to watch. The host was already sitting down in his seat on the stage and, although not being able to follow most of what he was saying due my Swedish being weak, it was clear that he was a hit. The crowd were laughing hysterically.

Then it came for myself and two other members of the team to go up on stage and be interviewed. We got up and, thankfully, the host spoke to us in English. As the interview went on both the team and the crowd got into it more and more. I remember the host saying something about how, typically, the English are quite reserved. He mentioned that we didn't show our love very much. I asked the crowd if that were true (yes, I engaged the crowd directly), and they all yelled back in the affirmative.

Now I have seen my fair share of 'Friday Nights with Jonathan Ross' to know how to get the crowd involved, so, I thought I'd try and prove them wrong… by jumping on the interviewer's lap and giving him a hug.

Yes, this did happen.

As I did this with quite a lot of comic force, I heard an audible intake of breath from the crowd. 'They're not used to someone being so maverick', I thought to myself. I then addressed the interviewer and crowd, by saying, 'How about that? Is that showing enough love for you? My goodness, you're not a very comfortable seat - you need to work up your leg muscles a bit'.

There were a couple of laughs, but not as many as I expected. I returned to my seat and, soon after, the interview ended and I walked back to my seat. 'That went VERY well", I thought.

The next day as I was walking through the conference hall I saw the interviewer again… pushing himself along in his wheelchair with a very apparent condition of cerebral palsy in his legs.