Tom Cantwell and his lovely Pamela got married on the side of Crookdeedy Hill last Sunday week. We all nearly froze to death – it was the coldest day I went through.

You might remember that the dress code was “1960s with a hippie groove” – well there were grooves hollowed out of my skin from the cold. I won’t forget the bitter chill of Crookdeedy if I live to be a 150.

I wasn’t the worst off at the wedding, some people dressed for California in July but some of the older folk had sense and dressed for Vladivostock in December. I was arrayed in a remodelled flared trouser suit belonging to the Mother, and a poncho made from an old Foxford rug that had seen better days and was inclined to let in a lot of air.

Myself and the groom were meant to cycle up the mountain on a tandem while Pamela and her bridesmaid Jane cycled on another. I have to be honest, Cantwell and myself walked most of the way, I wasn’t able for it. I told him that either the chain or my gut would burst, an eventuality that would put an end to the happy occasion. Pamela and Jane had gone ahead pedalling as if they were on the Tour de France.

Most of the guests walked up to the wedding site from Pa Cantillon’s yard where they had been told to park their carbon-belching cars while Percy’s electric car was used to ferry the old and infirm up to the place of the nuptials.

Oh but the cold, the cold. There was an east wind coming straight from Siberia and it pierced to the marrow. While I had broken out in a sweat attempting to cycle the cursed tandem up the hill, as soon as I stopped moving the wind turned the perspiration under my armpits to icicles. Other guests were turning blue. There wasn’t a set of false teeth safe such was the ferocity of the chattering.

We made a sorry sight huddled under the bare branches of an oak tree as Percy Pipplemoth, wrapped in a cloak that looked like something borrowed from a Harry Potter party, officiated.

He opened proceedings with a long palaver about how appropriate it was that we had gathered under the oak tree, a symbol of endurance, fertility and strength. His lyrical waxing would be grating but tolerable on a fine July evening but it was grating and intolerable on a hard February day when the cold had the capacity to deprive every male at the wedding of his fertility.

After his interminable introduction, Percy set about calling on the spirits of the four winds to come and bless the union of “this lovely couple” but Quirke interrupted him: “Percy, we have one wind blowing and ’tis enough not only to wed the happy couple but to weld them together. Don’t bother your arse calling on any other wind, the fella from the east is accounting only too well for himself. Cut to the essentials or we’ll have to send for Tinky Ryan to dig a mass grave for the lot of us.”

“Pa Quirke,” said Percy, “how dare you interrupt. Tom, Pamela and I have planned this ceremony very carefully and…”

At that point Cantwell himself interrupted and suggested that the ceremony be shortened given the weather conditions.

Percy started into another palaver when publican Tom Walshe intervened,

“Percy,” says he, “ask Tom does he take Pamela to be his wife and ask Pamela does she take Tom to be her husband before we all die.”

Under the fierce glare of the publican, Percy did as he was told and elicited a quick “I do” from the frozen bride and groom. No sooner were the words uttered than everyone took off down the mountain. Some went faster than others. I was on the tandem with Jane, the bridesmaid.

“Come on councillor,” says she, “we need to work up a bit of heat.” And she took off like a rocket with me behind, clinging to my handlebars in fear and trepidation. We sped down the mountain, she up front with her head down and her arse about four inches from my nose, I didn’t know where to look. As we passed Pa Cantillon’s gate at 50 miles an hour, I knew there wasn’t a hope we’d stop before we hit the main road.

I was right. Luckily the road from Crookdeedy joins the main road at an angle, so we came out beside the traffic. As luck would have it, who was passing as we whizzed out but Sergeant McKready. The squad car lit up like a Christmas tree and he pulled us over.

“Your name, young lady?”

“Jane Dillon,”

“Jane is it,” says he, “and this must be Tarzan behind you.