Tom Cantwell is nearly married. He and his beloved will tie the knot next week on top of Crookdeedy. The event was supposed to take place on Slievenamon but the logistics proved too difficult, so Tom and his intended, Pamela, opted to do the deed on our own local bit of a mountain.

I’m to be best man at the open-air celebration, while the chief celebrant is none other than Percy Pipplemoth Davis. The hoor keeps adding strings to his bow: county councillor, bullshit artist and now civil celebrant with a license to hatch, match and dispatch.

I should mention that bicycles will be a central part of the wedding. The happy couple want the event to be “carbon-neutral”. Besides, it was cycling that had brought them together: they met, so to speak, on the saddle.

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The plan is that Cantwell and myself will arrive for the ceremony on a tandem; the bride and bridesmaid will arrive on another. After the ceremony, we’ll cycle to Tom Walshe’s pub for refreshments, and for the descent the bride will join the groom on his tandem while the bridesmaid and myself will descend on the other.

That’s the plan, anyway. It is expected that many of the guests will arrive by pedal power, while those with cars can park in Pa Cantillon’s farmyard and walk up the hill.

Attendees unwilling or unable to do either will be ferried from the farmyard in Percy Pipplemoth’s new, zero-emissions electric car.

Since he got this contraption he hasn’t shut up about it: how environmentally friendly it is and how cheap it is to run. Little wonder, when the rest of us are paying for it.

For instance, he called to see the Mother last week and was asked if he wanted tay. “Oh, I’d love a cup, Biddy,” says he. “And while you’re plugging in the kettle, would you mind plugging in my car?”

He’s like a feckin’ leech: no matter what house he’s parked outside you’ll see the electric lead sneaking its way from the car in the kitchen window.

On Thursday, I was cycling home from the depot when I spotted the “Percy green machine” parked beside Tom and Winnie O’Brien’s caravan on the Borrisnangoul road, while Tom’s poor generator – puffing smoke in all directions – attempted to pump electricity into the thing.

Winnie had just brewed a pot of tay and called me in for a cup. I asked her what she thought of Percy’s car.

“Maurice,” says she, “if he may buy a little generator, put it in the boot and wire it up to the battery, he’d have no need to be stoppin’ and aksin’ people for a dart of power.”

“You’re right, Winnie – and a dart in the arse wouldn’t go astray either.”

“Huh,” says she, “you’d be afraid to kick his bony auld arse in case you’d do permanent damage.”

“I wouldn’t be afraid of that,” says I, finishing my cup of tay.

As I bade my farewells, Percy was in full flow in praise of his car: “It’s the best thing I ever got. Not only is it an excellent mode of transport, it’s a marvellous conversation piece and a great way to meet the people.”

“And a great way to fleece them, too,” says I, as I mounted my own zero-emissions contraption and cycled into the sunset.

Anyway, back to the wedding. It’ll be a rare event. The dress code is “cool 1960s with a Woodstock groove”. I asked Cantwell if that means total nudity or if fig leaves are permitted.

“’Twill be too cold for nudity,” says he, “a flowery shirt and a pair of bell-bottoms will do fine.”

Where in the name of Jaysus am I going to get that gear?

The Mother came to my rescue. She got a Hawaiian shirt from her friend Stefan and with scissors and sewing machine remodelled a pair of canary yellow trousers she wore to a wedding in the ’80s. She stitched all kinds of yokes on to it till it looked as if ’twas cut from the cover of a Beatles album.

“That’s all very well,” says I, “but the top of Crookdeedy in February is no place to be parading oneself in a Hawaiian shirt. I could get double pneumonia.”

Undaunted by my concerns, the Mother pulled an old Foxford rug from under the stairs, cut a hole in it and pulled it down over my head. She completed the ensemble with an old straw hat my father brought back from a council junket that took him to Spain.

I was just arrayed in the full rig-out when who walked in but Superquinn,

“Cripes, Biddy,” says she, “are you taking in Mexican refugees? If they’re all like him, I’d be inclined to build a wall.