A marriage with Macheda

So I survived my first ever wedding and I also survived the game yesterday, though my heart is a little worse for wear.

Actually, my Saturday was very similar to my Sunday, it's amazing how much a wedding can resemble a game of the old footer.

Let's take it step by step -

The ceremony vs the build up.

No one actually cares about this bit, it's all hyperbole. The line ups are revealed, the formal arrangements all agreed and all the onlookers await the good times later on. In this regard, the ceremony was probably the more enjoyable as my potential granny-in-law's hearing aid started whistling loudly just as the minister piped up. I struggled to contain my mirth at this, as the church in question was tiny and everyone stared in our direction. The only person who couldn't hear it was the poor old dear herself. In stepped future mummy-in-law and my laughs were over. Boo. The chirpy minister probably loses out to the pre-match Sky comments, his attempts at being funny and berating the lack of singing were as cringe worthy as Andy Gray's best “Take a bow, son”.

The Meal vs the first half.

Kick off is upon us. All the pretence is over. Both sides are clearly divided in their allegiances (bride v groom's guests, United v Villa) and take their respective positions on the pitch/tables. The early minutes are tense as both sides get their first couple of drinks. Neither side is giving an inch. One side begins to edge it, but no... there's a shock! There's a handled back pass working in my favour, I get my first drink free of charge. The Bulmers isn't my usual poison but it tastes as sweet as a Ronaldo finish today. Yes, I'm winning. I'm getting drunk free of charge. I'm sticking it to the man.

1-0

My joy is soon checked though, I'm sat at a table with no one I know apart from my girlfriend, and they (like Villa) have no love for United as they cheer when they realise Chelsea are beating Newcastle and I look despondent. Villa take back control of the game and as Carew slots in his header, it's just like that first trip to the bar where I actually had to pay. It lessens the fun but at 1-1 it's all square, and I am still drinking at this wedding so this could go either way!

Post meal entertainment vs the next 35 minutes.

The meal is over, I'm still a little hungry, my money is flowing out of my wallet like Ashley Young past old man Neville and I'm summoned for the dreaded photos. Come on now, this isn't fair. I'm the boyfriend to the cousin of the bride! How the hell is that worthy of involvement in the photos? To add insult to injury, I need to set my drink down for this. What's going on! Right on queue, we can marry this (pun not intended but I'll pretend it was) to Aston Villa's dominance after the break and when I return to my seat to observe The Beatles tribute band sound checking (surely the most overrated band to have existed since the dawn of time), it feels like a bundled Agbonlahor goal.

What's going on? I'm not drunk yet. I'm still hungry. I'm having my ears subjected to this tripe. Please... Please Help Me!

2-1 down.

The piss up vs 80th minute to 85h minute

What is happening? The Beatles have started banging away and they're playing all the songs I can actually tolerate and perhaps the Bulmers is doing more than I credit it. My girlfriend's sister's boyfriend David has arrived and is seemingly intent on catching up on the alcohol stakes. The fact that my latest pint has been delivered courtesy of the girlfriend's dad always adds to the pleasure and it's almost inevitable that my mood is now on the up, just like a Ronaldo 18 yard strike to bring things level. This night can go either way now. What's it to be?

2-2

The bar (David inspired) v the end of the game (Macheda inspired)

The hour of reckoning, I'm at the bar and with the accuracy of a Ryan Giggs through ball, I find David purchasing his latest round. This potential future giant provides the impetus we need to kick on and dominate this one. Aftershock, one round thereof. The smattering of bridesmaids and other assorted girls at the bar join us as the first one feels like a Ronaldo shot, just over. It's good, it's a kick up the arse but it's bitter. We need more! The next Aftershock feels like a Danny Welbeck chance, narrowly saved as the great feeling is surely only one more drink away. Delirium kicks in, it's my turn to take a chance and as I ask the barman for lime and salt, David reminds me that I've ordered sambuca.

This is it, the moment of truth, one shot away from that elusive victory or one shot glass away from that all conquering buzz. Macheda being jostled off the ball at the end of the box feels like that first smell of the sambuca, that realisation that this isn't a nice feeling at all. But then, as Macheda turns Luke Young, it's the sambuca pouring down my throat. The slow motion feeling as the ball curls around Brad Friedel's despairing dive and as the ball nestles into the far corner, it's that warm, tingling sensation in your stomach as the drink settles in for the evening.

3-2

Ecstasy.

It was all worth it.

This is what it's all about. Football and life.

I return to cider, safe in the knowledge that this feeling is going to last the rest of the night. My liver is destroyed by the wedding, the ten odd pints of cider during the day and those three beautiful shots.

My heart is destroyed by the football, and all that took was those three beautiful shots.

Yes, three shots is all it takes if the ground work is right.

Life mirrors football.

Football is life.