When I was a kid weddings in the troof were a big deal. Probably because they were the main if not only excuse for a knees up.
If someone was getting married they were not in control of the decisions about the reception. There was probably an eldresses reception committee that you had to apply to for permission to get married in the first place. Once permission was granted then the steamroller that was the 'Jehovahs Witness Wedding' began.
For starters every English northern town had gone into architectural competition at the turn of the 19th century to see which little piss poor place could produce the grandest Town Hall. Huge stone monuments to woollen mill success, these legacies were left as the last grand excess in the shitty run down towns of the 20th century.
You HAD to have your witness wedding reception at the Town Hall. Ours was Batley Town Hall. I remember some FREAK having their wedding reception at Wakefield Town Hall. God, it was AWFUL! I dont know how they could do it, and between you and me I dont think their marriage lasted. Yes, Batley Town Hall was the venue. The sisters committee didnt even need to vote on that. Neither did they need to spend more than 30 seconds discussing what food you would have, or who would make it.
Plagiarised from the assembly sandwich production lines, all the sisters would take over the bowels of the town hall and start one almighty wedding food line. It was just like Peter Kay says - a scooby doo repetition of vol-au-vonts, egg sandwiches, cheese and pineapple cocktail sticks, vol-au-vonts, egg sandwiches, cheese and pineapple cocktail sticks, vol-au-vonts ...
Next most important thing was that the WHOLE congregation were invited to the reception. All of 'em. Especially the old ladies and weirdy people. What would a wedding be without weirdy people? Every tressle table was utilised in this extraveganza of nubial celebration, and every length of 54" wide table cloth style paper. No expense was spared. Seating plans were laboriously detailed, to ensure that everyone was sat nexto someone they didnt get on with. Most important of all was the TOP table. It had almost 'holy of holy' status when I was a kid. It was where the Bride and Groom, and a few close relatives would sit, like emperors of the realm. They got to choose their egg sandwiches FIRST! It was a hell of a priviledge.
But most fun was the entertainment. It was like a working mens club without the smoking and the blue jokes. First of all came the meaningful ministerial servant who was best friends with the groom and could play the guitar. He'd sit on the stage (yes all northern town halls have a stage) on a stool with one leg crossed over the other, guitar rested on leg, twanging the most romaintic kingdom melodies he could muster. Then he'd throw in a bit of 'The Shadows' for all the young guns, just to prove that even Mini's can still be cool. And he'd finish off with a middle of the road ballard to make all the mums cry.
Next came the 'game show' copy. Mr and Mrs, or The Generation Game. Another ministerial servant would take up the microphone and pretend to be Ted Rogers of Larry Grayson, and pit couples against each other, always remembering to let the newly weds win.
All the presents would be piled up on a table to one side. The kids would be sniffing round trying to work out what cheap crap was wrapped up in all that 3 sheets for £1 wrapping paper from Batley market.
Finally the happy couple would go off together for what the WHOLE congregation knew was their first shag. Nods, winks, sniggers, and wistful sighs were exchanged while the bride and groom tried really hard not to literally RUN for the exit desperate for that forbidden pleasure AT LAST.
Once they had gone there was not much else to do if you were a kid, other than ride up and down in the lift, try and get the balloons down from the walls, fight other kids for their balloons, eat all the suggared almonds that the old ladies couldnt eat because their false teeth fixative wouldnt cope with the nut in the middle, eat all the icing off the cake left by all the adults, throw up, get spanked, cry and go home.
Happy days.