Confessions of a Wedding DJ

Family feuds, too much booze, naughty bridesmaids and lecherous guests. For Roxie Clements, it was just another Saturday.

She had been a wedding DJ for nearly twenty years, and in that time she had learned one simple truth: no matter how carefully planned, no wedding ever ran smoothly. Not really. Not once the guests got involved.

Roxie stood behind her DJ booth at the far end of the reception room at Brinsley Manor, gazing out through the tall French windows at the sweeping drive below. The place gleamed as though it had been polished by angels. Gold detailing, towering floral arrangements, and staff who moved with swan-like precision.

Which was why Roxie raised an eyebrow when she thought about Meghan and Rhodri Hughes.

She’d DJ’d their engagement party. Nice enough. Loud enough. Not exactly chandelier people.

Her phone was tucked between her ear and shoulder.

“It’s gorgeous here, Beth,” she murmured. “Costs a fortune, I reckon. Don’t know how they’ve pulled it off—”

She stopped.

“Oh… this’ll be good.”

A pony and trap rolled into view, ribbons fluttering, the small pony straining under the combined weight of a rather substantial bride and groom.

“I’ll call you later,” Roxie said, hanging up. “This is about to go sideways.”

The arrival was everything Roxie expected and more.

Meghan flung her shoes, one smacking Uncle Kenny squarely on the back of the neck.

“Oi!” he yelped.

Rhodri flapped uselessly. Meghan slipped climbing down from the trap, ripping the skirt of her frothy white dress.

“Thank you, little donkey,” she said, patting its neck.

“Pony,” Rhodri corrected.

“Same thing.”

By the time they reached the top of the steps, dignity had already left the premises.

A Barbie-pink Vauxhall Corsa screeched to a halt and three small bridesmaids tumbled out. They sprinted up the steps, one tripping spectacularly into the wedding planner and sending a tray of champagne flutes crashing down. The planner’s silky cream blouse was instantly soaked… and suddenly transparent.

“Whoa… nice t—!” Stringy roared, just as a smoky, rattling motorbike backfired into the drive, cousin Morgan clinging on behind.

Best Man, Stringy had been drinking since before the ceremony. That much was obvious.

Tall, thin, and already swaying, he clutched a pint like it was a lifelong companion. His eyes rarely left Rhodri, tracking him with an intensity that might have seemed touching… if it wasn’t slightly unsettling.

Inside, the reception took shape.

Auntie Lorna drank like it was a competitive sport, waving two empty glasses at a passing waiter.

“Try some of this champagne, Meggles. It’s like prosecco… but not as good.”

Uncle Kenny loudly informed anyone within earshot about his plan to perform a surprise Elvis tribute later.

And Stringy?

Stringy accelerated.

One pint. Then another. Then champagne. Then whisky. Then somehow another pint appeared, as if conjured by poor decisions.

Within half an hour, he was laughing too loudly at things that weren’t jokes and leaning just a bit too close to Rhodri.

“You alright, boy?” he kept saying, gripping Rhodri’s shoulder with increasing intensity.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine, mate,” Rhodri replied, edging away each time.

“Any regrets yet?”

“Course not.”

Meghan noticed. She didn’t like it.

Meanwhile, beneath the gift table, the three bridesmaids had begun a quiet revolution, tearing into presents with sticky fingers and zero remorse.

They were invisible to everyone except Roxie.

She chuckled, pulled a handful of glow sticks from her bag, and crouched beside the table. A small hand shot out to grab them, but the unwrapping frenzy continued.

A crystal vase rolled onto the dance floor. Roxie calmly retrieved it and placed it back on top of the table.

Back at her booth, she resumed watching as a shiny red toaster was claimed as treasure.

The girls whispered like tiny bandits, building a secret world out of wrapping paper and forbidden curiosity.

Above ground, the speeches began.

Aled, the bride’s father, opened with booming pride and questionable compliments about his smart and beautiful daughter. Rhodri followed, shy and earnest barely heard by the guests.

Then came Stringy.

By now, he was gloriously, catastrophically drunk.

He stood too fast, knocking his chair over with a clatter that rang like a warning bell.

“Right!” he announced. “Speech.”

He swayed.

Stringy tapped the microphone.

“Rhodri… we’ve been mates… what… twenty years? Since school. Since that time you got your head stuck in the climbing frame and cried—”

“I didn’t cry,” Rhodri muttered.

“You did!”

A ripple of laughter.

So far, survivable.

Then Stringy softened. Dangerously sincere.

“And I just… I just want to say…”

Roxie felt it. That shift in the air. Like a glass tipping.

“I love you, mate. We could’ve got married.”

Silence.

Not polite silence.

The oh no kind.

“I mean it,” Stringy continued. “Always have. Since we were kids. I thought maybe… one day…”

“STRINGY,” Rhodri hissed.

Too late.

“I thought maybe you’d see me like that too.”

Meghan shot to her feet.

“Are you joking?!”

“I’m just being honest—”

“On our wedding day?!”

Voices rose. Guests leaned in.

Better than free sherry.

“You knew he was like this!” Meghan snapped.

“I didn’t!”

“He’s always hanging off you like a wet coat!”

“I’m not—!”

Stringy, meanwhile, had reached the end of his emotional runway.

“I just love you, alright?” he slurred… and sat down on thin air.

He hit the floor.

And stayed there.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then chaos doubled.

Marion, mother of the bride cried. Aled blustered. Auntie Lorna tried to help but dropped her handbag on Stringy’s head. Uncle Kenny burst into Elvis.

Roxie nudged the music up just enough to blur the edges.

Contain. Redirect. Survive.

It was like DJing inside a thunderstorm.

Uncle Kenny, undeterred, began setting up his karaoke machine.

“Waste of money, this Disc jockey,” he shouted. “Told them I’d do Elvis for free!”

He cranked the volume.

A shriek of feedback. A deafening bang.

Darkness.

The entire room plunged into black.

From beneath the table, three small voices chirped:

“We’ve got lights! We’ve got lights!”

Maisie, Daisy and Cerys emerged, waving glow sticks and skidding across the polished floor in once-white socks.

Stringy was eventually revived with water and crisps, remembering nothing.

Probably for the best.

Meghan refused to look at him. Rhodri avoided everyone.

The lights flickered back and Roxie pushed on. If all else fails bring out Candi Staton.

The swingdoors opened and four waiters entered with large silver platters of exotic cuisine.

Silence.

Suspicion.

“I’m not eating fish covered in foam,” Rhodri’s grandad declared. “Where’s the chips?”

“Ew… it’s raw fish!”

Uproar.

“Rhodri,” Meghan barked, “get on the phone and order chips, cheese and curry sauce.”

He did.

A cheer went up.

“Right, whose round is it? Auntie Lorna danced her way to the bar, arms in the air, an empty glass in each hand.

Roxie tried to ignore Uncle Kenny as he demonstrated his hip thrusting in front of her. She selected an Abba track. She could always depend on Abba to save the day at a wedding.

The chips arrived. Glorious, greasy salvation.

The guests pounced on the large boxes of steaming salty potato treats slathered with cheese and curry.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Meghan grinned, already dripping curry sauce down her dress.

Meghan dragged Rhodri onto the dance floor, still ramming chips into her mouth.

“Come here husband.”

Rhodri nibbled her ear.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” she muttered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But they danced.

The bridesmaids clutching their prized toaster tugged on Meghan’s train.

“Can we keep this?”

“Yeah, go on.”

They cheered.

By the end of the night, the elegant room looked defeated.

Shoes abandoned. Gifts half-opened. Dignity scattered like confetti.

Roxie packed up, watching the final stragglers drift away. She sighed and smiled to herself.

Another wedding.

Another perfect disaster.

Because that was the truth.

Not the dresses. Not the venue. Not the speeches.

The chaos.

That’s what people remembered.

“Now that,” she said quietly, “was a proper wedding.”

By Kym Frederick