One Billboard Outside Palm Springs, California.

We were in Palm Springs for the wedding of my good friends David (Lips) Lipman and Stephen (no nickname) Donegan.

I wrote a blog about it but it just didn't do the thing justice. Largely because the whole three day wedding was so huge I ended up just straight 'reporting' it. Sort of like; “This happened and then THIS happened – and then, I shit you not – THIS HAPPENED.”

So I'm sat here at two am, having woken up with a body clock telling me it's around midday, thinking I should give this another punt.

I'm chewing Gaviscon because the one thing you always take home from America is indigestion, smoking my duty free fags and wearing slippers. I feel like Cinderella after the ball except no one has shown up with a glass slipper and returned me to the life I have so falsely become accustomed to.

In fact my Prince is happily snoring in the next room and will probably wake up at a completely reasonable hour wanting bacon.

When I told him we were going to California for an event that would make the Royal wedding look a bit shabby he ran around the house shouting “We're going to Palm Springs Baby!' and continued to do so regularly for the next six weeks. When we arrived he just dropped the “We're going to” part and shouted at anyone who'd make eye contact with him “PALM SPRINGS BABY!”

One of the many things I love about him is that he still genuinely feels excitement. Childlike glee. He lives in the moment whereas I always remain slightly outside of it, narrating in my head.

The flip side of this is that I can sit on an uncomfortable ten hour flight and think 'This is fine, it'll be over soon and I must remember to get some milk on the way home.' Whereas he will spend most of that time convinced that the man sat adjacent to us is sniffing every thirty seconds to deliberately ruin his life.

On the way out, about half way through our flight, he had to grab a stewardess to stop her accidentally killing a toddler. She was shoving her trolley down the aisle at speed and couldn't see the kid that had escaped from its mother running full pelt towards the metal death trap. He was rewarded with the woman screaming at the top of her lungs. He tried to explain what had happened but she just put her hands up and shouted 'Enough!' which was weird in itself, as though men regularly grabbed her and shouted 'Attencion!'

She stormed off and he was rightly furious and wanted to complain or at least explain what had happened. I insisted that he say nothing and we'd deal with it once we were off the plane. I could see our holiday starting with an arrest on arrival, so hysterical was the woman's reaction. Fortunately she returned ten minutes later and thanked him for, as she put it, 'helping her not accidentally hurt a child in the line of duty'. Okaaaaaay.

Our first priority when we arrived in Palm Springs was to find a bar where we could drink and smoke simultaneously. Finding places to smoke became a bit of a comedy theme during the week and by the end of the wedding celebrations there was a hardcore group of ten of us whispering about bushes we'd found and blind alleys. There's something hilarious and very British about being stood at an opulent cocktail party at the Ritz Carlton Mirage overlooking the desert mountains (that have the grooms initials projected on to them!) and having someone from London sidle up to you and mutter “I hear you're the people to talk to if you want to have a sneaky fag.”

Rom would give a subtle nod towards some dark corner. 'Give it a minute and follow me to the cactus on the left. Be cool man. BE COOL.'

If you ask me what Leonardo DiCaprio's house (where they had the ceremony) was like I could confidently tell you that there's a spot just in front of the tennis court and behind the pool house where you could smoke, in the cool shade, without being seen. In fairness we did create a water based ashtray with the help of Vigo (one of the other French chain smokers) for fear of burning the place down, and we cleared up all of our cigarette butts. We're not animals. Although I do like the image of DiCaprio pacing around on his property, learning lines, and spotting a Marlboro crushed out on the ground. It's not just a no smoking house you see. No, no, no, It's a no smoking NEIGHBOURHOOD. When, on arrival, we (me and Alex – a gorgeous tiny Croatian woman) tried to have a smoke out the front we were swooped on by security.

'Sorry ma'am this is no smoking environment. It's a fire risk you see.'

A fire risk? We're in the fucking desert! Wearing reflective glass out here is fire risk!

Anyway. Finding places you can smoke and drink simultaneously. Rom and I were directed to a bar in downtown Palm Springs called The Village Pub. Think of all the images 'Village Pub' conjures in your mind and then abandon them utterly. This place was a dive. A dirty, loud, rock music and low cut everything dive. And we LOVED it. It became our daily spot between extremely glamorous events and by the end of the week we were on fist bumping terms with the staff. It's also where I tried my first Michelada. A Bloody Mary with a bottle of beer poured in it and a spicy rim. Christine introduced me to it. I'll get back to Christine. Gods I love her.

Our hotel is just opposite the grooms hotel and the following morning we wander over to say hello, meet at least a dozen new people and have some drinks. The almost entirely perfect looking man at reception guides as to the lifts and tells us to have the best day. We stare at him slack jawed. He's so...perfect. He's gym fit, beautiful, immaculately dressed and looks like the happiest person on earth. I continue to stare until I find a tiny shaving nick on his neck assuring me he is human and we move on.

David and Stephen are staying in the suite on the 6^th floor and it is very fancy.

The glass walls show a panoramic view of the desert mountains. There's a white pool table, a vintage record player, all the furniture looks like art. The grooms themselves look happy and bewildered, exactly as you'd expect when all your family and friends descend on you at once.

I'm so happy to see them I keep kissing them. Rom loves them straight away, it's hard not to, and there's a lot of hugging and wows. Stephen whispers to me:

'I love Rom. You always know in five seconds if a person has a good heart, I just loved him right off.'

Which is how I feel about Stephen and David. Without becoming overly sentimental and mawkish about it, those boys have a good life, the best of everything, but what makes being around them so special is that its never about that. They share their lives with you wholeheartedly, they want you to enjoy every minute of your time and they go out of their way to make sure of it.

At least three people ask me upon introduction if I saw the billboard. I have no idea what they're talking about and David tells me they had one put up on the highway welcoming us to their wedding. Unfortunately by the time our driver made it through the commuter traffic it was dark and we missed it. But there were a lot more surprises to come over the following days. Big ones.

I ask where Christine is. I met her on my last visit and found her to be hilarious and a full six foot of fun. Largely booze related. She has possibly the coolest job as a mixologist who gets to travel the world showing people how to make a good drink.

'She's just doing a wine run,' David tells me. I assume she'll return with a couple of bottles of something to top up the bar but of course she returns with two porters and several trolleys full of beer, spirits, wine and ice. She asks them to bring up two fridges because ice is a ball ache and everything appears like magic. She turns to one of the porters:

'What's your name?'

'Igor.'

'Igor, you're killing it.'

She towers over everyone with her short bleached hair, purple lipstick and a laugh that sounds like gravel.

I go over and hug her delighted I'll be spending some time with her over the next few days.

Rom is wandering around the suite making a video to torture our friend Ollie in the UK with. He makes one a day and sends them to him.

“Hey buddy, just thought I'd share with you where we are right now...'

Ollie responds gracefully and never once tells him to just fuck off.

We meet a lot of the grooms family on both sides. Easy to tell apart because they all look alike. Stephen's family all have cheekbones you could cut your wrists on and David's all have his lips and eyes. There's some fantastic Boston accents and a few Australian. Apart from the core smokers whom we obviously spend large portions of our time with we also spend a good amount of time chatting to Kellie and Joe from Stephen's side. Joe and Rom talk about food and Kellie and I talk about creativity in schools and before long we have a solid invite to visit them in Boston.

We've also been invited to Goa to visit Vigo. She's French and lives out there working as a location scout. She's at the wedding with her friend Alex the glamorous and tiny Croatian woman. They are in the next hotel room to us and we become firm balcony friends.

I was telling Vigo, who's a young widow, that Rom is a nightmare in restaurants. He judges everything, questions everything, will tell the staff exactly what he thinks at the slightest provocation. She laughs and says Matt was the same.

'We'll be sat somewhere and he'll be rearranging the cutlery on the table, complaining about something. I'd just say “Oh shut up!”' She takes a drag on her cigarette. 'Of course, I miss it now.'

My heart contracts and I swear to myself I'll never complain about his nature again. Until we're in the next restaurant and he wants to know how they justify eight dollars for a beer.

On Friday Christine and I spend a few hours by the pool coming up with names for the cocktails she's made especially for the wedding.

I suggest she calls the non alcoholic one 'The Intervention.'

'Yah, that's one hundred percent hilarious and a hard no. Stephen would literally kill me.'

We come up with 'Stand By Your Tini' for her take on an Espresso Martini and 'The Doneman' (The grooms names blended) for the champagne cocktail.

Stephen texts back immediately:

'No. No to all of that.'

We sigh and come up with something a little more classy and are rewarded with a “Maybe.”

My plan before the welcome reception at the Ritz that evening is a siesta and a pre drink. She's having her nails done and getting the grooms initials tattooed on her hand.

'It feels right,' she drawls.

Everyone around the pool is wearing factor 70 because the sun is about two inches away. She's wearing a bikini, no protection at all and drinking hot coffee.

There's no bar at our hotel which we agree is probably a good thing or we'd be nipple deep in Pina Coladas by now. We grab a cold beer from the shop instead and laze about discussing the toasts we have yet to write for the post ceremony dinner tomorrow night and then she heads off. To get a fucking TATTOO.

When we arrive at The Ritz I'm as much distracted by the grandness of it all as I am by the facelifts. Not amongst the guests but just at the entrance. Some people staying there who are waiting for drivers. One elderly lady looks like a bulldog clip at the back of her head is holding her face on.

The drinks reception has been set up by an infinity pool overlooking the mountains. There are candles everywhere and beautiful little trays of food on various tables.

We mingle and chat and admire everything before settling in one of the open candle lit tents to eat soba noodles from take out cartons, and tiny sliders and pistachio crème brulee. Christine rocks up with four precariously balanced plates.

'It all looks so goooood,' she says.

Rom tells her the charcuterie is great.

'Wow I didn't see that.' She wanders off and returns with two more plates.

David and Stephen spend the evening trying to speak to everyone and I don't see them eat a bite. They've organised this incredible wedding and they are the most hard working people at it. They look happy though and we're all excited by the prospect of the wedding the following day.

By ten pm we're dead on our feet and head back to the hotel. But not until I've gone to the loo and discovered a tray of complimentary creams, combs, lip balm, all emblazoned with The Ritz logo. I take one of everything. I'm classy that way.

The wedding doesn't start until six pm but we are up at seven too excited to sleep.

We eat a huge breakfast at The Broken Yolk, down a couple of zantac and spend the day swimming and preparing.

Christine and I head to Mac to buy glittery eye shadow for me and yet another lipstick for her. I thought my twelve Mac lipsticks were impressive. This girl owns over sixty five. The sweet sales girl makes several suggestions and Christine gets excited about a gold lipstick.

'Yah,' the girl says. 'That one is sooo cute.'

'Uhuh,' Christine murmurs. 'I do not love that as much as I thought I would. Huh.'

The girls smile never slides off and in the end Christine finds something red and classy and something blue, holographic and very her.

The afternoon is spent doing hair, make up and climbing in to very fancy outfits. I see Rom in a suit for the first time and nearly propose to him. I'm pretty sure I see him wink at himself in the mirror at one point.

We drag Christine from her room with its expansive floordrobe (she is walking chaos). She looks like a felony. I get her to remove one of the gold chokers so we can see her neck and she's perfection. We head over to The Rowan for drinks before getting an Uber to the Leonardo DiCaprio estate.

The wedding theme is Black and White and everyone has gone to town. We all look and feel amazing and as we're handed champagne on arrival there is a palpable air of excitement and anticipation.

Rom makes his video of the day for Ollie:

'So, here we are at Leonardo's place...'

Ollie texts back 'Let's buy it.'

Everything is beautiful. I could go in to detail but just imagine the most fancy and beautiful wedding you've ever been to and then multiply that by a hundred.

I asked Christine earlier in the day if she was a cryer at weddings. She gave me a firm no on that. The moment she sees Stephen and David walk hand in hand across the lawn she starts bawling.

The ceremony takes place as the sun sets and it's lovely and very moving. I see Stephen rubbing his thumbs along his fingers and remember him mentioning it the night before:

'Apparently it puts you in the moment. I don't want to miss anything.'

Lovely words are spoken, music plays, candles are lit for absent loved ones, but for me its one tiny moment when Stephen lifts his hand and touches the side of David's face. I squeeze Rom's hand and tell Christine to stop fucking weeping.

We have another drink and everyone tries to hug the grooms. Rom points out that there's nowhere set up for the meal. We wonder if its hidden somewhere around a corner until we're suddenly ushered out and handed an envelope with our names on it. Inside is a table number and a penny.

We're guided on to buses and taken for a short five minute drive to the Palm Springs Museum.

This is a huge surprise for everyone and as we make our way up the candle lit steps to the entrance we're invited to throw our pennies in the fountain and make a wish.

Inside the place is mind blowing. There's huge garlands of white flowers under spotlights, giant silver candle holders on the tables and beautiful crystal glasses glinting in the light. A ten piece band is playing by the dance floor and champagne cocktails appear from every direction. A film starts up on one of the walls with David and Stephen in voice over. Footage of them in the dessert looking handsome and elegant. They talk about their love for each other and at the end we see them walking down some stairs. We turn to find them walking down some stairs next to the band and everyone applauds. They say a few words and finish with 'Let's Eat!'

After a fabulous meal the speeches start and Christine and I pound champagne in anticipation of going up to the mike.

By the time it's my turn, I'm last (thanks boys!) I'm not nervous at all and I have the best time telling stories about them and watching the crowd laugh. We all get huge rounds of applause and when it's done we decide we can now get drunk in earnest. Christine and I do tequila shots at the bar with some of the other girls followed by Stand By Your Tinis and lots of wine. People keep coming up to me and saying nice things about my speech and before long I'm jumping up and down on the spot on the dance floor. I vaguely remember tiny Alex shimmying over to me and saying:

'You belong to me now. I am going to stalk you. I lovvvvvvvve youuuuuuu.'

It was just that kind of night.

We eat some late night lobster mac n cheese and enjoy ALL the wedding desserts and stagger out around one with gift bags (A book of the museum and a donut, the significance of which made me well up) and fell in to our beds.

The following morning was a lot less pretty.

I find Vigo on the balcony smoking and looking grey.

'We don't remember getting back last night. I remember nothing. Did I make a fool of myself?'

'No idea,' we all agree.

Alex hugs and kisses me. 'You belong to me now,' she whispers.

It's Sunday and the wedding isn't over yet. Today is an all day pool party back at The DiCaprio place with unending cocktails and tacos. The perfect hangover cure.

I put on a shit tonne of glitter and red lipstick and once again drag Christine from her dungeon. Rom is feeling very perky having stuck to beer the night before.

We arrive to another scene of gorgeous indulgence. After a Bloody Mary and some large mimosas my hangover vanishes and the day passes in a haze of laughter, food, stories and swimming. With several trips to the smoke hideout. Nothing catches fire, all butts are removed and we do not destroy Stephen and David's lives by burning the estate to the ground.

I spend a good hour in the jacuzzi talking to Tracy from London, who makes animated films and is full of great stories. Rom wrestles with an inflatable swan and works his way through a bucket of corona.

And then its over and we head back to our hotels replete and determined to leave the grooms alone for five minutes so they can have some time together. They look happy and exhausted. Well, David does. Stephen says he's still golden and will probably collapse the minute its all over and everyone has gone home.

I say bye to Christine after breakfast the next day and wish I had more time with her but I know I'll see that one again. She's like a bad penny. Lots of goodbyes are said to new friends and promises are made to meet up wherever, whenever we can. I think David and Stephen would love to know that. They brought a lot of people together.

The last three days of our holiday are spent eating pizza, watching films in bed and strolling to our local dive for drinks and cigarettes.

We meet David and Stephen for one last drink at their hotel and thank them for everything. They have been incredible. I love them so much. So does Rom.

On the drive back to LAX we pass the billboard. Two grooms and a heart welcoming friends and family to their wedding in Palm Springs. A class act.

Du Pain, Du Vin, Du Allergic Reaction To The Sun.

We are on our annual holiday in France. I can call it our annual holiday now because this is the third consecutive year. It is our yearly pilgrimage to visit the mother of the Angry French Chef.

She lives in a picturesque village in Provence called Fontaine Du Vaucluse. There's rivers, trees, little bundles of lavender tied up with string, young virgins on old bicycles in cotton summer dresses with baguettes in baskets and a soon to be crushed Joie de vivre. It's that bit of France you've seen in every film concerning coming of age, long summer holidays and innocence lost to strange plinky plinky music.

It's also fucking hot.

The first week was just the three of us drinking cold beer and cheap rose, taking dips in the pool, reading throw away thrillers and having little bbq's. For the most part a very relaxing endeavour. Until I foolishly suggest we play some cards one night after dinner. They both shrug casually. Deceptively casually. It's Gin Rummy, what could possibly go wrong? Twenty minutes later I notice my hands are shaking as I deal another hand and pray that I lose. Neither of them have smiled since the first cards were dealt. I'm not sure either of them have blinked. La Mamon, who is normally a warm, affectionate and loving woman now looks like a professional card sharp and the Angry French Chef is squinting at her, looking for any tells, any crack in her stony facade. We play in utter silence. Years pass. I go to bed and stare at the ceiling.

The following morning we eat fresh croissant from the local bakery and chat about the food we're going to cook that day. It's casually suggested that perhaps, maybe, if anyone can be bothered, we might pick up the card game again after dinner. I keep my head down and bargain with any passing deity that might be listening. Let them forget. LET THEM FORGET.

By day three I have developed an allergy to the sun. I have a lovely tan and a bubbling blistering rash up both my arms that is hotter than hell and itchier than a bath of ants.

La Mamon lets me experiment with over the counter medication for about a week until she insists I let her take me to the doctor.

The doctors in France don't wear uniforms. They wear jeans. And converse. And trendy t-shirts. They have cool wire rimmed glasses and their office walls are covered in framed photographs of them on exotic holidays. He takes a brief look at my arms, nods and prescribes very strong antihistamines. He tells me to wear a hat, long sleeved clothing and avoid the sun for about two weeks. It's 36 fucking degrees in the shade. He says it's okay to swim as long as I remain at least a foot under the water. So presumably I need to grow gills.

I decide to take the pills and mostly ignore the advice but every time I lounge in the sun with a book La Mamon appears out of thin air and throws a damp towel over me.

In addition to this we are both the new hot spot in town for mosquitoes who arrive in large groups with tiny napkins wrapped around their evil necks. Or whatever passes for a neck in the form of pure hatred. We're sort of used to that though and pass the cortisone back and forth with minimal griping.

Two of our friends, Mr and Mrs S, join us for the second week of the holiday and within ten minutes we're enjoying cocktails by the pool. We're excited to have them here and I secretly hope the mosquitoes will enjoy a new source of food and leave me and Angry alone for one sweet minute.

Mr S is in his absolute element. Two of his favourite things in life are fine wines and cheese and of course both are abundant here. Mrs S has a dip in the pool and gurgles with laughter as she tries to teach Mr S an exercise involving a noodle. She then lies in the garden as the sun dries her un-blistered skin. I sit in the shadows smoking a cigarette and slap away another mosquito that has settled on my neck.

Sunday brings the World Cup Final and there is an air of nervous anticipation from the moment we wake up. La Mamon has arranged a party for the viewing. The first to arrive is her neighbour, Nicole, who is around seventy and sporting a France T-Shirt, a comedy hat, red white and blue sunglasses and the French flag. She is beyond excited and shouting “Allez les Bleus!” before she's even through the door. Within half an hour there's thirteen of us. Everyone is facing the TV except me. I'm facing a bottle of prosecco and liberally adding limoncello. When they all stood for the national anthem I knew they had to win. The alternative was unthinkable and terrifying.

Two hours later a giant speaker has appeared from somewhere and people are dancing in the garden, arms linked, heads thrown back with joy. Raymond (a man built like a brick shit house) is naked in the pool swinging his pants around his head. Homemade liquor appears, cherries soaked in something toxic also and before long it's riotous. The last thing I see as I drag myself up the stairs is La Mamon wrapped in a yellow sarong, hands in the air shimmying across the garden, her glass of rose spilling in to the grass.

The next day is a quiet one. Everyone moves slowly with muttered groans. Mr S has maybe the worst of it. The last to bed and the recipient of many whiskey top ups he stares in to space and I can hear him blink.

My niece La Dude joins us the following morning from Toulouse where she now lives. Knowing she likes the rougher booze I ply her with Papa Doble's that contain large measures of a terrible white rum we've bought called 'Old Nick'. And rightly so. Only Satan and my niece could enjoy that immediate and unceasing burn.

The evening is spent peeling gallons of prawns cooked by The French on the plancha in the garden. All of the women are in bed by midnight (La Dude face down on the sofa with a mirror by her mouth) and the boys stay up till 4am talking about whatever it is men talk about in the early hours and drinking anything cold.

Since then I've cooked a giant Paella in the garden with the help of La Dude and Mrs S and afterwards we played a ridiculous mime game called Heads Up. During one memorable round Mrs S had to guess the word we were all frantically miming. The word was 'Tourist' and so we all kept pointing at ourselves. She called out 'FRIENDS!' and everyone paused and collectively sighed at the loveliness of it.

Today we kayaked down a gorgeous river and marvelled at indigo coloured dragonflies all around us. Afterwards we walked through a stream to get to a bar that served icy cold Vedett.

We are all now so relaxed we can barely acknowledge each other. Some are lazing in the pool, some napping, some reading and I'm doing this though I can hardly be bothered to finish this  damn sente...