💐 😳 Tomboy is a Bridesmaid 😳 💐 (F4A) (At Our Friend's Wedding) (Girlfriend is Embarrassed)

Transcript

I'm coming! Hang on! It's not my fault, it's these bloody shoes! Do you know why men invented high heels? So it would be harder for women to run away.

So do excuse me if. .. What? What? Why? Why are you smiling like a freak? What are you doing? Oi! Oh yes, me in a dress, okay, fine, stuff.

Stop it! You being weird, no, let me look, give me a twirl. Fuck off! I look like a person in a dress, I look fine.

Shush, shush your. .. Just shush, please.

Because I can barely breathe in this thing, I'm in high heels, I'm wearing makeup, my tits are shoved up to my neck. I am really trying not to hyperventilate, okay? So please stop looking at me with those eyes.

I don't even want to contemplate what they're thinking, okay, but it's not pure, whatever it is. So can we please just go to this wedding and get it done? Thank you.

Phone, keys, card. What? I will give you one twirl and then never ask again.

You ready? Voilà. You're such a freak, why does that make you so happy? Get in the car.

Now or I'm not going. Oui, oui. You are so peculiar.

Thank God there's an open bar or we would not be going. Hello. I've snuck away, don't tattle on me.

Well, one, because I can't possibly stay on my feet any longer and two, I can't talk about how amazing weddings are for one more second. Oh, I love Jamie. I do.

She's wonderful, but, oh, Christ. It's just a job. It's just an expensive, pressured job of looking nice, making sure everything goes smoothly and everyone's having a good time.

Why do people pay to have this done to them? She's a braver woman than I. Oh, with all the people coming up and fixing your hair and touching things up and saying, should we take the photo from that angle or do you want to come over here and talk to so-and-so?

No, no, I don't. I'm in pain. My feet hurt.

I want to sit down. Leave me the fuck alone. But do they leave her alone? No, they do not.

They've primped me enough that I'm only the bloody bridesmaid. I can't even imagine what she's feeling. I do not envy her.

But it's what she wanted and I suppose it makes her happy. There is more chance of me voluntarily jumping out of a skyscraper than there is of me wanting a big wedding. Because it's painful having everyone stare at you and be like, oh, how much do you think the dress was?

Oh, can she fit in that? No, thank you. If I wanted to be judged, I'd just tweet at 3am about how lonely I am.

It would save me 30,000 pounds. What could you do with that money? But it's not for me to judge.

This makes her happy and I'm glad she's happy and I just need to shut the fuck up. That's what I'm telling myself. It's so much money.

Think about that coming off your mortgage or a massive holiday or an extension. Yes, I am my 50 year old mother. To each his own, eh? To each his ridiculous, over the top own.

Oh, no, I don't mean to be such a miserable bastard. It's just the complete opposite of what I would want. So it's really hard to put my feet in her shoes.

And also her shoes are far too small for me. So there's that. Mm hmm.

How are you? It must have been really boring. Oh, thank God.

Because I didn't want to be alone with my miserableness. I wanted you to be miserable, too. And not in a I want you to be miserable way, but just I didn't want to be alone with the judgment.

Oh, thank you, Lord, who I do not believe in. Sending me a partner with common sense, or at least what I justify as common sense, and therefore, you know. I don't know what I've been saying.

I've been stood on my feet since very early and they're incredibly sore and I need to take them off. Oh, I would take my feet off. But apparently that's really painful.

So I'll just start with the shoes. Oh, my poor crumpled toes. I am a big baby.

Leave me alone. I'm entitled to be. Oh, thank you.

Right on the ridge. Massage away, please. Oh, that's good.

Oh, the freedom of not being confined in pointy leather. It's over. Now we just get to drink and eat cake and not matter.

No more professional photographs, no more standing and smiling, no more thinking, Jesus Christ, we've been here for two and a half hours. You don't need another bloody photograph. Why do they insist on taking two million photos? It's like you've got 50, OK? One of them is going to be semi-decent or at least fine enough to put in a frame.

Fuck off. Leave me alone. Oh, and the photographer, what an asshole.

I was trying my best. I was like trying to be, you know, in it and smiling. And he was like, try not to be so strained.

I was like, all right, motherfucker, you stand in this incredibly tight dress with incredibly pinchy shoes for this long and try and look happy. OK, you try it. Come on.

And then I was like, don't fight the photographer at Janie's wedding. It's a bad look, even for me. I like all the applause for not fighting the photographer.

Because I really wanted to take my stiletto off and jam it in his eye and say, shut up and go away. You silly, pompous man who thinks being catty is enough of a personality. No, it's not.

You've watched one too many episodes of Gossip Girl and you think, ah, being bitchy is endearing. No, it's not. It's just not.

And my brain has gone to mush and thank God you're here. Because you made it bearable. Every time I felt like running away, I'm like, no, Santa, they're here.

Just look at them. It's all going to be fine. So thank you for being you and just being that thing that makes me think, calm down.

Don't cry. Ah, shut your hole, you silly goose. No, I don't like a tired person who wants to go home.

Ah, the absolute nonsense that comes out of your face. Have you had a drink? Yeah, how many? Oh, I need one.

Or several. And I might also need you as something to lay on. Oh, oh, my God.

Me, one of the best piece of furniture I've laid against today. I do look happy though, don't I? Smug bastards with the money and the perfect wedding.

We are not having a perfect wedding. No, if we ever get married, we are having.