The wedding season is over and I’m much relieved because I don’t like weddings any more. Not because of the cost — although, what with my sub-prime mortgage and the price of gas, bread, water and breathing, I’ve have had enough of wedding lists that contain nothing costing less than £100.

I’m only coming to your stupid wedding because my wife went to primary school with your wife, so I don’t see why I should buy you a PlayStation3. It’s not because I’ve just found out the money from two of the PlayStation-esque wedding gifts I had to buy has been trousered by some shonky gift-list company, even though this means I now have to spend hours being told my call is important to my bank, even though it patently isn’t, while I try to get a refund.

It’s not because we must pretend to be God-fearing in order to have a church wedding, because the alternative is to get married in a council office, where the only person allowed to sing is Robbie Williams. Although the least the vicar could do, when everyone has pretended to find God terrifying so as to generate a sense of occasion, is not scowl at his uncharacteristically full church and drop heavy hints about how welcome newcomers always are, even if they are non-believing scum.

It’s not because of the bad food, the 5.30pm lull, the 9.30pm lull or the 11.45pm lull. My God, couldn’t the bride and groom (“Don’t they look lovely?”) leave just a tiny bit earlier? I can’t stay up this late any more. I’m not a student. I’ve been here in this sweaty waistcoat since half two, talking to people I don’t know.

It’s not because of the terrible speeches with stuttering jokes, appalling anecdotes, oblique references to a not-so-naughty stag weekend (“I won’t say what happened in Barcelona, but Geoff won’t be welcome at Bar Rio for a long time to come”). It’s not even because I’ve just been blamed for an ushering crime I didn’t commit. I told the vicar the bride had arrived, when she hadn’t, thus causing him to nod

at the choirmaster, so making the whole here-comes-the-bride experience go off without a bride, consequently leaving her to wander in afterwards in silence. Another usher had told me she’d arrived, you see, so he was the one who confused a bridesmaid with the bride — not me.

No, it’s because of the dancing, which I have always found to be an unpleasant and unavoidable part of any wedding. I have toe-trodden my way through Brown Eyed Girl, Millennium, New York, New York and Eternal Flame a billion times. And I’ve laughed along with the hilarious DJ as he’s played Another One Bites the Dust, Gold Digger or . . . snigger, snigger . . . Like a Virgin. Yes, I’ve done all that, I’ve done it enthusiastically, and nobody has ever complained.

But at the last wedding, something had changed, something was wrong. I felt heavy, tired, lumpen. So I put in a bit more effort, swinging my hips harder. Still no mojo, so I tried a few more exuberant steps and did something new with my arms. I swayed from side to side, clicked my fingers and winked at my partner. I may have said “Yeah!” while pointing a sexy finger-gun at her, and firing. She looked frightened. Then I caught sight of my reflection, and reality dawned: I was dancing like someone’s dad. And that’s why I don’t like weddings any more.