Only a few days to go before Sam and Rob get hitched. The wedding is taking place on the Isle of Man, where the two grew up as best friends and neighbours, the Irish Sea’s answer to Dawson and Joey.

In my version of their youth, they used to skip around holding hands singing Ellan Vannin, making necklaces of seaweed and eating raw turnips and seal steaks. Sam’s family are even in the Visit Isle of Man advert, which I had the pleasure of viewing one afternoon on BBC 2 when I was off sick from work, and features her curly-haired cousins frolicking on a pebble beach and leading horses through a woodland glen. Given Sam and Rob’s combined grab bag of favourable genes (great skin, long legs and lashes, shiny hair, good bone structure) I imagine they’ll eventually be selected to star with their own apple-cheeked Isle of Man kiddies in future versions to come.

In any case, I’m very excited about doing what the advert says and visiting it for the first time this weekend, not least because I’m flying there and flights make it feel like more of a holiday. Incidentally, you can also go by boat. There definitely is no bridge.

I’ve also done a bit of cultural research, as is very important before visiting any foreign country, along with having my course of 3  Seagull Flu jabs and getting to grips with the language barrier. According to the Book of Google, the island broke off from the mainland in around 8000 BC, and was colonised by some very hardy folk about 2000 years later. There is a national language – Manx – still spoken today by approximately 37 people, and it is ruled by a Governor, who is King of the Island, has a long grey beard and sits on a throne made from slate and decorated with Puffin skulls.

Useful Manx phrases:

Hello = ‘hello’
How are you? = ‘Cre’n aght ta shiu?’
Congratulations = ‘Moylley dhyt!’
A pint of bitter, please = ‘Pynt sharroo my sailliu’
He’s always drunk that fellow = ‘T’eh ny lhie ’sy jough y fer shen’

Being a tad strapped for cash, I’ve selected an outfit for the big day from a very reasonable boutique called Flatmate’s Wardrobe, though the owner says I should stay a minimum of four metres away from red wine for the duration of the weekend: ‘though I don’t love the dress so much that I want you calling me at 4am on Sunday morning crying because you’ve accidentally set it on fire or something.’ I was in a bit of a quandary over headgear too. I emailed my most stylish friend Gretchen over the issue of whether I should match the dress with a hat or a fascinator:

‘AAAARGH! Fascinators = naff. And hats look better with age. Just sort out your hair and wear that.’

I was toying with the idea of wearing one of those embellished headbands, but I thought I might end up looking like a Woodstock throwback / chubbier Nicole Richie. So I’m going bareheaded and letting the dress, and some carefully memorised Manx phrases, do the talking.

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