To Wales once more, for a wedding. The stag do is scheduled for two nights earlier, to avoid the sort of scene a friend suffered when he got married in Mexico and vomited into his mother-in-law's shawl at the altar. Much debate over whether we should strip the groom and handcuff him to a lamppost in Milford Haven but, as it is, the stag is a restrained affair. One bloke tells the story of a friend who, years ago, had been lashed naked to a lamppost in Middlesbrough. When his mates had gone 50 yards down the road, they'd had to go back to rescue him: two passing drunks had started beating him up. Very poor etiquette, we all agreed.

Another friend, from Cardiff, recounts the tale of the man he met in hospital when he was in for his Achilles. This man, in the next bed, was from Barry, which enjoys a certain notoriety in South Wales, a notoriety now brought to a wider audience by Gavin and Stacey. This chap said that, as a young man, he'd been able to jump from a road bridge on to a lamppost above the road below. In middle age, the worse for drink, he'd decided to see if he could still do it.

Seconds later, lying on the pavement with two broken legs, he'd appealed to two Barry youths to help him out. “We're just on our way to nick a car,” they told him, “but if you're still here when we get back, we'll take you to casualty.” We weren't sure whether that was evidence of shocking behavioural decline or the enduring pull of traditional male norms.

Informally hitched

The wedding itself took place in a charming church in Nolton. I make three observations, four if you count the extreme loveliness of the bride. The first is that this was the first wedding in this church for four years, a sign of both the depopulation afflicting this corner of Pembrokeshire and the decline of church weddings among those who remain. The second is that, although hardly anybody knew the words of the hymns (the vicar's tremendous baritone accounting for perhaps 75 per cent of the noise) everybody is word-perfect on the Lord's Prayer, even the teenagers. Which means this superb piece of work will endure for another half-century, minimum.

Thirdly, I note that although the service is very informal (jokes from the vicar, a comic aside from the groom, ringing applause at the end) and although the congregation is (fairly) conventional English middle-class, no eyebrows are raised. Quite the opposite: the informality of the occasion is repeatedly praised. I suspect this is one area where public opinion is running ahead of the media's. To most commentators, the Church is trying too hard to be too trendy. Yet I don't think most people agree. I also suspect, admittedly on no evidence, that Gordon Brown is instinctively uncomfortable with the idea of applause in church, whereas David Cameron is probably relaxed about it.

New for old

On the subject of things David Cameron may not, but probably does, approve of, I visited a restored 1920s village general store at the Museum of Welsh Life. The shop was all sans-serif typography, glass-stoppered bottles, granite work tops, worn wooden shelving, minimalist stoneware and small quantities of produce sold by weight in ultra-plain wrapping. Just like, in other words, the sort of very expensive shop you find nowadays springing up in West London or the premium bits of Bristol, Oxford and the Tory leader's constituency in the Cotswolds.

I keep reading that the middle class has fallen in love with posh people and posh practices, but I think it's as much the other way around, and the indigenous rich have forsworn ostentation and luxury in favour of what used to be exclusively middle-class taste.

Skip that one

Talking of shops, each year, before a party at our hotel, a group of us take what has become known as the Tesco Challenge. That is, your outfit for the party must be sourced at the eponymous superstore in Haverfordwest. The idea, for the men at least (the women usually bottle it), is to unearth something ghastly that will give everyone else a good giggle.

And yet, such is the astuteness of Tesco's buyers, such is the complexity and compression of the class structure, this year the Tesco Challenge was officially abandoned, it having proved increasingly difficult to buy anything truly horrible in that shop. Difficult as in none of the gear is that nasty, and difficult as in what we wear the rest of the year isn't so different from what they sell in Tesco. Everyone kitted themselves out in a variety of charity shops instead, and yet this was no more successful. Next year we'll have to try a skip. Or maybe what gets washed up on the beach.

This pesky modern class system, you know it's still lurking out there but, my goodness, it's getting harder and harder to get a proper hold of.

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