Well, shit.

For the past couple or so months, Marc has been calling me ‘Pickles’ at every available opportunity, much to my very visible dismay, but also much to the very visible confusion of the rest of Honey. I’ve told it a few times to some of the cohort, so, fuck it.

So, story time.

Dial the clock back to mid-2018. I’m in the middle of a 6-month probationary period for a role at Hospital Records. As a label that I really looked up to when I first became utterly obsessed with the world of dance music, DJing, production etc, it honestly felt like I’d come full circle to be in the driver’s seat for not only something that had been such a massive part of my life, but it something that reached and stretched all around the world that I was now a part of.

Naturally, I was absolutely terrified of doing anything particularly stupid or fucking up spectacularly – as anyone would be. But, thus far I seemed to be doing alright.

So, J. 

J was 1 of the 4 directors, and quite the heavyweight in the dance music events industry, as the events director for the label. Great guy, very direct / says pretty much what’s on his mind so if you end up on the wrong side of that, you’ll know about it pretty quick. Dropped some proper stingers on me early on, so lé sphincter would tighten and I’d always on my toes when I saw his focus sharpen in my direction, as you would with any boss. 

So, Imagine both my surprise / horror when I was invited to his wedding.

On one hand, yes, involvement in something so personal was like finding a 10th nugget in my 9 nugget box meal. Big juicy smile and big feels. That said, this was at a point in my life where – especially working in music / events — my relationship with ‘the sauce’ needed a little curbing and something like this could spell disaster if I, in short, acted like a twat. Especially considering I was still in my probation period. 

So, the wedding.

The ceremony itself had been held privately for nearest and dearest (naturally), so it was more-so the reception that the bulk of the guests attended. Everyone was dressed to the nines, I was in a suit and looked fucking delicious, was mint. Picturesque location that took quite a drive to, but all truly a lovely little site out in the countryside. 

So, there’s a free bar.

Of. Fucking. Course. While I had loaded myself up on cake, cheese, biscuits, and more being the hungry hungry hippo that I am, I eventually made my way to the self-serve bar with a mixture of gin, red wine, craft beer all flowing through my system. I’ll tell you right off the bat – this isn’t a story of me becoming a drunk nightmare, and I’m glad it isn’t. That said, some of my decision making privileges should be revoked at times. 

So, tears.

I’d found a colleague of mine (M) absolutely beside herself over something that really didn’t constitute tears. M, if you’re reading this, you’re a silly, silly goose. Anyway, after briefly consoling her and almost instantly realising I was far too tippled to even be handling this, gave her a kiss on the forehead and kept it moving.

Shortly after, I aim to balance out my drinking with a bit of scran. I’d been eyeing some of the more adventurous cheeses and figured out it was time to wade those waters. Sadly, there was nothing left. Crumbs at best. Remnants of prime snacking that I hadn’t been fast enough with. Well, that…

…and a jar of pickles.

I stood there, confused, curious and contemplating why I hadn’t noticed this before. However they’re not my thing. So back to the dancefl-

“Have you tried the pickles yet?”

“I’m sorry what?

“They’re quite nice — sweet chilli flavour in there too” 

“Nah not my bag really, after more cak-”

“T r y  t h e m”

“Ok man damn I’ll try the pickles”

Can’t lie. 

They fuckin’ slapped. A wonderful consortium of favours having a little boogie on my tastebuds. Blew my face off. My amusement and appreciation clearly catches her eye as she reveals thereafter that it was she who brought the pickles. As I’m giving some quite large props for prepping a vegetable munch that sent shivers down my spine, an idea forms in my head. An idea of pure hearted, best intentions.

So, what I thought would happen.

With M being such a fiercely proud vegan, currently beside themselves in a corner somewhere, and a jar of sweet chilli pickles that was clearly not getting the love it deserved, it only made sense to unite the two in sweet matrimony.

After I explained the situation, I asked said pickle bearer if they didn’t mind parting with said jar of pickles for a good cause — and was met by thunderous (albeit solo) applause. Empowered, I imagined I would deposit the pickles by the car and hand them over and bring sweet animal free joy to my colleague and friend.

So, what actually happened was…

I was very drunk. M was very drunk. Sleep is definitely the cousin of death because we were both fuckin’ lights out second the car set off. I forgot to gift the pickles. Or rather, I forgot to mention to our designated driver that they were there, and they weren’t discovered till a week later.

I get added to a private slack chat between me, two other colleagues, and J.

“Who the fuck took the pickles from the wedding?”

“I spent two whole hours on the worst hangover of my life looking for them.”

“They were a fucking wedding present.”



David Sloley, 

liberated a whole wedding present from my boss, 

who I was petrified of.



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