Bridal expos are one of them.

It’s a haze of pink and the crush of swooning brides-to-be is colossal.

I had my taste the other week at Tamworth where it’s safe to say, us future grooms were heavily outnumbered – and for good reason.

Stall-to-stall we are dragged from one wedding outlet to the next, many of us with mother-in-law and buzzing bridesmaids in tow.

While my entourage fuss over which of the 31 colour shades of soft lavender best complement the flower arrangement, I look for a hasty exit but there are none.

The overly friendly concierge, who is greeting expo guests by the dozen, has unknowingly blocked my only route into and out of the building.

I’m trapped. Panic sets in.

I seek refuge in the alcove of a nearby doorway.

Taking a moment’s rest from the throng of wedding-crazed patrons, I ponder what on earth I have gotten myself into.

I concede that my only choice now is to ride the wave and with a little luck, I might just make it out alive.

So onwards we forge, stopping every so often to flick through the endless array of lace-laden invitation samples and menu guides which require a French dictionary to decipher.

We reach the wedding cake stand – a must-see stop on every girl’s wedding expo walk through, apparently.

But these are no ordinary cakes, these behemoths must be seen to be believed. Like Mt Everest rising from the Himalayas, the marble white masterpieces tower the doting expo crowd – stack upon stack of sugary-bliss.

Being the punctual sort of bloke I am, I skipped breakfast so we could get here on time. But it’s now mid-morning and I’m feeling a little peckish.

I nudge the ribs of my fiancé and whisper, “Should we ask for a taste?”.

I’m no mind-reader but I’m guessing the returning scowl aimed in my direction meant a definite “no”.

Only later would I learn these aren’t really cakes at all – just icing and bit of polystyrene to fill out the middle.

What a crock, I thought, disgruntled at the cakemaker’s ingenious trickery. I’d like to see them try and bake that! 

We pass another stall which is also a hive of activity, pronounced by high-pitched, girlish giggling emanating from its depths.

The flamboyant, glitter-strewn banner says enough – “let us help you get your hen’s party started”, the sign reads. 

Finally we reach what seems to be the end of the agony  of my first, and if I have anything to do with it, my last wedding expo appearance but it’s a deadend.

Just in case I didn’t get enough of a wedding fix on the first run through, we about-turn and do it all again.

My enthusiasm meter barely registers.

No sooner am I out the door on the other side, at last free from the clutches of their bridal pageantry when I’m greeted by an old school mate.

He’s poised ready to exploit my newfound, domestic duties at the expo.

“So, how’d you go?” he enquires, with a wry grin ear-to-ear.

I say nothing and just let silence do the talking.

The frigid, winter chill still lingers in the air and passers-by are grimacing and they brace against the cold. 

But not me; I couldn’t be happier, and with football on that afternoon, the ball is in my territory now.