So there we were – a rag-tag assortment of Carrys and other hangers-on, waiting around on a beach on the southern most tip of the Thai peninsula, close to the Malaysian border. We were gathered there ahead of the marriage of Irish girl, Emma, and Columbian guy, Marlon, who would afterwards return to their home in New Zealand. This stunning example of intercontinental multiculturalism in practice was not without its difficulties – the wedding would have to be registered in four different countries and the location chosen meant many couldn't make it. However, the island was a living postcard and was sure to make for a beautiful ceremony.

The day before we were due to kick off my wandering friend Denis had made it to Koh Lipe after experiencing the horrors of being a foreigner in Thailand with no money. However, while on the ferry he had met two individuals who might well turn what was looking like a quiet couple of days in paradise into something more interesting. Denis had come across two predictably stunning, early 20s Swedish girls who were apparently fixated by the Irish accent, and being without male companionship were hoping we could take them out that night. When our good fortune was revealed to the group some skeptical looks were thrown towards me by various female members of the Carry clan. There was a palpable dread that we would be out all night and end up half dead at the wedding ceremony we had travelled half way round the world for.

"It can't be helped!" I roared, to the delight of the male half of the traveling contingent. "They're Sweeeedish for Jaysus sake!"

Although I quickly forgot their names, the two girls were every bit the tanned, blonde, simpering crackers I was hoping they would be. One of them, who looked like a young Anna Kornikova, appeared to take a particular shine to me and kept getting me to repeat various phrases which emphasised what she felt was my most charming quality – the thick Dublin accent that made me Mr Unpopular in snobbish UCD and which still brings unbelieving looks when I tell a middle or upper class Irish person that I'm a journalist.

We eventually forced ourselves to bid the somewhat confused Swedes an early goodnight – terror struck as we were by the thoughts of facing stressed out Carry women caught in an organisational frenzy with nothing but a hangover and a feeble excuse based on the nationality of our drinking partners to defend ourselves with. They promised to come to the wedding the following day, but I got the feeling that their meeting with what must have been a totally alien experience of temporary rejection meant we had lost our chance.

I got up the next morning, changed into my crumpled wedding outfit and headed off to establish where we were in terms of getting the show on the road. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the beach in front of our resort had been decked out with floral arches, rose petal pathways and various other wedding-esque paraphernalia by the Thai staff. Amazingly, the resort manager had somehow secured the services of a pair of Irish-American musicians who were hanging around with guitar, bodhran, fiddle and whistle at the ready. A crew of Buddhist monks were scheduled to arrive and bless the ceremony any minute so I skipped breakfast and went to have a chat with my sister during her last few moments as a Carry. Given the fact that she had to get ready in a beach bungalow and the hair and make up girls she hired were dismissed before having their work restarted by Emma and her bridesmaid, she looked amazing – if somewhat stressed by her determination to get everything right.

Eventually, the three monks arrived on the back of a single moped and it was time to get going. In the absence of my father who died last year it fell to me to give my sister away to her fiancι Marlon who I had met for the first time the previous day. I didn't know the bloke I was giving her too so my role was primarily aesthetic, but I was happy to trust Emma's instincts on the matter and skipped the clichιd, brotherly hurt-my-sister-and-you're-a-dead-man chat some feel are a necessary part of any wedding celebration. The fact that Marlon is a 15-stone martial arts expert who doesn't really speak English made this decision the obvious one, but he also seems like a nice lad.

The Swedish girls, predictably, made their excuses early on and left the wedding party to eat what was by far the best wedding meal I've had. We sat on the beach and listened to the two musicians, one guy and one gal, gently bicker with each other between songs in what threatened to spill over into a full blown domestic as the drink flowed. An Irish wedding used to be a very different affair, but with travel becoming ever cheaper and peoples' horizons broadening with every generation, I get the feeling that celebrations along these lines will soon become more the norm than the exception.