MY wedding was a low-key affair. A dozen people at the local register office, a quick 'Yes', a meal in a nearby hotel and it was all over. No wedding cars, no bridesmaids, no flowers... no frills.

Now, a few years down the line, I'm beginning to think my husband and I did it all wrong. What we should have done is get married in a football stadium, exchanging vows over the loud-speaker moments before the kick off.

I would float across the turf, in a wondrous, fairy-tale gown, made entirely from Andrex loo roll and Sainsbury's double-thickness kitchen towels. My shining tiara, beautifully carved from two Carling Black Label cans, and my veil of the finest Kleenex tissues would be embroidered with the words "Mr Muscle - Loves The Jobs You Hate".

The atmosphere would be electric, with dozens of powerful light bulbs bearing the word 'Homebase' beaming down upon us. And, as I said "I do", my husband would place not a conventional wedding ring upon my finger, but a delicious crunchy Hula Hoop. The wedding pictures would be taken against a Match Of The Day-style backdrop, emblazoned with the names of various prominent suppliers to the building trade.

A lavish reception would be held. Guests would be instructed to arrive wearing balaclavas to avoid identification. In fact security would be so tight that they would probably all be refused entry, bar the photographer from a glossy magazine.

This is the road we should have gone down all those years ago. After all, the purpose of a swanky wedding isn't to leave you heavily in debt, but to make you a six-figure sum to buy the odd stick of furniture for the mansion you already own.

But, sadly, my husband and I do not belong to the celebrity A-list - the likes of Posh and Becks and - most recently - Anthea Turner and Grant Bovey. We can't command huge sums for appearing in glossy magazines or for allegedly plugging products like the chocolate bar that Anthea and her new husband were pictured chomping at their wedding. The couple now say they were duped and did not condone the photo being released but they did receive a six-figure sum for their wedding snaps.

Celebrity weddings are becoming a farcical affairs - the events reduced to publicity stunts rather than an emotional, joy-filled occasion where two people pledge themselves to each other for, hopefully, life. I don't know what made me cringe most - Posh and Becks in their thrones or Anthea and Grant with their choccy bars.

It's not just the rich and famous. Weddings generally are becoming tackier and tackier. Only this week a Hampshire vicar banned a video camera from his church and would not let a couple play Martine McCutcheon's number one single during the service. He said TV programmes like You've Been Framed made him nervous of video cameras and he wanted to preserve the dignity of the proceedings.

Quite right. There's plenty of time for wafting a video camera around at the reception. And if you allow one pop song, where do you draw the line? What happens when a couple ask for the Sex Pistols hit Anarchy in the UK?

It's all wrong and it seems to me, the tackier the 'do' the more traumatic the aftermath. In the traditional, conservative past, the worst that could happen was a couple of relatives falling out.

Now there are wrangles right, left and centre, with videos - filmed without guests' knowledge while they were drunk - causing no end of bust-ups.

Sorry to be a killjoy, but let's go back to basics - the vicar, the organ, the bloke from Bloggs & Co Wedding Snaps with the camera. Let's tone it all down, before it all gets out of hand and our churches turn into Las Vegas-style chapels.