I worry about my Best Man Speech.

Posted on by Alex

There is nothing worse than having nagging doubts.

I pace the lawn outside the venue. It is typical. This morning, when I woke up, the speech was perfect. Nothing could improve it. It was hilariously funny, wise, perceptive and affectionate in one burst of literary and oratory genius, plus it included a very very funny anecdote that resulted from the groom performing a lewd act at a bus-stop.

If you were to come to me for advice about how to write a best man speech, the first thing that I would tell you is that you have to have a core dead-cert story like this to work around. I have been a best man once before, for a groom who had never performed any form of lewd act at a bus-stop, or any other municipal installation. And to be honest, I fucking struggled. A story like this is a banker. (nb that is not an attempt at a pun.)

The dilemma with which I am grappling is simple. I have been presented with a number of instructions for the day – do not forget ring, get legitimate taxi for bride’s mother etc etc, and there is only one that pertains to the speech, viz on no account to mention the bus stop thing.

And whilst this all seemed very unduly negative and over-conservative earlier on, the wedding venue is filling up with elderly aunts, grandparents etc and suddenly I am seized with the inexorable realisation that I have horribly misjudged the mood and tone of the situation.

I bow to my conscience and good sense. It pains me, but it is the right thing to do.

One of the problems has been that I have spent all day dealing with the big issues. I have just had no time to think. It has just been one major responsibility after another.

“Can you make sure people avoid that dog shit?” asks the photographer.

I stand beside the dog shit. “Dog shit! Watch out – dog shit! Mind the dog shit,” I advise, as everybody heads towards the group photograph.

By the time that I have kept everybody away from the dog shit, I just manage to get in the photo at the back. Later on, as a multitude of smiling and laughing faces morph into an expression of slowly dawning horror, I realise that my conscience and good sense are not necessarily reliable organs.

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We consider a quality new or used car.

Posted on by Alex

There are lots to choose from, and the sheer variety makes things confusing.

“What are our criteria?” I ask.

(NB note I have used the correct ‘are’ and not the common ‘is’, as ‘criteria’ is a plural word. That is why I am such a good writer.)

I regret my question immediately. Apparently our criteria are that it should be cheap and should get from A to B without using any petrol to speak of, or breaking down. Furthermore it transpires that I am not allowed to come up with any criteria myself, as I was in the Village Pub with Short Tony and my mobile switched off whilst she was being towed from the A148 to the garage on Friday night.

“Oh,” I say.

We do some detailed research. After our detailed research, we have come up with a shortlist of suitable cars to investigate further.

Her list:

  • Suzuki Pootle
  • Kia Ninky-nonk
  • Daewoo Pinky-ponk
  • Fiat Molecule

My list:

  • Jensen Interceptor

“What the fuck is that?” she barks, when I show her the picture on the website.

I explain that it is a Jensen Interceptor, and that it was basically the best car ever made, and that I always wanted one when I was a kid.

“It looks like a stretched Ford Escort,” she says. “Is it economical?”

“Yes,” I lie. Small flames start licking up painfully from the area of my pants.

“We are not getting a Jensen Interceptor,” she says.

“But that one is unbelievable value!” I argue. “For six grand, wouldn’t you surely rather have something like that? Or some sort of Daihatsu Twinkle?”

We browse the Daihatsu Twinkle web pages.

I have a resigned feeling about all this. It does not help that Mrs Short Tony has just taken delivery of a new small car. And whilst it doesn’t go very fast, and the back seats would only really be useful for storing priests in should there be a repetition in the Village of the 16th-century enthusiasm for persecuting Catholics, it is the sort of thing that the LTLP is after. I suspect they are in it together. There is a hidden agendum somewhere, and I am not fooled.

Brochures are ordered from the major tiny-car manufacturers. I am not going to win this one.

I receive a parcel in the post!!!

Posted on by Alex

It is there on the doormat on my return.

A parcel!!! I rip it open eagerly. The contents are unexpected. I study the advice slip carefully.

It has been ordered and paid for by us. It must be from the LTLP. The LTLP has sent me a present!!! This is good, as she has been a bit eye-rolly with me recently, for one reason or another.

I settle down with my new present.

“Thank you for my present – it arrived safely,” I tell the LTLP, when she arrives home later.

She looks confused. “What present?” she demands.

I show her my present. She denies all knowledge of the present. I show her the advice slip that clearly demonstrates that one of us has placed the order, therefore proving present status.

“Are you sure you didn’t order this yourself?” she says. “On Friday, when you were pissed?”

I think for a minute.

“I could have done, I suppose,” I admit.

“Oh great,” she replies. “I’ll just wait for loads of vintage signage and second hand computer magazines to arrive now.”

I am disappointed. “I really thought you’d sent me a present,” I complain.

“No,” she explains. “A present would be something that I had ordered and got sent to you. This is ‘something that you ordered yourself when you were pissed.’ That is not a present.”

“Oh.”

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