by Henry VIII gives a best man speech and learns that a silent room is not always a sign of respect
I once delivered proclamations to entire courts who dared not so much as cough during my address. I delivered a best man speech to ninety guests and heard, at one point, an actual cricket.
The Ask
My friend Marcus, a fellow comedian I met on the open mic circuit, asked me to be his best man, a role I accepted with genuine pride, having never once in my original life been asked to publicly vouch for another man’s character without also being asked to fund his army first.
The Stag Do
Duties began with organising the stag weekend, a task I approached with the confidence of a man who once organised entire military campaigns, only to discover that booking a group of fourteen men into a single Airbnb in Margate presents logistical challenges that Boulogne, frankly, never did. Three men dropped out at the last minute. I have never once had a soldier cancel on me the week before a siege.
The Speech Writing
Writing the speech itself proved harder than any address I gave in office, largely because the traditional rules forbid anything about ex-partners, anything too personal about the bride, and anything that runs longer than seven minutes, three restrictions I have never once successfully honoured in any speech I have given in either lifetime.
The Delivery
On the day itself I opened with a joke about my own marital history, which landed extremely well, followed by a story about Marcus that I believed to be charming and he later informed me privately was, in fact, mortifying, and finally a toast that ran nine minutes rather than seven, during which one guest visibly checked his watch and another, I noticed, appeared to actually doze off near the end, an insult I have historically responded to with considerably more severity than simply noting it in an article afterward.
The Reception
Guests told me afterward the speech was, and I quote, unhinged in the best possible way, a review I have chosen to accept as a genuine compliment. Marcus forgave me the mortifying story by the second dance. I have concluded that a wedding speech is, in fact, considerably harder to deliver well than any proclamation I ever gave from a throne, chiefly because a throne does not require you to be funny, and a wedding absolutely does.
The Following Week
Marcus sent me the wedding photographs a fortnight later, along with a message saying the mortifying story had, by popular demand at the reception, become his new favourite thing about the entire day. I have already been asked to be best man again for a second friend, on the strict condition, delivered in writing, that the speech runs no longer than six minutes this time. I have accepted the booking. I have made no promises whatsoever about the six minutes.
Marcus got off considerably lighter than most of the men who feature in my six wives. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: the three person tenancy agreement that started as one quiet Soho drink, the pub that finally proved history could take a tea break, the full eyewitness account of how I came back in the first place.
