Best Man's Speech

Distinguished guests, ladies, gentleman, boys, girls and even monkeys (wherever they may be - in-joke... long story...). I’ve been dreading introducing the final speaker today; for that speaker is me.

When I began to write this speech, all of a couple of hours ago during the service, I imagined that the Best Man’s role to be somewhat comparable to that of being a Prime Minister. It’s one of those jobs that everyone would like to have a crack at, but when they realise the responsibility involved, and how closely your speeches get scrutinised, you’d think twice about taking it on.

As a Best Man then I am duty-bound then to sprinkle-in some mildly humiliating stories from the happy couple’s respective childhoods. Well, mainly Chris’ at least…. So when my brother here asked me to take on this job, the sense of honour I felt was mixed with a fait foreboding. How would he take it if I spilled the beans and the told the whole truth? How he was imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, how he escaped from a maximum security prison and survives today as a soldier of fortune and part-time member of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force?

You’ll be glad to know, only half of that last bit is true….

Christopher * * * * was born to us in the year of our lord nineteen-hundred-and-seventy. The year when the Beatles Split, Monty Python exploded onto our screens and Apollo 13 came back alive.

The first of two brothers to be born to our eccentric little family, our English/Swedish parents decided to give him the straightforward rather traditional English name of Christopher – the complete syllables of which were only uttered in future when he was generally getting up to mischief. Whilst seven years later I was given the Swedish name of Ingmar, Chris was no doubt eternally grateful to have got the less-exotic name of the two – apparently the name ‘Jan’ was considered for him at one point, but knowing the Armed Forces’ tradition for ridicule he feared this would have translated into ‘Yawn’ by his colleagues. Chris rarely reveals his middle name – ‘Leif’ taken from our Swedish grandfather, fearing again that this might get lost in translation and that he may be dubbed ‘leaf’ by his colleagues.

According to the gospel of Wikkipedia – Christopher is the English version of a Europe-wide name derived from the Ancient Greek ‘Khristóphoros’ and the Christian legend of St Christopher. The name means “Christ-bearer”, or more literally “Bearer of the anointed one”. In modern RAF slang this apparently translates as ‘I hope to Christ he gets this thing fixed.’

Be it the occasional vaccum between his ears or his inexplicable childhood fascination with cranes, Chris’ desitiny you could say was always linked to the air from a very young age.

As a schoolchild, Chris would occasionally be so determined to avoid revision that he took to the air quite literally himself - by jumping out of our first floor window onto the back lawn in order to sneak past the parents and hang out with friends. Avoiding revision, I can attest, is certainly a family trait I share; I just never took it to quite such a spectacular level.

The aeronautical engineer in him began to assert itself during his teenage years when on Bonfire Night not satisfied with the “Oohs” and “Ahhs” of traditional firework displays. Chris and some of his friends would head down to nearby woodland and aim fireworks at each other purely for fun. He soon began to find a knack for jerry-rigging rockets and bangers to create his own ordnance to scare his friends and the local wildlife.

Chris eventually found safer ways to study aerospace engineering and take to the skies by joining the Air Cadets. He soon excelled as a junior officer and budding glider pilot and I am reliably informed that during these years he had many young female cadets’ hearts a-flutter. Suffice as to say that his favourite movie around this time was Top Gun, and I believe that in Nicky he’s finally found his Kelly McGillis.

Speaking of co-starring blondes, what can I say of Nicky, my new sister in law? I can start with how glad I am to welcome her into this crazy family of ours, how beautiful she looks on this truly special day…. And how sorry I am for Farnham Newsagents who have now lost all her umpteen wedding magazine subscriptions and find themselves struggling to balance their orders.

Looking at the happy couple, I wonder if love hath seen no greater sacrifice... For what greater token of love could there be than for Christopher to be here with his bride on this special day, and not cheering on his beloved Hull City in the Championship play-off finals with tens of thousands of other fans at Wembley Stadium.

*drape Hull City scarf around groom's neck*

It’s a funny thing for a younger brother to be proud of his older brother; it’s usually the other way around isn’t it? But I am immensely proud and honoured to have been asked to be my brother’s Best Man and to share this day with you all. For this day is the first day of the rest of Chris and Nicky’s life together.

All that remains is for me for me to ask you all to charge your glasses once more and rise to your feet as, Ladies and Gentleman, I give you the bride and groom.

The secret history of my place

With house prices being as utterly insane as they are, a single-earner like me finds himself renting a small house on the edge of a bustling little market town in the Midlands. I’m lucky that the monthly rate is relatively cheap for what it is and I’m surrounded by some quite pleasant neighbours at the end of a quiet little cul-de-sac.

One of the couples living next door I chat to quite often and we stood having a natter this afternoon in the sun, clutching gardening tools.

They’ve seen many tenants come and go over the years and they began to relate to me some of the stories of those who lived there.

Bearing in mind that it’s a house built in the last few decades and it’s in a quite respectable part of town…

I could have never have guess that the place had once been raided for drugs by the very force that I work for…

And that a baby had once been born in the front room!

They’re a very respectable couple, and I have no reason to disbelieve them.

I now look at the place a little differently.

Speech!

One week then, until I stand up in front of a room full of relatives, friends and relative unknowns to deliver a speech as my brother’s best man.

Dry throat, expectant faces, being the final speaker of the day… Let’s just say I’m not exactly looking forward to the prospect.

Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking I’m going to read straight from A4 double-lined sheets, as opposed to prompt-cards or straight from memory. Try as I might I’ll strive to maintain a bit of eye contact with the audience here and there.

I’ve been working on it for the best part of a month now but it’s a tricky beast to get just right.

Do I stray too far into humour and end up with tumbleweeds rolling past?

Or do I keep it serious and watch the heads drop into the leftovers of the wedding breakfast.

The temptation is to steal the best one-liners from the book I bought on this very subject; however the long-suppressed writer in me thinks I should be shot for even considering such a thought.

I think I’m going to tread down the familiar route of recounting a few amusing stories from my brother’s youth – steering clear of any taboo subjects such as ex-girlfriends and-the-like.

I’ve got at least several minutes to fill and I’m too much of a coward to take any more of a risk than that.

However, any clever ideas / tips you may have – feel free to stick them on a comment or email. Should the speech be satisfactorily received then I may even publish it on here in the long run.

Out of breath

Every single time I come home from work, I do so with the best intention to be productive in the evening, following morning or whatever constitutes the gap between my next shifts.

My well-intentioned plans keep falling by the wayside on a daily basis.

Today I worked from 07:00 through 18:00. I set off for home thinking

“Yeah, I’ll do some learning portfolio work tonight.”

Returning home with 40-min each way commute added onto the already 11hr shift, and not discounting the 30-or-so mins that I voluntarily stayed behind in order to get some of my workload all-square…

Arrive home, cook a meal and then next thing I know it’s slipping past 21:00 and I find myself flopping down in front of a monitor over here, or a television over there with a drink.

And then I really should get some sleep.

Few hours of rapid-eye-movement later and then I simply turn around and head in the other direction.

Or so it feels.

One of the reasons I chose policing, and one of the reasons I do adore this more crazy of jobs, is the fact that no two days are the same. There’s always somewhere, someone, or something new to tackle. If it wasn’t for that fact that I really would be going mad of late.

I mean, how do office workers cope?

I have a spectacular lack of drive out of work; I’m just simply exhausted.

Apologies readers, bear with me...