2001-06-12 - 12:18 a.m.

Being a best man, though undoubtedly a great honour, is, in the scheme of Having To Do Things At A Wedding, kind of the short straw, in that your stress lasts a good deal longer than anyone else�s. Bride and Groom just have to sail through their vows and flex their grinning faces for a few thousand photos. Chief Bridesmaid? How hard is bouquet carrying and a bit of remedial wedding dress train rearrangement? Ushers? Don�t make me laugh. By the time everyone�s leaving for the church, they�re already letting their hair down and plotting whatever ill-advised sexual encounter they�ve been waiting for just such an occasion to give vent to. Whereas yer Best Man, well his job�s hardly even started, has it? And it�s particularly cruel the speech coming after the meal � I was practically choking on my profiteroles with nervous tension.

But considering it had been written a mere 24 hours beforehand and that the father of the bride encroached on a fair few of my gags just to test the old improvisational �skills�, it didn�t go half badly. There was less glory than I imagined, though � ie. Not many people were rushing to back up their compliments with alcoholic reinforcement, and there was a summary lack of attention from bridesmaids, chief or otherwise.

I saw my parents dance for the first time. I�d always thought my mother was averse to public displays of rhythm, but they held their own � not too hard a task given the geriatric dancefloor opposition, but still. And the irresistible band that set this precedent? Why, the Bee Gees. Which is weird, as I always had my mum down as more of a hip hop and scratch merchant.