The unholy union of men you should swerve on the big day .

All that prepping, planning, fighting, near bankruptcy and threatening to call it off is at an end. You have finally made peace with the fact that the key to enjoying your own wedding day – and it is possible – is to accept that it’s not about you. You are a vehicle for everyone else’s happiness. Your partner’s, your respective families and, of course, the predictable male guests. Read on to find exactly whom your money is being spent on.

So, the invite said black tie. So what? He clearly doesn’t own a suit, and even if he did... Rules are for breaking. That’s how he lives his life. In the moment. He’s wacky! Zany. A loose goose. This is what he says when they won’t let him in the church because he’s in shorts, waving his hands in the air manically. Not beach shorts – he’s not a total sociopath – but navy chino shorts, ironed with a central crease, a yacht-rock blazer, loose tie and short-sleeved shirt (relax, it’s cream) slightly unbuttoned to act as visual semaphore for the kind of guy he is. By 10.00pm, he’s drunk and he’s opened it right down to his belly button. Hey, who said free the nipple was just for women? Ha ha, girls, love that gag.

He’s the second cousin once removed – Sheila’s kid who’s been invited because everyone is terrified of Sheila. He’s the guy the happy couple met on holiday once and has been invited because that was a special holiday. He’s Uncle Rahul’s boy, you know, the one who got into trouble with the law, but who’s got his life back on track. Whoever he is, he’s the “does anyone know who that guy is” guy. An air of mystery surrounds him. Half the guests think he’s a wedding crasher. He’s explained who he is to 123 different people, but no one is any the wiser. When he isn’t listening to people saying, “So, who are you?”, he’s dealing with people who are panicking because they think that they’ve met him before and are now mortified they can’t remember his name. Men call him “mate” and “man” a lot. Women say “how are you”, the stress heavy on the “you”, a silent plea to just let them know who he is.

If he’s said it once, he’ll say it again: monogamy is a social construct. No two people are destined to be together for ever, and besides, he did that animal quiz on Facebook and it said he was a bonobo, destined to engage in sexual activity with multiple partners. If the damp, countryside wedding of his former uni flatmate isn’t tantamount to the swamp forests of central Africa then frankly, what is? This is his third run as best man, so he’s essentially a veteran. His plan is simple, and always watertight. The night before, he singles out three potential candidates. Then he requests a microphone for proceedings, and uses it to be loud and funny before/after the service. Attention gained, he dances vehemently with the first two people to make the third – his ultimate prize – jealous. He ignores the third until the penultimate dance, then makes his move on the dance floor before siphoning them off to a table, asking about their last relationship and looking baffled when the magic words “I am single” are forthcoming. Twenty minutes of solid “listening” later, he says he’s heading to the B&B to sleep because he’s got an early train. He waits for the disappointment, then casually suggests a nightcap. For some inexplicable reason this always seems to work.

He may not have an office from which to grant supplicants a favour on this, his granddaughter’s wedding day, and he may not, in fact, be capable of doing anyone any favours on this, his granddaughter’s wedding day, but he is Papa Tony, head of the family and something of a name down at the Local Association for Small Businesses. He isn’t one for dancing, but he is one for sitting at the top table receiving visitors, all of whom must show the respect accorded to a man who is still alive and able to put on black tie on this, the day of his granddaughter’s wedding. “Marriage is a blessing”, he says to anyone within earshot. “For me, there is nothing more important than family,” he opines to Dominic, his granddaughter’s fiancé’s best man, who came over to say hello and has spent the past 15 minutes listening to his disquisition on the perfect marinara sauce. This is his time. He’s in his element. And if the band try and cut half an hour from their set time? Well, he’ll just have to make them an offer they can’t refuse (two-for-one vouchers at the local Strada).

He clearly has one of the best jobs in the world. For one, he only works weekends, which leaves him just enough time for the gym – he’s able to bench press 160lb, a number that helpfully means his arms look devastating in uniform. For the other, did we mention it comes with a jazzy waistcoat? If he’s learned one thing in his many, many hours spent standing around on the happiest days of other people’s lives, it’s this: few things incite a need for human connection than singletons watching their best friend get married after four miniature burgers and an afternoon on the sauce. And, by vol-au-vent, is he going to make the most of it.

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