Less “trust us”. More “read this”.

Nine o'clock on the Saturday morning, and Josh had already lost his tent, his phone and his shoes. In that order. Losing the phone before the shoes is the part I've never quite forgiven him for, because it meant the only way left of finding the phone was to walk.

He didn't find any of it that day. He found all three the next morning, at six, by setting off across a field towards the sound of his own ringtone. Barefoot. Apologising to strangers as he went, because it was six in the morning and he was walking past their tents and he felt he owed them something.

His brother filmed the last twenty yards of it. Josh has watched that footage back more than once, and the only comment he has ever offered on any of it is, "that's not even my walk."

Hannah's mum and dad are the reason today looks the way it does, and every single person in here has noticed. And a good few of them got on a plane in Australia to be here, which is further than Josh has travelled for a five-a-side match in fifteen years.

That's how I got him, by the way. Five-a-side. Somebody's cousin promised us a ringer who was "basically semi-pro". What turned up was Josh. He was so bad we kept him on out of pity, and in his first game he scored an own goal that the lads have never once allowed to die. Fifteen years on he is still comfortably the worst player we have, and he is still the first name on the sheet every week.

The January after he moved in, he bought a four hundred pound bread machine. He told us it would pay for itself in six months, and he did the maths on a napkin in the Crown, in front of me and his dad, with real confidence. He made two loaves. The second one set the smoke alarm off at half six in the morning. The machine now lives in the garage, where it functions as a very expensive shelf, and he maintains to this day that it was a good investment.

He also insisted on organising his own stag do, because "it's not hard". Nine of us. One hire car built for five. And a bunkhouse booking that was, it turned out, for the following weekend. We discovered this at eleven at night, in a car park, in the rain. He said "right" about six times, in a row, and then he found us a Travelodge. And to be fair to the man, the Travelodge was fine.

But the story I'd want him remembered by is the shopping centre.

He fell asleep in a massage chair. The shopping centre closed around him. He woke up locked in, on his own, overnight, with a phone and a list of people who would have come and got him. He rang none of them. What he did instead was test every massage chair on both floors, and then rate them. In a spreadsheet. Which he still has, and which he will still show you, unprompted, at a barbecue.

Security found him at six in the morning. Six in the morning, again. And rather than explain himself, apologise, or leave, Josh asked them which chair they'd recommend.

He's also a hugger. He hugs everybody. People he's known for years, people he's known for four minutes, and people he's fairly sure he's met before but definitely hasn't. At his sister's engagement do he hugged the caterer. Twice. And then spent ten minutes telling us the caterer was sound, actually, really good bloke.

Now, Hannah. The two of them were both stood up in the same bar on the same night, about twenty minutes apart, ended up sharing a table out of pure embarrassment and stayed there until closing. Josh says he knew that night. Hannah points out, correctly, that she was also there, and that he absolutely did not know that night.

Here's what I know about Hannah. She is physically incapable of letting a person leave her house hungry. She will chase you down the drive with a bag of food you did not ask for and cannot refuse. I have been sent home with a shepherd's pie that I watched her make for her own tea. Arguing is not an option. Nobody has found the argument.

And she's changed him, in small ways I find genuinely astonishing. He owns a plant. It is alive. It has a spot by the window that is not up for discussion, and when the two of them went away for a fortnight he asked the neighbour to check on it and then texted the neighbour twice.

He walked in here today looking like a man who'd rehearsed it. And I'll say it on his behalf, because he'd only say it later anyway. That's not even his walk.

But he got here. Which brings me to the thing I actually wanted to say.

Josh has never once been early for anything in the fifteen years I've known him. Hannah is the first person who's ever made him want to be on time, and honestly, he nearly is. That's not a small thing in a man who needs four attempts to leave a room. She didn't ask him to change and he didn't announce that he had. He just started turning up.

So if you can stand, stand, and if standing's a bit much, a raised glass will do the job perfectly well.

To the man who found his shoes by walking towards them, and to the woman who'll be sending us all home with food we didn't ask for. Take care of each other, keep the plant alive, and let's have a drink.

To the newlyweds.

Josh will tell you, sincerely, with a straight face, that he's not really a competitive person.

He told me this at half past one in the morning, at a table he would not let four of us leave, in a game of Monopoly he had no chance of winning. His argument, and he made it several times, was that it could still turn.

That's the thesis. Josh does not accept that a thing is over. Not when it's over, not when everyone else in the room has quietly accepted it, and not when the evidence is on the table in front of him.

Everything I'm about to tell you is evidence.

He went to a festival once and lost his tent, his phone and his shoes. In that order. All three gone before nine o'clock on the Saturday morning, which is a rate of loss most people couldn't achieve on purpose.

A normal man calls it there. A normal man borrows a charger, admits defeat and goes home in somebody else's flip-flops. Josh stayed. Josh reasoned that the tent, the phone and the shoes were all still technically in the field, and therefore still technically his.

At six the following morning he set off across that field on foot, barefoot, following the sound of his own ringtone. Apologising to strangers as he went. And he found all three. His brother filmed the last twenty yards of it, because his brother is a good man.

Josh watched it back. He didn't say anything about the tent, or the phone, or the shoes. What he said was, "that's not even my walk."

Hannah's mum and dad have put all of this together, and they've done it with a standard of organisation that's about to become relevant. And there are people here who've come from Australia, which is a long way to travel on the promise of a speech, and it means an enormous amount that you did.

Because Josh insisted on organising the stag himself. His reasoning was that it's not hard.

Nine of us. One hire car, designed and built for five. And a bunkhouse booking that was, in fairness, a real booking, for a real bunkhouse, for the following weekend.

We found this out at eleven at night, in a car park, in the rain. And I want to be honest about what happened next, because it's the most Josh thing I've ever witnessed. He didn't panic. He didn't apologise. He said "right" about six times, at intervals, like a man reasoning with a machine. And then he found us a Travelodge.

And to be fair to him, the Travelodge was fine.

The January after he moved in he spent four hundred pounds on a bread machine and announced it would pay for itself in six months. He did the maths on a napkin in the Crown, in front of me and his dad, and the maths worked, which is the frightening part. He made two loaves. The second one set the smoke alarm off at half six in the morning. It is now a very expensive shelf in the garage, and he will still tell you it was a good investment.

He came to us as a ringer. Somebody's cousin swore he was basically semi-pro. He scored an own goal in his first game and we kept him on out of pity. Fifteen years later he is comfortably the worst player we have and the first name on the sheet every week.

He also cannot leave a building. "Right, I'd better make a move" - four times minimum, coat on by the second, still standing there forty minutes later holding a drink somebody bought him during the third. He hugs everyone. At his sister's engagement do he hugged the caterer twice and then spent ten minutes telling us the caterer was sound, actually, really good bloke.

He's also got a plant. It's alive. It has a position by the window that is not up for discussion, and when they went away for a fortnight he asked the neighbour to check on it and then texted the neighbour twice.

Now. Hannah and Josh were both stood up in the same bar on the same night, about twenty minutes apart. They shared a table out of pure embarrassment and stayed until closing.

Hannah is physically incapable of letting anyone leave her house hungry. She will chase you down the drive with food you did not ask for and cannot refuse. I have been sent home with a shepherd's pie that I watched her make for her own tea. Nobody has ever found a way to argue with her about it and I've stopped trying.

He says he knew that night. She says he absolutely did not know that night, and she was there too.

But here's the thing about a man who won't leave a table. He doesn't leave. Not when it's difficult, not when it's late, not when everyone else has had enough and gone home. He stays, and he keeps saying "right", and he finds the Travelodge.

Hannah is the first person who's ever made him want to be on time. And he nearly is.

Could everybody stand up, if you're able. Glasses in hand.

Josh, you've spent fifteen years telling us that it can still turn, usually from a position of total collapse, usually at an hour when the rest of us wanted to be in bed. Today is the one time you've been right about it.

To the newlyweds.

Josh came to us as a ringer. Somebody's cousin had promised he was basically semi-pro, and in his first game he scored an own goal. We kept him on out of pity. Fifteen years later he is comfortably the worst player we have, and he is the first name on the sheet every single week, and nobody has ever once suggested changing either of those two things.

That's been the arrangement between us ever since. He goes and does something. I stand fairly close by, taking notes. Fifteen years of notes. Today I'm finally getting some use out of them.

Now. He organised his own stag do. He insisted on it, on the grounds that it's not hard. And I let him, which is the part I'd ask the room to hold against me rather than him. I could have asked to see the booking. I didn't.

Nine of us. One hire car, meant for five. And a bunkhouse booked, confidently, for the following weekend. We discovered that at eleven at night, in a car park, in the rain, which is exactly the sort of place you want a man to tell you it's not hard.

He said "right". Then he said "right" again. He said "right" about six times, working through it, while the rest of us stood there getting steadily wetter and contributing nothing whatsoever. And then he found us a Travelodge. And I have to be honest with you - the Travelodge was fine.

Hannah's mum and dad have been extraordinarily good to all of us in the run-up to today, and everyone who's come over from Australia has managed a piece of travel organisation that is frankly out of our league.

The other thing you need to know about Josh is that he has my phone number. He's had it for fifteen years. I mention this because he once got himself locked inside a shopping centre overnight, having fallen asleep in a massage chair, and the number of people he rang about it was none.

What he did instead was test every massage chair on both floors. Then he rated them. In a spreadsheet. He still has the spreadsheet, and he will still show it to you, and I want to be clear that I've seen it three times and asked to see it on two of those occasions.

Security found him at six in the morning, and he asked them which one they'd recommend.

He'll tell you, completely sincerely, that he's not really a competitive person. He told me that once while keeping four of us at a table until half one in the morning over a game of Monopoly he had absolutely no chance of winning. His position was that it could still turn.

At a festival he lost his tent, his phone and his shoes, in that order, before nine on the Saturday. He got all three back at six the next morning by walking across a field towards the sound of his own ringtone, barefoot, apologising to strangers as he went. His brother filmed the last twenty yards of it. Josh watched it back and said, "that's not even my walk."

And he hugs everybody. People he met four minutes ago. People he's fairly sure he's met before and definitely hasn't.

Which brings me to Hannah. They were both stood up, in the same bar, on the same night, about twenty minutes apart. They shared a table out of pure embarrassment and stayed until closing. He says he knew that night. She says he absolutely did not know that night, and she'd like the room to remember that she was also there.

Hannah is physically incapable of letting anyone leave her house hungry. She will chase you down the drive with a bag of food you didn't ask for and cannot refuse. I have been sent home with a shepherd's pie that I watched her make for her own tea. Nobody has ever found a way of arguing with her about this, and people have tried.

And the effect on him has been remarkable. He owns a plant. It's alive. It has a spot by the window that is not up for discussion, and when they went away for a fortnight he asked the neighbour to check on it and then texted the neighbour twice.

He's still the worst player on the team. He's still the first name on the sheet.

Fifteen years of notes, and the thing I've actually watched happen is this. Hannah is the first person who's ever made him want to be on time. And he nearly is. He's not there yet. But he wants to be, which in his case is the whole distance travelled, and I've never seen anyone else manage it.

That's what I'm proud to have had a seat for.

So - if you can get yourselves upright, and get hold of a glass, I'd like everyone to join me. There's no spreadsheet for this bit, and I haven't checked the booking. But I know the two of them, and I know how this one turns out.

To the newlyweds.