Andrew Vine: Nervous and disaster-prone figures of speech

Yes, it’s the halting delivery and naked terror of the poor soul who has either agreed to – or more likely been pressed into – speak in public, despite their every instinct telling them it’s a mistake and best left to those confident characters who can stand up before an audience without nerves shaking them to pieces.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a wedding, or a funeral, or a gathering of strangers, it’s one of the greatest social ordeals of them all, and makes even the most resolute blanch.

I found myself press-ganged into doing it last week, over my weak protests that I’m utterly hopeless and visions of making some horrible gaffe that ends up going viral on YouTube racing through my mind.

Every disaster that can befall anyone who gets up on their hind legs before an audience kept me awake the night before. Tripping up, going on stage with undone flies, inadvertently uttering some dreadful double entendre, lip-reading somebody in the front row mouthing “He’s rubbish, isn’t he?” to their neighbour, every one of them surfaced.

And so did everything I expected to happen on the night. The parched mouth, the sheen of perspiration on the brow, the clammy palms, the fluttering heart and swimming head all put in an appearance.

The horrors of public speaking ensnare many of us at some point, often enough as a result of being asked to do somebody a favour, which makes it especially hard to say no. The ensuing terror is one of the great levellers, reducing humble and exalted alike to the same gibbering inadequacy. I’ve seen it happen to joiners, captains of industry and even members of the Royal Family, all of them wide-eyed and panic-stricken.

Nervousness beckons towards disaster when the spoon is rapped on the table for quiet and all eyes turn towards the speaker, who wishes they were somewhere – anywhere – other than here.

My personal golden rule of speaking in public is that if something can possibly go wrong, then it very likely will. This was forged in the crimson-cheeked embarrassment of two best man speeches that, despite extensive preparation and a studious determination to avoid saying anything remotely risky, didn’t go at all well.

The first time, I inadvertently suggested that the bride had a fearsome temper, which she hadn’t. Her father had, though, as he demonstrated afterwards. On the second occasion, a passage about how the happy newlyweds hoped to start a family came out garbled to such an extent that the audience was left with the impression that the bride was already expecting and that was a factor in the wedding taking place. Oddly enough, her mother turned out to have a fearsome temper as well.

The golden rule was further reinforced by sympathy for the father of the bride at another wedding. Even by the jittery standards of the reluctant public speaker, he was in a frightful state of nerves, the notes for his speech fluttering wildly in his shaking hands, his voice fading in and out. Still, willed on by the guests who felt for his plight, he made it to the end without mishap, to deserved applause. His ordeal nearly over, he relaxed. And fell down the uncovered manhole of the double entendre.

What he meant to say was that Janet and John were leaving the reception to get ready to drive away on honeymoon with the tin cans clattering behind the bumper of their car. What he actually said was: “Janet and John are going upstairs to put their gear together.”

A friend who found himself in a job that required him to address audiences of strangers was so gripped by anxiety that his voice shot up half an octave and he gabbled through what he had to say.

Eventually, he sought advice from a professional actor, who counselled deep breathing, a conscious effort to slow down his delivery, and to keep his voice pitched low. It all went too far, and he started sounding like Henry Kissinger on tranquilisers. Audiences that had struggled to keep up were now so transfixed by the plodding pace, pauses for lengthy inhalations and rumbling bass tones that they took no more notice of what he was saying than when he’d been yammering.

I’m lost in admiration – and a little green with envy – at anyone who can breeze up onto a stage, crack a few jokes, and say what needs to be said without a single drop of perspiration troubling their brow.

Did it go well? I can’t really remember, relief having blotted out most of what happened. But the shade of that poor father of the bride hovered at my shoulder throughout as I stood there like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

“Your tie wasn’t straight,” somebody said afterwards. If that’s the worst that happened, I’ll settle for it.