I got back to my room and started fretting about my speech. I knew I wanted to thank Mum and Dad for everything, Lynne and Joanne too, to thank Jackie and Tony and Victoria’s brother and sister for making me so welcome into their family: Christian had turned into something like the brother I’d always wanted to have. And then to talk about Victoria who, by this stage in the proceedings, would have become my wife. I was starting to think that finding the right words to describe what I really felt might just have to wait for a glass of champagne and the spur of the moment. I rang Peregrine:
‘Sorry, Peregrine. My speech. I’m still not sure I’m saying what I want to. Or if I’m saying it the right way.’
He was still awake or, at least, pretended he was:
‘No problem. I’ll be right up.’
Five minutes later, I was standing at the end of my bed and Peregrine had pulled a chair up in front of me:
‘Go on, then. Let me hear it and I can give you a few pointers. I’ll be the audience.’
I was a bit embarrassed but he assured me I would be on the day too, so this was good practice. Almost as soon as I started, he was clearing his throat loudly and coughing. As I ploughed on, he started throwing in comments like:
‘That’s not very funny.’
He started rattling his chair: anything, really, to try to throw me out of my stride. He knew the speech was going to be all right: we changed a couple of things but I didn’t even use my script on the day. He was just trying to give me an idea of how standing up there, doing it in front of an audience, might feel. By the time Peregrine had finished giving me a hard time, I was ready for bed. At least I’d had some help. The Best Man, Gary Neville, had had to sweat through it all on his own.
The next morning, I was pacing about in the corridor getting myself nervous about what lay ahead. I found myself outside Gary’s room and I could hear talking. He couldn’t be on the phone: there wasn’t one in the room. The stone walls of the castle meant he’d be lucky to get decent reception on his mobile. I couldn’t help wondering what he was up to. I opened the door as quietly as I could. Gary was standing there in front of the mirror, holding a can of deodorant in front of his face like a microphone, practicing his speech. I knew how he was feeling, of course, after the time I’d had the night before. But I burst out laughing anyway. Gary did too. It was going to be a big day all round. I realised how seriously he was taking it when the manicurist arrived. And I was honoured: Gaz had waited for my wedding day to get his nails done for the first time in his life.
The guests who’d been invited for the ceremony in the folly were starting to arrive. It was the proper thing, and gave me something to think about other than how nervous I was. I got ready and went down to the main reception to say hello. Melanie, Emma and Mel B from the Spice Girls, were almost the first to get there. They’ve always been lovely with me, even though I get a bit shy when I’m around them. At least, with the Girls, I didn’t have to force myself to make the conversation. They took care of that. They seemed as excited as I was, wanting to know everything that was going on. Mum and Dad were there, too, just to keep my feet on the ground.
Usually, the Best Man drives, doesn’t he? I’d decided I wasn’t having that. I’m the world’s worst passenger anyway and, although it was only two minutes from the castle to the folly, I reckoned that would be enough for Gary to take us off into the mud. What’s more, the groom’s car was a Bentley Continental. I wasn’t going to miss driving that. I was paying for it, after all. We drove down and I saw the inside of the folly for the very first time. You could hear helicopters spinning overhead, looking for pictures but, once you’d walked up these mossy, old steps and through the doorway, the sound of the stream running underneath us drowned everything else out. It was like stepping into the pages of a fairy tale: little lights twinkling above us, red roses everywhere, ivy creeping up the walls and the scent of a forest floor. Victoria had planned all this down to the last detail and it was beautiful. I gulped back the first lump in my throat of the day.
The Bishop of Cork, who was performing the ceremony, was already there, dressed in his deep purple robes. He was a lovely man. And a mad Manchester United fan, of course. He actually arranged for the folly to be blessed so that the wedding could take place inside it. There are twelve bishops in Ireland and, since our marriage, the other eleven have nicknamed the Bishop of Cork ‘Purple Spice’. I stood in front of the altar that Peregrine had made out of branches and twigs, while everyone else made their way inside. A violin and a harp were playing. It was perfect and peaceful and I could feel myself shaking like a leaf. Sweating, too: it was really warm in there. I looked around: our families were all there, aunts, uncles, my Nan and Grandad, the Girls, my mate Dave Gardner, Gary Neville’s mum and dad; just a couple of dozen people in all. And all of us expectant, waiting. I heard another car pull up outside the folly: Victoria.
I was wobbling, even before I saw her. There was a swell in the music. I’m going, here.
Tony, Victoria’s dad, walked in. That’s it. I’ve gone.
And Victoria stepped inside. I looked around. I had Brooklyn in my arms and I could feel my own eyes pricking. As I turned, the first person I saw was Emma Bunton. She was in floods of tears and, of course, that was all I needed to set me off. I was sniffing away; someone had to hand me a tissue. And then I saw Victoria. I married her because I love everything about her: the looks – the legs – her personality, her sense of humour. She was the person I felt I knew and understood better than anybody I’d ever met. We were always meant for each other. But, in those moments as she walked through the folly towards the altar, I saw somebody completely different. It was one of the most incredible experiences of my life and very difficult to put into words. It was like seeing this amazing person fresh, for the first time all over again. Was it the dress? The setting? The fact that we were about to become man and wife? Victoria was everything I knew – and knew I wanted – but she suddenly seemed much more than all that, too. I thought I knew how I felt about her but I wasn’t prepared at all for how I was feeling right at that instant. Victoria was more beautiful than I’d ever realised or could have imagined.
No question, you could have wrung that tissue out. Victoria came up alongside me and I couldn’t help myself. I leaned over and kissed her. The bride looked at me, as if to say:
‘We rehearsed this last night and I don’t think you were meant to do that.’
The ceremony started and everything was fine until we got to the point of actually saying: ‘I do’. Then, the pair of us went. Voices started trembling, the tears started trickling again: both of us this time.
We kept our wedding outfits on for the reception when everybody else arrived. Only Elton John and partner David Furnish weren’t able to make it on the day. Elton had actually said he’d sing at the reception, but he got taken ill on the morning of the wedding. We missed them but it was the kind of situation where we were more worried about Elton’s health than we were about them not making the wedding, and I think Elton was more worried about letting us down than he was about how rough he was feeling. As it was, we were just happy it didn’t turn out to be anything serious.
There were nearly 300 friends and relations present for the meal in the marquee. It’s a wonderful feeling looking out across a room and seeing so many of the people who’ve meant something in your life, all together and enjoying themselves. We ate but, just before the desserts, Victoria and I went to change. I loved my suit and would probably have kept it on but Victoria didn’t have much choice. Part of her gown was a corset that had been made for her by someone called Mr Pearl, this amazing little guy who wore a corset himself every day and even had a rib removed to make his waist seem slimmer. By this point, Victoria’s outfit was starting to get really uncomfortable so we went up, with Brooklyn, to the wedding suite and put on clothes for the rest of the evening.
We had these thrones for ourselves – and a high chair for the boy to match – which were up at the
top table. The whole thing was tongue-in-cheek, of course: we were at a castle, weren’t we? And the pair of us were Lord and Lady of the Manor for the day. Our little squire had a purple suit of his own and looked fantastic in it. I think he took to it like I had taken to my pageboy outfit at another Beckham family wedding all those years ago. The moment we got ourselves settled back in at the reception, though, Brooklyn decided he’d eaten something he didn’t fancy and threw up all over himself and me. You can always count on your kids to make sure nobody’s in danger of taking things too seriously.
Wiping sick off myself and Brooklyn was just the right preparation for the speeches.
Thanks to my son, and to Peregrine, I think I got away with mine. The only joke afterwards was that, every few minutes, I’d seemed to find myself saying:
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to start by saying…’
Tony’s speech was next and was just right: really loving. It was lump in the throat time again for Victoria and for me. I think he understood just how we felt ourselves.
‘David and Victoria grew up fifteen minutes away from each other. Even though they never met, so much about their backgrounds and upbringings have been the same. They’ve both tried to make something of themselves and worked hard at their own lives. When Victoria was going off to dancing school, David was going off to football practice. They’ve each worked really hard to achieve what they have. And now they’re really lucky to have found each other after all this time.’
And then, to Gary: without me knowing, my best man had asked Victoria to lend him one of her sarongs. By the time we got to his speech, everybody had had enough wine to be right in the mood. I didn’t have a clue what he was going to say. Or do. It was a good start, anyway, him standing up wearing this sarong. Gary was really funny, although maybe the funniest thing of all was by accident. Every time he cracked a joke, he forgot to take the microphone away from in front of his mouth. What happened to all that practice with the can of Sure? It meant you could hear Gary giggling away to himself at his own jokes. He was as nervous as I’d been, but Gary was great. The whole day was.
Although we’d borrowed Peregrine’s nanny for the night, Victoria and I took Brooklyn up to get him ready for bed. We went back downstairs and through into the tent where the party was going to carry on: there were cushions and pillows and drapes everywhere, this very oriental, kind of Indonesian, setting. The bride and groom, of course, had to have the first dance of the evening together, while people drifted through after the meal. Then, for a couple of hours, it was a chance to go round and say hello to everybody, catch up and have pictures taken before, at the stroke of midnight, everybody came outside for a big fireworks display. Which was amazing: even Victoria and I didn’t know exactly what to expect. They were perfect: the spectacular treat to top off our perfect day.
I was so happy, so proud: content as I’d never been before in my life. Victoria and I were thrilled to be Mister and Missus. And when you’re feeling like we were, you assume everybody else will be equally delighted. After all, in the world of football, managers are usually pleased to see their players marry and settle down. But during those first days and weeks after our wedding, it seemed I might be destined to be the exception that proved the rule.
Pre-season training was round the corner and, like any new husband, I was keen on a honeymoon. The first-team squad was split up anyway: most of the lads were off to Australia on tour, whereas the England contingent, who’d trained earlier in the summer on international duty, had a little extra time off. Maybe it was a mistake, but I asked if I could have a couple days more so that Victoria and I could spend a week abroad together. Actually, I didn’t ask; my agent, Tony Stephens, did. He was seeing the United chairman, Martin Edwards, on business. They’d talked about the wedding and Tony mentioned that I’d love the couple of extra days to make going somewhere exotic worthwhile. We didn’t fancy getting on a plane and then having to turn round at the other end to come straight back. Martin Edwards didn’t think there’d be a problem with that but, when the gaffer got to hear about it, it sounded to him as if I’d tried to go behind his back. He wasn’t best pleased and let me know about it. Never mind the blast down the phone, I had to settle for a whirlwind of a honeymoon and then report back – before the other England lads turned up and while the rest of the first team were on the other side of the world – to train with the reserves.
We might have only recently won the Treble. We might have been going into a new season believing we could do it again. But never mind all that: the gaffer was going to make sure that nobody started taking anything for granted. He was probably trying to bring me back down to earth: I’d just lived through the most amazing six months of my life, feeling like things couldn’t be going any better, at Old Trafford or at home. If he’d asked me, I’d have told the boss I didn’t need the knock he gave me at the start of pre-season. I suppose it’s always been part of how things are done at United: any hint of anybody getting above themselves and someone – a team-mate, a member of staff or the gaffer himself – was there to knock you down again. I didn’t think it was right, but I understood why the boss had reacted the way he did. As always, he was doing what he thought was best for the team. There was only one thing for me to do: knuckle down and get on with it.
Since that amazing semi-final against Arsenal, the team had felt invincible: we went into every single game sure that we’d win it. And that confidence rolled on into the new 1999/2000 season. We made a great start and, for the next nine months, hardly looked back. Even the odd defeat – I remember we got turned over 5–0 at Chelsea – didn’t stop the momentum. How happy I was at home somehow made me even happier to be playing football – for United and for England, too. After France 98, even at the lowest of times, I hadn’t ever wondered about continuing to play for my country. Whatever other people were saying, I was proud to be an international footballer and I’d never thought about stopping even if that might have been a way of easing the pressure on me. My only doubts were about whether, in the long run, I had an England future under Glenn Hoddle. I always had the feeling that he’d have looked for a way, sooner or later, to leave me out of his plans.
Back in the autumn of 1998, we’d made a pretty poor start to qualifying for the next European Championships. England supporters weren’t happy and some of the media seemed to be campaigning for a change of manager. Even so, when that change happened, and the way it happened, came as a real shock. I don’t know how much of it all was Glenn’s fault and how much he was stitched up by the press. When I first heard that he’d been quoted talking about disabled people and their past lives, I knew straight away it was going to turn into something huge. Overnight, it seemed that everybody, including the Prime Minister, was having a say on it. Once they’re in the headlines, stories move so quickly that no one really has a chance to think. At the start of February, just a few days after the interview had been published, Glenn was gone. There was a crazy press conference to announce it at the FA, where one England fan had to be dragged out kicking and screaming. Despite the fact I’d had real differences with him as England manager, I knew that must have been a very hard afternoon for Glenn.
Howard Wilkinson came in as caretaker manager for a couple of friendlies. When the FA made their permanent appointment, they couldn’t have picked anyone more different than the man who’d gone before. I’d always admired the way Kevin Keegan’s teams played and enjoyed listening to him talking about football. I respected his passion and his honesty. I was really excited, joining up with England for the first time with him as manager, for a qualifier against Poland at Wembley. I’ve always thought that, in a perfect world, it would be good to be able to combine Hoddle’s strengths with Keegan’s. Glenn is a very good coach who, I think, struggles with relating to some players. Kevin is an absolutely fantastic man manager. Right from the start of our first sessions at Bisham Abbey ahead of that Poland game, Kevin’s enthusiasm lifted everyone. He inspired you about what
you could do as an England player. Come the Saturday and a beautiful Spring day at Wembley, everyone was up for it. The fans were up for it as well. Scholesy got a hat-trick and we just blew Poland away. I don’t think there was anyone in the country who didn’t think Kevin was the right man for the England job and all it took was that 3–1 win to convince him to take it on full-time.
There was a great atmosphere around the England camp under Kevin but it was hard work getting to Euro 2000: we ended up having to play off against Scotland. We won 2–0 at Hampden Park on the Saturday but then, at Wembley the following Wednesday, Don Hutchison scored for them before half-time and, to be honest, by the end we were hanging on. The important thing, though, was to have qualified. We had six months to forget about how we’d done it and concentrate, instead, on putting things right in time for the Championships. I thought we’d be okay and I had faith in Kevin as England manager. By the time we were squeezing past Scotland, I’d found good reason to put my absolute trust in him as a man, too.
In mid-October 1999, we had one week to play two Euro 2000 qualifiers. We played Luxembourg at Wembley and then four days later, on the Wednesday, we took on Poland in Warsaw. I was in my room at the England hotel on the Friday night before the first of what were going to be two really important games for England. My mobile rang. It was Victoria, calling from her mum and dad’s. She’d have known, the night before a game, that the hotel wouldn’t have been allowed to put her through to my room. It didn’t help that the line wasn’t great but, in amongst the hisses and crackles, I heard what I needed to. The police had been in contact about a tip-off they’d received. They believed someone was going to try and kidnap Victoria and Brooklyn the following day, while I was at Wembley, playing football for England. Suddenly, it was like feeling everything was slipping away from beneath me. What do I do? Who do I tell? It probably didn’t help Victoria that I was so shocked, hardly able to take in what she’d told me. I didn’t know what to say, other than:
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