Through the 1998/99 season, and after what had happened in the World Cup, we’d had to get used to the idea of thinking about security in relation to almost everything we did. But we weren’t going to compromise on the day for our family and friends. We didn’t want to slip away and get married in secret. We wanted a wedding to remember, both for ourselves and for the people we care most about. A big day would mean big security, though, and that pushed us towards two big decisions. One was to do a photo deal with a magazine: we realized that OK!’s desire to protect their exclusive would go a long way towards protecting our privacy at the same time. The other was to find someone who could take some of the pressure off the bride. So we hired a wedding co-ordinator, Peregrine Armstrong-Jones. I can’t say I’d ever met anyone named Peregrine before. He was pretty upper-upper but a really lovely bloke who did a fantastic job for us: he understood what we were hoping for and made sure that was exactly what we got.
Between them, Victoria and Peregrine found our castle in Ireland at Luttrellstown. It had everything we needed and, best of all, something we might never have thought of if it hadn’t been there already. The local church was a little drive away but, in the castle grounds, there was a little folly: ancient, tumbledown and a bit magical. The kind of setting in which you could dream about saying: I do. Once the bride and her sidekick saw it, ramshackle as it was, the decision was made and Peregrine got to work. There was a stream running underneath the folly and he created this setting straight out of a picture book of times past, with branches reaching overhead, fairy lights and flowers everywhere. Just enough room for about thirty members of our families and very closest friends before the big bash for everyone up at the castle later on. It was fantastic.
I loved every minute of the build-up: tasting the food, trying the wines and choosing the music. Everything went really smoothly—amazing, really, considering how complicated the arrangements were—until it came to getting the bride’s frock across the Irish Sea. Now, bear in mind I wasn’t supposed to see Victoria’s wedding dress until the day. The people at OK! were so nervous about things that they chartered a small private plane to take us to Ireland. Brooklyn, me, Victoria, her mum and dad, sister Louise—with her baby, Liberty—and brother Christian had all squeezed in before the crew told us that the big box with the Big Secret wouldn’t fit in the hold. Which meant the dress had to come out of the box to get it in through the passenger door. So I was sent off to stand on the runway with my eyes shut for twenty minutes. I had to sit with my back to the thing all the way to Dublin and, of course, once we touched down, we had to go through the entire routine all over again. I wasn’t supposed to see it and, of course, we had to make sure that any cameras couldn’t either. Pity: the afternoon would have made quite a good silent movie.
We got to the castle two days before our wedding day. Mum and Dad flew out and other guests started arriving the following evening. We had a big dinner for everyone the night before. After the meal, Victoria and I went out in the castle grounds for a walk together. We headed down to the marquee where the reception was going to take place. There was a little grove that had been made out of branches, and holly and flowers, which people would have to walk underneath to get inside. I’d brought along a couple of glasses and a bottle of champagne. I was telling Victoria, again, how much I loved her and, all of a sudden, this soft rain started falling. On a warm summer’s evening, it felt perfect. I couldn’t have imagined anything more romantic.
Eventually, bride and groom had to go their separate ways for the night. Back at the castle, Victoria, of course, had the best room in the place: our wedding suite. I had to make do with another guest room downstairs. Before I went to bed, the United players and some of my mates got together: it wasn’t very wild as stag evenings go. Everyone was pretty tired and we just went through and had a couple of drinks and a game or two on the snooker table. Two o’clock and sober, that was me. I wanted to look half-decent the following morning and I wanted to be sure I’d remember every second of it.
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 cell phone. 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 realized how seriously he was taking it when the manicurist arrived. And I was honored: 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 beautif
ul. 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 tearing up. 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 sniffling 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 humor. 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 realized 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 fell 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 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 soccer 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 deodorant? 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 soccer, 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. Marti
n Edwards didn’t think there’d be a problem with that but, when the manager 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 on 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 manager 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 abuse 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 manager 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 memorable 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 thrashed 5–0 at Chelsea—didn’t stop the momentum. As happy as I was at home, I was even happier to be playing soccer—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. 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.
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