I had something quite exciting happen to me recently. My brother asked me to be best man at his wedding.

Now obviously that’s exciting because I love him and I’m honoured to be a part of such an important day of his life.

But I’m mostly excited because I love the title “best man”.

You see it’s not often in the 35 years of my life that I have ever been referred to as the “best” at anything.

And let’s be honest, as the sort of bloke who when something breaks at my house needs to dial Hire-A-Hubby to tell me the number for Hire-A-Hubby, I’m just happy to be officially referred to as a “man”.

Although the title of “best man” at a wedding is a little overstated.

I mean for starters, your presence there is certainly less important than say, the groom, which immediately relegates you to “second best man.”

Then of course, in most cases the priest is also male (and if you believe in that sort of thing, has a direct line to God) so that knocks you down the order again.

And that’s without even considering more often than not, there is the Father of The Bride, which means you are now not even on the podium coming in as the “fourth best man”.

(And don’t even get me started on a gay wedding where there are two grooms, two fathers of the bride, and I guess probably two best men too.)

In fact, now that I think about it, the only way the title “best man” could be appropriate at a wedding is if two lesbians, who had also been raised by two lesbians each, were getting married and had a female celebrant.

But I digress.

I was excited, but also nervous. I only have one brother, even if I’m really only the “fourth best man” I still want to make sure I do a good job.

Now the speech bit I think I can handle, but the rest I have no idea. Do I get a stripper? (For the buck’s party obviously, even I know that would be bad taste at the church)

You see I’ve never been a massive fan of strip clubs. To me it’s like taking a starving man to a restaurant, letting him look at the food, smell the food, but then making him go home hungry.

But I also don’t want to be the boring bucks bloke. I decided I needed some help, so I called a recently married mate and asked what my responsibilities were as best man.

He said: “Don’t worry mate, it’s a piece of piss. You just get a nice black suit, a cool car, say a few profound words and fight crime.”

It was at this point I realised that due to the bad reception in my house he thought I had asked him what my responsibilities were as Batman.

I decided instead to go to the internet.

After spending a few minutes looking at sites that seemed to skip the wedding, and just concentrate on what happens on the wedding night, I finally found what I was looking for: “The Comprehensive Guide To Being A Best Man.”

“Step One” I read: “Above all else be organised and offer constant moral support.”

My shoulders slumped in despair. Organisation and moral support, my two Achilles heels.

(I know you are only meant to have one Achilles heel, but bugger it, you have two heals, so I think it is only fair.)

You see, above all else, I am really badly organised. For a moment I actually thought: “Would it be inappropriate to get my manager to organise my brother’s bucks party?”

And when it comes to moral support, well, let’s just say I don’t have a foolproof barometer when it comes to knowing where to draw the line.

The devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear, and then I wait for the angel to say something before realising the devil spiked his drink with rohypnol.

I guess the best I can do is make sure I keep reassuring my bro that he is doing the right thing, and if he changes his mind at the last moment have a car full of petrol, with a glove box full of plane tickets, false passports and Tony Mockbell’s old wigs.

I read on. “Step Two: Organise measurements for suits, and pick up groom’s outfit on the day!”

What? Organise measurements? Am I really meant to do that? What is this, Queer Eye For The Engaged Guy?

And what if their measurements change before the big day? Am I meant to keep ringing the rest of the bridal party and say: “So dude, you still making it to the gym? I’m sending you a couple of vouchers for Bikram yoga!”

As it turns out my bro is going to pick up his own suit, which is probably a good idea, as I would probably leave it to the last moment and then just take whatever was left and it would be weird when the priest said: “Do you Kelly take… um, er… well it seems to be Spongebob Squarepants.”

Luckily the next few steps seemed a little easier.

I was happy to dance with the bridesmaids (as long as they knew the Macerena, YMCA, Time Warp or Nutbush); I was happy to organise the tossing of the garter (although I wondered if I couldn’t find enough single men, could I invite men whose relationships were a bit rocky?) and I was even happy to sign the marriage license (although I’ll have to be careful not to go with my usual: “Thanks for watching, all the best, Wil.”)

And then my palms started to sweat as we came to the Big One. “Final Step: Look after the ring!”

You see your main job above all else is to take care of, and guard with your life the ring, until the vital moment when it can be taken out of your palm and flung into the fires of Mordor.

Oh, sorry, I got distracted for a minute by Lord of The Rings on Foxtel. Don’t worry I’m sure it will all be alright on the day, after all I’m the fourth best man.

If anyone has any tips for the perfect buck's night, please feel free to leave your comments below!"