Best Man Speech for a Twin Brother: 3 Funny Full Examples

Before I start, I want to put a rumour to bed. The groom is not up here giving his own best man speech. He did suggest it.

I'm Dec, Finn's identical twin, older by nine minutes. For nine whole minutes this family knew peace. We should all take a moment for that.

I cut hair for a living. I've been cutting Finn's since we were fifteen, which takes a certain nerve when his head is also your head. Every mistake I made walked into the kitchen the next morning and ate cereal across from me. My early work is all over the family albums. I'd apologise, but Mum laminated them.

Being identical is a strange job. Teachers had a system for us. Anything good was Finn. Anything broken, they sent us both home. One school report skipped names altogether and just said 'they are a handful'. We were ten, and we'd already been merged into a single legal entity.

So at fifteen, Finn decided he was done being half of something. He wanted his own look. He locked himself in the bathroom with a box of supermarket bleach, and forty minutes later my brother walked out the colour of a tennis ball. School photos were that Thursday.

He begged me to fix it. I'd been cutting hair for about a month, and I'll be honest, I made it worse in a brand new direction. So we did the only thing left. We shaved the lot off. Then I did mine as well, so on photo day he wouldn't be stood there on his own. Two bald fifteen-year-olds, grinning like it was a plan. Mum cried in the car park. The photographer charged us for one portrait and told us to share it.

It goes both ways, mind. When my shop flooded two winters back, Finn turned up at six the next morning with a wet vac and bacon rolls. He stayed the week. Told me work had given him the time off. They had not. I found that out in August, from his boss, at a barbecue, and I'm telling everyone now because he never will.

Then Robyn arrived. People always ask how she tells us apart, and her answer is better than the question. She says Finn smiles a second before he speaks, like he's already heard the joke. She had us solved inside a week. I've got customers of ten years who still call me Finn, and this woman cracked it in seven days. The first time she came round for dinner, she watched the two of us finish each other's sentences for an hour, then asked, very politely, if we ever finish our own. Finn went quiet for the first time in living memory. I'd have married her myself on the spot, but she can tell us apart, so there's no fooling her, and apparently she prefers the smug one.

Robyn, you're getting the better one. I can say that with a straight face because it's also a compliment to me. But look what you've done. There were two of us, interchangeable for thirty-three years, and you walked in and made one of us particular. He's calmer around you. Better dressed too, which I resent, because people keep asking if I've let myself go.

Finn. We've shared a face all our lives, and today is the first day it's done more for you than it ever did for me. Look at you. Happiest I've ever seen that face, on either of us.

Right, everyone on your feet and glasses up. Finn has spent thirty-three years sharing a portrait with me, and as of today he's officially upgraded.

To Finn and Robyn.

Hi everyone. I'm Cole, Reid's twin brother. I'll give you a second with that, because I can see some of you doing the math with your eyes. We're fraternal. He got Mom's cheekbones and I got Dad's entire silhouette.

Nobody believes us. Never have. In seventh grade a substitute teacher made us stand back to back at the front of the room because she was sure we were running some kind of long con. We weren't, but I respect that she looked at two kids with the same last name and went straight to conspiracy.

And here's the part people really can't handle. We have different birthdays. Reid arrived at 11:52 on a Tuesday night. I took my time and showed up at 12:14 on Wednesday morning. Twins, two birthdays. He's been ahead of me since the day before I was born, and he has never once let it go.

Our birthday parties were joint, which meant one negotiation every August and a cake with a frosting border drawn down the middle. Reid ran those talks like a tiny lawyer. The year we turned seven I traded him my half of the theme for two weeks of his desserts, and he honored the contract. Wrote it out and everything. Signed it. He works in compliance now. Nobody was surprised.

People always ask if we have twin telepathy. We do not. I once got locked in a supply room at the visitor center and texted him for help, and he replied with a thumbs up and went to lunch. A school group found me forty minutes later. He maintains the thumbs up was support.

I'm a park ranger. The outdoors is my office, and I need you all to understand that my twin brother has the wilderness instincts of a table lamp. I took him backpacking exactly once. Nine miles from the trailhead, he asked me, sincerely, where the outlets were. Then he stayed up the entire night because of, and this is a direct quote, the sound of nature happening.

Except on the phone. On the phone we are the same person. Identical voices, down to the breathing. Early on, Maya called Reid's number and got me by mistake, and neither of us caught it, so she and I planned a full Saturday together. She showed up at the farmers market expecting her boyfriend and got his brother holding two coffees. She stayed. We had a great morning. Reid still brings it up like a grievance, which would carry more weight if he hadn't slept through it. Maya fixed it the way she fixes everything. She invented a code word and opens every call with it, like a spy. I have never felt more respected as a problem.

Now the real thing, because I figured something out the year our dad got sick. I'm supposed to be the brave one. I splint ankles on mountainsides. That winter I learned there's another kind of brave that happens in waiting rooms and on hold with insurance companies, and Reid is the bravest person I know at anything that comes with a clipboard. He made every call. For fourteen months he drove Dad to every appointment in that terrible little car with the heater stuck on high. Dad's here tonight, by the way. He's been showing the bar staff his scar.

So when people squint at us and say you two don't look like twins, they're right. He's the better organized model. I just have better knees.

Maya, you saw all of it. The negotiator, the planner, the man who reads the full terms and conditions. And you love him for it. Specifically for it.

Folks, glasses up. My brother has been ahead of me since the day before I was born, and today is the furthest ahead he has ever been.

To Reid and Maya.

Good evening. I'm Hugh, the groom's twin, younger by fourteen minutes. Mum says they were the most restful fourteen minutes of the next twenty years.

We started competing before we were born. There's an ultrasound where one of us appears to have the other in a headlock, and the radiographer just wrote 'active' on the report, the way you'd describe a crocodile.

It never stopped. Who walked first is still an open case in this family. Dad says Oliver, Mum says me, and Grandma says we should both be ashamed, because neither of us has helped her walk anywhere in years. Piano lessons became a blood sport, two boys hammering through the same scales book at competitive volume until the neighbours sent a letter. An actual letter. It asked if everything was all right at home.

Then we found swimming, and things got serious. Same squad, same events. Fifteen years of staring at each other across a lane rope. At the 2003 state final we touched four hundredths of a second apart in the hundred freestyle. I was twelve and I demanded a steward's inquiry. There's a photo of that finish, and Mum framed it and hung it in the hallway, she says, as a warning to future generations. Oliver won, on paper. I have spent twenty-three years explaining the lane bias to anyone who will listen, and tonight I have a microphone, so settle in.

I coach swimming now. Oliver retired at eighteen, undefeated in his final season, and likes to say he got out at the top. I like to say the top got out from under him. We have agreed to disagree, loudly, at every Christmas since.

It took me until embarrassingly recently to work out what all the competing was for. When I moved to Adelaide, the phone calls got shorter. We're twins. We had never once needed to make conversation, and suddenly there was distance, and neither of us knew the words for it. So Oliver invented a competition. He texted me a swim set and a challenge. Same set, first Saturday of every month, he does it at his pool, I do it at mine, times compared by lunchtime. He calls it the Postal Championships. There's a ladder. There's a newsletter after every round, emailed to the full membership, which is me. I gave him grief about all of it for years before I understood what it was. My brother had invented a sport so we would never run out of reasons to talk. We have not missed a first Saturday since 2017.

Then Tess turned up, and I knew she was different, because he let her into the Championships. Third member in history. She has never swum a single round. She came in as management. She appointed herself referee, docked him two points for trash talk in his own kitchen, and he paid. He printed the revised ladder and stuck it on the fridge. When I beat him at anything he demands a rematch and a drug test. This woman relegated him at his own dining table and the man framed the rules she wrote.

Tess, you should understand the scoreboard you're marrying into. He will turn the dishes into a time trial, and any time someone he loves is too far away, he will quietly invent a game. You saw all of that and signed up anyway. In writing.

Oliver. Thirty-five years and the overall score is level. So I'm calling it tonight, in front of witnesses. You win. You found Tess, and I have nothing that answers that. No inquiry this time.

Everyone, please be upstanding and charge your glasses. To Oliver and Tess. May the game never finish.

To Oliver and Tess.