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★★★★★4.7 average · 700+ reviews
Leeds
I'd had four goes at writing it myself over about a month and binned every one. The first draft here was close but a shade too jokey for the day I had in mind — I told it that, said keep the bit about her first morning of school and drop the rest, and the version it sent back was the one I actually stood up and read. Didn't change a word in the end.
Cheshire
Three weeks out and I still had a blank page. This got me from nothing to something I was proud of in an evening. I edited maybe two lines to sound more like me. That was it.
Bristol
My dad is brilliant in person and useless on paper, so I filled the form in for him with all the old stories. He thinks he wrote most of it himself now, which tells you how well it caught him. I'm not correcting him.
Aberdeen
I went for the funnier one of the four. What got me is that the jokes were about our family — Katie's driving test, the caravan — not generic wedding gags you've heard a hundred times. People laughed because it was true.
Kent
Wasn't sure about paying for something a computer wrote, if I'm honest. But £29 against the £300-odd the proper speechwriters wanted made it an easy gamble, and I got four versions to pick from. The quiet, story-led one was the keeper.
Norwich
First attempt leaned far too sentimental for me and I nearly gave up on it. Instead I told it I'm not a crier and to cut the soppy ending, and the next one struck the line just right — warm but not wet. Glad I didn't just walk away after the first try.
Cardiff
Got my dad through the worst three days of nerves I've ever seen him in. Worth every penny just for that.
Solihull
What I didn't expect was how it handled the bit about my late wife. I'd flagged it gently in the form and it landed it with real care — a line, not a paragraph, exactly right for the room. That was the part I'd been dreading writing myself.
Hull
Plain and simple: I'm not a words man. I gave it the bones — her job, a couple of memories, what I think of the lad she's marrying — and it gave me a speech that sounded like me on a good day.
Devon
Four different takes for the price, which I liked. I read all four to my wife over a cup of tea and we argued happily about which one. Ended up blending two of them, which the regenerations made easy.
Reading
I'm sixty-three and not what you'd call technical. The form was a dozen questions, took me twenty minutes, and the speeches were in my inbox before I'd finished my coffee. No faff.
Manchester
Dad hated the first draft — too formal, he said, like a bank manager. I sat with him, we typed in exactly what was wrong, and watched it loosen up version by version until it sounded like him talking at Sunday lunch. The fact you can keep refining it is the whole reason it worked for us.
Nottingham
The toast at the end was the bit I'd never have cracked on my own. Short, a little funny, then a proper lump-in-throat turn. I practised it twelve times and it got me every time.
Essex
Bought it the Wednesday before the wedding in a quiet panic. Had a speech I trusted by Wednesday night. Slept properly for the first time in a fortnight.
Glasgow
I expected something glossy and American-sounding and braced myself to rewrite the lot. It wasn't that at all — it actually sounded British, dry, like something I'd say. Barely touched it.
Bath
The childhood memory I gave it was just one line about her hiding in the airing cupboard during thunderstorms. It built a whole thread through the speech out of that one detail and brought it back at the end. I'd never have thought to do that.
Newcastle
Five minutes, I'd asked for. Got five minutes, near enough, not the rambling ten I'd have written. Knowing when to stop is half of it and I'd have got that wrong on my own.
Worcester
I'll be honest, the first version mentioned her brother a bit much and there's history there I didn't want aired. I said so, told it to keep things to the two of them, and it quietly fixed it — no awkward gap where the cut had been. That it listened to that sort of thing is what sold me.
Sheffield
My daughter married a lad I genuinely like, and I wanted to say so without it sounding like a reference letter. The line it found about him — “he listens when she talks, and not many do” — got a proper reaction. People still mention it.
Surrey
I've sat through a lot of father-of-the-bride speeches that all blur into one. I didn't want to give another of those. This didn't read like a template — it read like ours. That was the whole point, and it's the bit I was most afraid of getting wrong.
Five minutes. Tell us about your daughter, your memories, and how you'd like the speech to feel. The more you put in, the better the output.
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Four speeches, four voices — delivered by email within minutes. Each one written around your specific stories and details.
Each archetype is a distinct register — same details, entirely different speech. You get all four and choose what resonates.
Warm, measured, a light dry wit.
I'm David — Sophie's father — and it is a very great privilege to be standing here today. When she was about eight years old, she decided to build a model of the Globe Theatre. Not from a kit. From a cardboard box, a library book, and a quantity of lolly sticks that I still haven't quite accounted for. She had no instructions. She didn't ask for help. The first version collapsed. She rebuilt it. The second version collapsed. She rebuilt that too. I thought about that project quite a lot as Sophie was growing up. Because the stubbornness was always there — and I mean that kindly — but so was the willingness to start again. To do the thing properly. Those two qualities together are rarer than people suppose.
Restrained. One memory. Earned emotion.
Clara was twelve. She'd decided she was going to teach herself to knit. Not with help — from a YouTube video, alone, at the kitchen table. She sat there every evening for two weeks. She didn't ask for anything. The first attempt came out as a rectangle. It curled at the edges. I remember she looked at it for a moment and then set it down. She didn't say much. But I could tell she was furious — the quiet kind of furious, which in Clara has always been the more serious kind. She started again. She folded the finished scarf. Put it in a bag. And gave it to her grandmother — without saying a word about how long it had taken. No explanation. No look-what-I-did. Just the thing itself.
Dry, observational, genuinely funny.
Thirty-one years ago, a seven-year-old sat me down at the kitchen table with a piece of paper and a red pen and told me she was going to teach me long division. I have a degree in engineering. She didn't ask. There was no discussion. There was simply Gemma, a chair she'd pulled out for me, and the clear implication that I had no relevant prior experience and should pay attention. I got one wrong on purpose — just to see what would happen. She looked at my answer. Then she looked at me. And she sighed. It was a very specific sigh. The sigh of someone who had hoped for better and was adjusting their expectations in real time. I have since learned that she gives the same sigh when a parent emails her on a Friday afternoon. I find this enormously comforting.
Open, direct, says everything.
Adaeze. You are three things, and I have been turning them over in my mind all week trying to work out how to say them. Fierce. Gentle. Mine. I know this because of something that happened when you were five. We were at a family funeral. You didn't fully understand what was going on, but you held my hand through the whole service and you didn't let go. On the way home, you looked up at me and asked: are you sad? I said yes. You said: I'll stay next to you then. You were five years old. I have thought about that more times than I can count. Not because it was a child saying something sweet — but because it was already you. Already exactly who you are.
Every draft comes with regenerations. Say what felt off — too jokey, too soft, too formal — and it rewrites until it sounds like you.
Leeds
I'd had four goes at writing it myself over about a month and binned every one. The first draft here was close but a shade too jokey for the day I had in mind — I told it that, said keep the bit about her first morning of school and drop the rest, and the version it sent back was the one I actually stood up and read. Didn't change a word in the end.
Norwich
First attempt leaned far too sentimental for me and I nearly gave up on it. Instead I told it I'm not a crier and to cut the soppy ending, and the next one struck the line just right — warm but not wet. Glad I didn't just walk away after the first try.
Manchester
Dad hated the first draft — too formal, he said, like a bank manager. I sat with him, we typed in exactly what was wrong, and watched it loosen up version by version until it sounded like him talking at Sunday lunch. The fact you can keep refining it is the whole reason it worked for us.
Worcester
I'll be honest, the first version mentioned her brother a bit much and there's history there I didn't want aired. I said so, told it to keep things to the two of them, and it quietly fixed it — no awkward gap where the cut had been. That it listened to that sort of thing is what sold me.
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Money-back guarantee
If none of the four drafts feels like something you could stand up and say, email us and we'll refund you in full. See our refund policy.