Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend (14 page)

PART THREE: BRIGHTON

Chapter
Twenty One: Back to the Present AKA Flab in the Future

Somewhat predictably, as it is now mid-afternoon on Sunday and we have been drinking since the pub opened, the crew is completely mashed.

However
the big twist is that we are no longer in 1993 but have leapt forward in time twenty years, back to the present day.

Welcome
to the year 2013, a world where people are obsessed with ‘their status’ and with gathering as many online friends as possible, friends they will never actually meet so may as well be imaginary ones.

This
is the future, where people name their child Sky, not after the beautiful blue dome above our heads but after the TV channel they were watching when the kid was conceived. Probably the result of a bare back quickie during the advertisement break of an all new show called ‘When Anal Bleaching Goes Wrong!’

In
2013 the machines really have taken over the planet, the internet is king. The majority of ‘The Nation of Idiots’ that we have raised, seem to have a mobile phone constantly fused to their hands 24/7 and are unable to engage in even a simple conversation without reverting to moronic text speak or adding the word ‘like’ to every sentence.

The
great unwashed masses continually utter the phrase ‘You know what I’m saying?’ in every sentence they utter. Of course I know what you are saying you huge bell end I do speak the Queen’s English! You don’t need to ask me over and over again.

The
words ‘At the end of the day’ are just verbal diarrhoea and you really don’t need to insert this really annoying phrase repeatedly into your conversation, but at the end of the day you can’t blame the children. I blame the parents. What sort of example do we set them?

We
are the most selfish, self-absorbed, generation that nature has produced, always looking for ‘Me Time.’ It’s no wonder our children are a dead loss really when we are their role models.

This
Sunday afternoon in May 2013 sees ten middle aged men, most of us with kids of our own, hanging around a bar in Brighton getting pissed, when we should be doing ‘family stuff’ like arguing, shouting and swearing at our loved ones.

Our
excuse for a day on the beer is that an old school mate is getting married for the second time and this is his stag party. Twenty years ago in 1993, the bright young things we used to be would have been on it for a full weekender. Now all we can manage is one Saturday night out that we spent in a club with a crowd that was at least half our age, looking like a bunch of sad old perverts on a day release from the local nonce prison.

To
make me feel even more out of place I ended up wearing another man’s shoes, that were these big pointy things that were as long as a pair of skis. The bouncer on the door to the club had deemed that my shoes that I had on looked too much like a pair of trainers (traineresque, if such a word even exists?) and I was not going to be admitted entrance until another more kindly bouncer took pity on me.

He
lent me a spare pair of his own fashionably over long shoes that had unfortunately seen much better days and were curling up at the ends, making them look like they were owned by a court jester or The Genie in the Lamp from Arabian Nights.

I
got ribbed remorselessly by the guys and could not even walk about normally in the borrowed shoes as they were far too big like two canoes. I ended up shuffling round the club like an OAP traversing the North Pole on a Zimmer frame.

There
comes a point in every geezer’s life where he realises that he is no longer ‘with it’ that his time has come to settle into middle age and that The Grim Reaper is hovering close by. Last night was my moment, standing there in a ridiculous pair of clown shoes thinking ‘Roll on Death.’

To
escape the depression, we got up double early this morning on a mission to get upside down just for the sheer hell of it. I always find the Sunday afternoon session the best bit of a stag do anyway as you all laze about reminiscing and telling new stories as you get your beer buzz going.

The
ten guys sitting here slowly getting hammered are: Euro, Village, Mule, Burke, Gap, Second Time Stag Boy and four other, new recruits who are various mates/family of the main man.

All
of us are now on the wrong side of forty and starting to suffer the ailments of the borderline oldie including:

Weak
eyes
that
require
spectacles
to
correct
vision
:
4
out
of
the
10
dudes
.

Double
chins
and
Bay
windows
:
6
out
of
the
10
dudes
.

Hair
loss
:
5
out
of
the
10
dudes
.

Bald
Bastards
:
2
out
of
the
10
dudes
.

‘
Crows
feet’
that
are
deep
enough
to
use
as
a
magazine
rack
in
which
to
store
copies
of
HEAT
:
3
out
of
the
10
dudes
.

Erectile
Dysfunction
that
needs
medication
:
Don’t
know
how
many
out
of
the
10
dudes
.
Statistically
at
least
one
,
but
who
the
fuck
is
going
to
admit
this
to
their
piss
taking
friends
?

Even
with our looks and dress sense fading we all like to think we are all still trendy teenagers acting cool. We are all sure we could pull at the drop of a hat (some hope) but one thing is for sure we all speak the same old bollocks that we always have.

It
is a great tale and we all crack up as we sink another pint. Then Mule asks the gang ‘Has anyone seen Deviant recently? I wondered if he’d managed to wank himself to death yet?’

‘You
ain’t seen him because he’s inside,’ replies Gap.

‘Inside
a sheep?’ laughs Mule.

‘No
he’s in the clink, in the nick, locked away at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. He is in prison. He got caught stealing his neighbour’s underwear off her washing line the sick bastard. She complained to the police who went round to Deviant’s house where they found a huge collection of stolen scrundies or nicked knickers if you will. The cops said it was the largest haul of undies ever found in the UK. There were hundreds and hundreds of pairs of them that he had robbed. There was a story in The Currant Bun (Sun) so it must be true. There was a photograph of Deviant in the article as well so I know it was definitely him. It had the word PERVERT in massive letters under his mug shot. It was a work of genius and must be true or they wouldn’t be able to publish it in a newspaper, would they?’

‘What
a crock of shit,’ says Mule, ‘Deviant wasn’t that twisted was he?’

‘I’ve
got a picture of the newspaper article on my phone and I’ll prove it to you then,’ replies Gap whipping his top of the range mobile phone out with a flourish.

Sure
enough, there it is in black and white. Looking at his photograph, Deviant had certainly changed from hunk into chunk over the last two decades. He had got sent down for purloining nearly one thousand pairs of panties from the local community. He was not choosy either, big or small if the undies were there for the taking he would teeth them.

He
genuinely was one sick puppy and had been well nicknamed by the posse!

Mule
is shocked, ‘That’s the last time I have him round my gaff. Don’t want him going down my wash basket and my wife’s draws ending up in The Deviant Summer/Autumn Pervo Collection ready for sniffing.’

‘I
wouldn’t worry about that happening mate, he’d be more likely to nick your pants,’ Gap says to start the wind up going, ‘he always did have the glad eye for you fruity fella.’

‘Fuck
off! You’re just jealous geezer,’ Mule counters, ‘after all it was your front tooth that he used to wear lovingly around his neck on his chain for years!’

Gap
knows he is well beaten and skulks off to chuck a tenner into the fruit machine to end the conversation before his stag do tears are mentioned for about the millionth time in the last twenty years. He may as well sling the cash down the nearest drain but it does save him from getting the inevitable shit ripped out of him yet again, so it’s worth every penny.

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 11…..55 TO GO

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 3 HALF PINTS AND TWO CRABBIES

MY
OLD BLADDER CAN NO LONGER HANDLE A HEAVY PINTING SESSION WITHOUT AT LEAST TWENTY TRIPS TO THE BOG!

Chapter Twenty Two: The Stag, his Scrubbers and a Very Bruised Penis

The afternoon in Brighton meanders on for the middle aged crew. Alcohol is consumed and cigarettes smoked but not actually inside the public house of course. This being the year 2013, smokers now have to get up off their arse and walk outside to smoke in designated smoking areas if they feel the need to suck down a tab or two.

Even
with this extra enforced exercise the Health Police still have the front to call smokers unfit layabouts, what a bloody liberty!

The
lads have got well tucked in and by now the stag is completely off his face. We all know that he is a massive quim hound who just cannot stop chasing skirt. He once told me that he really believed that he had a problem and thought he may be a sex addict.

My
advice to him was just three words: Have a wank!

It’s
no wonder his first marriage fell apart as he couldn’t keep it in his pants and his ex-wife was nicknamed Margarine because she spread so easily, I guess it was a recipe for disaster really.

When
his divorce came through he went off the rails a bit and took six months sabbatical from his job and went off to see a bit of the world and to ‘find himself’.

This
just meant dogging it around a lot and sleeping with trashy women across the globe. He has kept his cards pretty close to his chest since he came back but he is seriously drunk now and feels that he needs to unburden himself so he starts to tell us about some of his misadventures:

“
I
feel
that
I
can
really
trust
you
guys
so
I’m
going
to
tell
you
about
my
recent
trip
.
It
was
amazing
.
I
started
in
The
States
,
did
Route
66
and
all
that
jazz
for
a
few
months
,
then
did
a
month
in
Oz
which
was
awesome
and
finally
spent
ages
in
Thailand
mainly
kipping
in
a
hut
on
the
beach
doing
bugger
all
.
It’s
such
a
spiritual
place
that
I
just
connected
with
myself
there
.

I
was
in
a
pretty
dark
place
after
my
marriage
collapsed
but
soon
cheered
up
in
the
land
of
the
Thai
when
I
hooked
up
with
some
like
-
minded
travellers
.
We
found
this
amazing
brothel
down
one
of
the
side
streets
in
Bangkok
.
You
were
sat
at
tables
facing
a
small
stage
that
women
were
paraded
around
on
.
You
could
take
your
pick
and
escort
them
to
one
of
the
rooms
out
the
back
to
get
a
bit
of
the
old
jiggy
-
jiggy
going
.

The
prostitutes
all
had
these
huge
badges
on
them
that
had
a
number
ranging
from
one
to
six
followed
by
a
letter
from
A
to
F
.

It
was
some
kind
of
complicated
pricing
system
that
we
never
could
get
our
heads
around
as
they
seemed
to
charge
whatever
they
thought
you
could
afford
to
unload
your
nut
sack
.

Me
and
the
guys
I
was
with
imagined
that
the
numbers
were
a
rating
of
prettiness
,
while
the
letters
were
some
sort
of
scale
of
vaginal
tightness
.

For
instance
an
‘
A’
rated
woman
was
muscular
enough
downstairs
to
fire
out
ping
pong
balls
or
to
snap
your
little
pencil
in
two
.
A
‘
D’
grade
pussy
was
as
loose
as
a
wizards
sleeve
while
the
‘
F’
rated
twat
was
as
tattered
as
an
old
wind
sock
and
had
had
way
too
much
traffic
through
it
.

As
for
the
numbers
on
the
badge
how
can
you
rate
attractiveness
?
They
say
that
beauty
is
in
the
eye
of
the
beer
holder
and
let
me
tell
you
they
are
not
wrong
!
After
all
in
Thailand
one
man’s
meat
is
another
man’s
lady
boy
!

The
hen
house
was
a
real
depressingly
sleazy
place
and
was
totally
degrading
to
the
women
involved
.
I
can
honestly
say
that
we
only
went
there
for
six
or
seven
nights
running
before
we
all
got
bored
of
it
!

I
would
always
go
for
a
2B
(
or
not
2B
that
was
the
question)
and
hung
out
of
them
like
a
toboggan
.
When
in
Rome
and
all
that
….

Anyway
I
got
a
real
taste
for
whoring
which
continued
when
I
got
home
after
my
trip
.
I
just
felt
it
was
too
much
effort
chasing
a
real
woman
when
you
can
just
pay
to
off
load
your
dirty
water
.

I
started
using
this
local
escort
agency
that
I
found
online
.
You
selected
a
hooker
you
liked
the
look
off
on
the
website
,
gave
them
a
call
and
shortly
a
beautiful
brass
turned
up
in
lush
lingerie
,
so
that
you
could
have
your
wicked
way
with
her
.
It
was
£
150
a
time
well
spent
.

Like
shouting
in
a
takeaway
pizza
but
without
all
that
stuffed
crust
nonsense
.
The
agency
offered
a
great
service
,
the
women
turned
up
I
got
laid
,
they
got
paid
and
then
they
went
.
I
started
shipping
one
in
on
a
weekly
basis
at
least
.

Often
one
of
the
girls
would
ring
me
claiming
to
be
‘
in
the
area’
and
wondered
if
I
wanted
some
company
.
Late
at
night
after
a
few
bottles
of
rouge
I
thought
why
the
devil
not
?
It
was
kind
of
like
a
‘
booty
call’
only
you
had
to
put
your
hand
in
your
pocket
for
it
.