Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend (4 page)

Chapter Eight: Amsterdamgoodpissup!!

Friday afternoon rolls on and we are all knuckles deep in alcohol.

The
stag, Kid J, has been bricking his pants all day with the anticipation of knowing that we are going to get him. Everywhere we go he is super suspicious that a stripper will appear to inflict maximum embarrassment.

It
could even be a male stripper as the whole idea is to humiliate not titillate the stag. If he enjoys the punishment we have dished out, then we have failed. He refuses to drink beers or eat anything that has been handed to him for fear of being spiked with some LSD to make him lose his tenuous grasp on reality. He is Captain Paranoid.

As
the day is marching on he is getting more and more worried about his fate but nothing is going to happen to him on Dutch soil. Oh no, Kid J has a grand finale coming when we get home. He is the climax, ‘the money shot’ he just does not know it yet. He has got to sweat it out for two more days.

Once
we are back in Blighty on Sunday night then he needs to panic as the fun will begin - for us! There are a whole gang of blokes who could not afford to join us in Amsters, call them the B team, who will be waiting for him in the pub.

They
are more than willing to make him suffer. Handcuffs, Nudity & Pain are all on the agenda for stag boy and then some. We have also invited his close family and even his fiancé along to witness the carnage in store.

He’d
be better off claiming asylum in Holland than going home but he obviously does not know this yet.

In
a vain attempt to avoid impending ritual doom at the hands of his friends the stag had organised an activity for late afternoon, a bicycle tour around the town centre. We all went to a cycle shop where the owner, a whinging old coffin dodger, had the maddest moustache I have ever seen in my life. It was huge and waxed into massive spirals looking like he had a piece of Swiss Roll stuck on either side of his gob.

His
facial furniture was a proper work of art and must have taken hours each morning to get ready for display. We got a photograph taken with him standing in the middle of the crew while we all shouted out ‘Qis Tache!!!’ over and over again like a group of seven year olds. That means ‘look at his moustache’ in the Queen’s English.

The
guy took ages getting bikes out for us all and then insisted we all wear crash helmets to protect what little brain cells we had left after the alcohol had eaten most of them away over the weekend. This brought random shouts of ‘HELMET!’ from the gang.

This
was one of our favourite sayings back in school driving the teacher’s crazy by yelling it out during lessons ‘HELMET!’ during assembly ‘HELMET!’ or in the playground ‘HELMET!’ The longer version of the yell was ‘CHERRY RED HELMET!’ or cutting that down to size ‘CHELMET!’

You
could really get the staff narked by doing a double call with the first fella screaming ‘HEL!!’ then someone else would yell ‘MET!!’ Very, very juvenile but it still makes us laugh today.

One
of the gang got hauled up in front of the head master who asked him why we were obsessed with the word and what it meant. Trying not to piss himself with laughter, he said that he did not know it was just a phrase that we all found amusing.

I
always wish that the head had turned around and said ‘Come now lad we all know you are referring to your bell end. Stop shouting out about your purple headed warrior and get on with some work you spotty little teenage geek.’ Would have been a classic but the head missed his opportunity and besides may well have been sacked for talking about cock with a pubescent lad in his office.

So
there we are back at the cycle shop and are all kitted out and ready to go. We get all of 200 yards along the road before we pass a boozer. ‘One for the road’ someone shouts. Cycles are parked up and we go in to get absolutely sozzled, for a change.

We
ended up pushing those damned bikes back to the shop late in the evening as we were in no fit state to cycle them back. I did wonder why the bikes all looked like they had never even been ridden. It was probably because they were always hired out by hard drinking unfit Brits who could only get as far as the first bar before deciding what a ridiculous idea it was to go cycling anyway.

You
don’t ride a bicycle at home so why do it here for fucks sake? Bikes get abandoned and beer gets tackled.

The
rest of the afternoon passed in a blurred beer bubble. When you are out on a session, time seems to stand still but then go really fast. You look at your watch and sometimes hours have passed by in what you could have sworn were just a few minutes.

This
is the exact reverse of ‘work time’ where you think hours and hours have passed by, yet it is just thirty seconds since you last glanced at your time piece. I’m sure that the work hours between nine and five during the week are in fact crammed with more minutes than your hours of freedom but perhaps that’s just me.

Maybe
if you actually have a job that you enjoy and love then this ‘time freeze effect’ does not happen. As I know no-one in the world this state of affairs applies to, I could not actually tell you for sure.

“
PISSED
UP
CONVERSATION
#
2
:

‘
Lads
I’ve
got
a
plan,’
brags
Kid
F
. ‘
Seeing
all
those
punters
waiting
to
get
their
hands
on
some
boneless
mutton
trunk
in
pitta
bread
from
the
kebab
shop
made
me
think
of
the
perfect
business
plan
for
post
pub
entertainment
.
After
closing
time
,
what
three
things
does
a
true
lad
need
?
I’ll
tell
you
:
food
,
lift
home
and
a
bunk
up
!
So
let’s
launch
Kebab
-
ya
,
Cab
-
ya
,
Shag
-
ya
.

‘
You
rock
up
to
the
late
night
fast
food
emporium
once
the
pub
kicks
you
out
to
get
a
doner,
or
shish
if
you
are
feeling
posh
,
then
a
cab
turns
up
driven
by
a
hooker
who
takes
you
home
and
accompanies
you
in
doors
to
make
the
beast
with
two
backs
.
It’s
a
sure
fire
winner
.
You
can
charge
200
sheets
per
person
per
night
and
we
are
sorted
,
we
will
be
minted
.
’

Village
sees a down side saying ‘Kid F, don’t want to piss on your parade, but prostitution is illegal back home, so by running Kebab-ya, Cab-ya, Shag-ya, this would make you a full on pimp.’

‘
That’s
even
better
.
I
could
dress
up
like
a
1970’s
one
from
Starsky
&
Hutch
with
massive
flares
,
loads
of
gold
chains
and
pimp
slap
any
fool
who
got
in
my
way
.
I’d
spend
all
day
shouting
“
Woman
don’t
make
me
hurt
the
back
of
my
hand
!”
’

‘But
you could end up in prison worrying about getting chivved or dropping the soap in the shower.’

‘
Oh
well
sounded
a
good
idea
rattling
around
in
my
alcohol
soaked
brain
,
back
to
the
drawing
board
yet
again
.
Talking
of
meat
and
stuff
a
mate
of
mine
killed
a
cow
in
an
abattoir
using
one
of
those
bolt
gun
things
.
’

‘What
did he work there or was he on a school outing or something?’

‘
No
he
flogged
meat
as
a
salesman
and
went
to
see
a
client
who
let
him
have
a
go
.
Think
the
fella
was
border
line
maniac
anyway
so
bet
he
enjoyed
it
.
’

‘There’s
no way I’d do that. What had that cow ever done to him?’

‘
Someone
has
to
do
it
.
You
eat
burgers
,
don’t
you
?
’

‘Yeah
but I wouldn’t kill a cow like that. I thought they all died of old age when they were akip before they were ground up for burger heaven. Wish that cow would come back and haunt that geezer by lowing quietly at the end of his bed keeping him awake at night. Maybe the ghost cow could annoy him by rubbing his phantom udders over his face drenching him in spectral milk or drop spirit cow pats on him.’

‘
What
the
fuck
are
you
dribbling
on
about
Village
you
have
well
lost
the
plot
.
A
ghost
cow
,
have
you
lost
your
marbles
?
You
talk
absolute
hat
stand
mate
but
that’s
why
we
love
you
.
’