Thursday, October 06, 2011

Stag Nights.

I've attended two this year alone.

Oh God, the bloody Stag Night. A test of human endurance that would make even the most hardened al-qaeda suspect whimper “can you please just make it stop now” if used as an interrogation technique. It’s rarely even a NIGHT, but the dreaded stag WEEKEND – 48 hours in the company of burping, vomiting, farting buffoons so horrendous that the stag practically RUNS down the aisle to get the hell away from the horrorific Clockwork Orange–style aversion experience.

Two days in a strange city in the company of men-children who think igniting their own flatulence is 24 CARAT and you would give anything to share the bulk of your life with an actual woman. Because men are idiots and stag nights are horrible.

It starts with the cut-price chain hotel so anonymous and homogenised that your very soul shrinks a little and progresses to some horrendous identikit Yates’s filled with badly-dressed dole-hounds and ageing alcoholics all of whom would think nothing of giving you the full benefit of the thick end of a pool cue after you discover that the door staff of the more salubrious establishments are reluctant to admit large groups of yowling, drooling, stinking men wearing specially-printed t-shirts emblazoned with the slogan ‘Pussy Patrol’

There’s no point sneering at the dolts in the party who spend the evening informing you of their intention to ‘destroy’ any of the ‘blart’ they espy, as you will several days later shamefully recall your own unsuccessful attempt to win the affections of a trainee beauty-therapist from Sunderland named Kylie with the generous offer of a ‘clattering’ behind the bottle-bins.

Staggering around the streets at an early hour asking innocent passers-by where “tha strippas are, like” is not an uplifting experience, nor is finally gaining entrance to Madame Choo-Choo’s and watching the youngest member of your party lose a small fortune to a young lady in underwear and high-heels in the belief that she “actually fancies me, like” Of course she does, mate.

Trying to get back to the hotel despite having forgotten it’s name and location, possessing no phone numbers of any local taxi firms and lacking the ability to single-handedly lift a twenty-stone inebriated imbecile is also a barrel of fucking laughs.

If you’re lucky you wake up in the dreadful room you share with at least three other men in a scene that would make Hieronymus Bosch balk, to the wilting prospect of using a bathroom still echoing with the noise and stench of several horrendous bowel movements.

Then you do it all again the next day, secure in the knowledge that everyone you encounter hates you.

The very worst thing? If you’re the stag, you’re statistically very likely to get divorced and to wish that your mental and emotional anguish would JUST END whilst you tragi-wank your way through the rest of your hollow life and wish that you could just see your children.

And if you’re not the stag, are unmarried and have attended a few of these things, it means you are inherently unlovable and have a stark future of solitary drinking and crushing loneliness ahead of you.

Enjoy your night.

13 Comments:

Blogger Twisted Scottish Bastard said...

Strange.
My stag night consisted of me and 5 mates having a few drinks at the local pub, then back home to Mummy and hot chocolate (we had run out of Horlicks).

If you hate the f*cking things so much WHY DID YOU GO?

I know from some of your previous posts that you seem to have masochistic tendencies, but isn't this going a bit far?

Mind you, what you describe seems quite tame compared to some of the Hen nights I've heard about. Women always take things to extremes.
Heels
Skirt lengths
Silicone
Alcohol

They're not safe on their own.

1:18 am  
OpenID whatkatedidnext said...

TSB asks a good question TD, why did you go? I'm glad you are back. I've missed your sunny disposition.

5:46 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

*sigh* Both occassions were in honour of close family so I couldn't very well say 'no'...

1:11 pm  
Anonymous Two sandwiches said...

Ha! This had me spluttering into my innocent vegi-pot! Thank you so much..... But some people like stag nights so much they use a colleague leaving work as an excuse to go on a booze fuelled blart-hunting expedition to a cheap European capital. Going on holiday this year I spotted a bunch of these fine young men at the airport, complete with their stupid identical t-shirts. Could we have a serial killer movie please, where the murderer makes a point of culling groups of stags before their flawed genes enter the collective pool? Or would anyone like to undertake this task for real?

1:40 pm  
Blogger Ellie said...

Hen parties are no better. Just shriller and pinker.

7:12 pm  
Anonymous looby said...

I can't stand weddings and I have no idea why apparently otherwise intelligent people do it. I have managed to get out of both the weddings so far held of my siblings.

I can't speak for the pressures exerted in others' family but I think it should be perfectly possible for someone who can stand up for himself in other situations to decline such a degrading experience.

And the noise spoils the night for us ageing alcoholics in Yates's.

10:37 pm  
Blogger Furtheron said...

Thank the lord I'm an unpopular bastard who never gets an invite... being a reformed drinker no doubt leads to my exclusion as well.

The only one was my brothers last year in Hastings... which was relatively a subtle and sober affair

9:55 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Two Sandwiches: I believe using the internet to incite riots is currently frowned upon, so I doubt inciting mass murder is currently the way ahead...

Ellie: I genuinely don't know which would be worse.

Loob: I kind of wish I had, but I'm enough of a black sheep as it is.

Furtheron: You are fortunate indeed.

6:46 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Our families sound too similar to be funny. It's rare I capitulate to sharing such 'adult fun times' with them. Xmas duties are enough.

Sympathies.

Ann Anon

10:39 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Ann: I don't begrudge the time at all, it's just the 48 solid hours of 'bloke-ness' I could live without.

6:22 pm  
Blogger Alison Cross said...

I remember coming home at around 2am and discovering the remnants of my intended's Stag Do all passed out on the floor/sofa/toilet.

I had gone out to dinner with a male friend. I recall him standing over the drooling, recumbent body of my fiance (at that point sporting only one eyebrow) and asking me if i was SURE that I wanted to marry him.

I should have listened to my gut and fucked off to Ibiza with the wedding pressie money...

Ali x

7:30 pm  
Anonymous Johnners said...

My intended threw his way up the Dales, while the "best man" fell over while hiding from the rest of them (so he could jump out and scare them, apparently). He broke his leg. He tried to hide it in the photies, the moron. I should have been on the plane with Ali, it's been steadily downhill since then. Does anyone actually enjoy stag dos?

Welcome back, by the way.

11:02 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Ali: Don't know what to tell you.

Johnners: Sorry to hear about all that. I dunno, I've been on one I quite enjoyed. Hmmm. Oh and thanks.

9:36 pm  

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