Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend

by Sloan, Phil

  DUN-PHER! DUN-PHER! DUN-PHER! The music is absolutely blaring louder and louder, our eardrums are in serious danger of splitting. Kid L has got chatting to the manager of the club while standing at the bar. He has given the guy a healthy dose of bullshit and told him that back home he is a top London DJ playing at all the big clubs. He would gladly spin some tunes in this establishment for the next hour for a couple of free beers.

  The manager is well chuffed and leads Kid L up to the DJ booth that overlooks the ice rink like dance floor. Kid L is in his element. He waves his arms over his head, raving it up.

  The punters in the club go mad believing that Kid L is the real deal and that some heavy duty house beats will soon be coming their way. This is going to be aural pleasure for all, live and direct from London town.

  Unfortunately there is a major fly in the ointment. Kid L is higher than the sun after sticking half of Bolivia’s finest export up his nasal cavities. His coke-fuelled enthusiasm for DJ’ing is let down badly by his sad lack of experience. He has never actually DJ’ed in his entire life but to his credit he tries valiantly to get by.

  As the track is still playing from the regular DJ’s set Kid L goes through the stack of vinyl and selects the next disco biscuit to be played. He takes the record from the sleeve, places it on the deck and sticks the headphones on his bonce. He looks like he knows what he is meant to be doing. He may even pull this stunt off.

  On the dance floor the ravers are right raving and Kid L chucks his arms aloft soaking in the adoration of the crowd of party goers. He starts fiddling about with all the buttons on the massive DJ console convinced that his Charlie-induced confidence is enough to see him through.

  The tune is now coming to the end so it’s time to mix one song into the next in a flawless superstar DJ kind of way. Kid L starts looking desperate. Even though his pupils are the size of pinpricks you can see the utter terror in them. His arms get thrown up in the air yet again hoping this will make everything alright.

  Suddenly the record stops, the club becomes as silent as the grave. You could hear a squirrel fart, if they let squirrels in this gaff. Kid L is frantically pushing buttons and tugging on levers but nothing is happening. With a huge blast of feedback Kid L picks up the needle off the record and plonks it back down at the start of the hard core tune once again. Sorted!

  Arms reach for the sky, his mug has a huge grin over it but the game is up. I look over at the manager who is shaking his head and mouthing something in Dutch. I’m not too sure of the exact translation of the phrase ‘Oh for fucks sake’ but I’m sure that was what the fella was saying as he put his head in his hands.

  Kid L gets escorted from the DJ booth ending his very brief career as a house DJ. He is still posing and flapping about like a nut job as the ching makes him feel unbeatable. The bouncers come over and ask us all to leave. We are no longer welcome in the club so it’s time to beat a hasty retreat.

  We all troop back up to the entrance where we now have to pay for all the liquids that we have consumed.

  There are fourteen of us, so they are expecting fourteen cards with stamps on them. Unsurprisingly there’s a disaster as between us we can only find thirteen of the soppy cards. One of the bouncers starts hassling Kid B who seems to be the one who has lost his card and the pair of them are having words.

  Kid B in his inebriated brain is convinced he has already paid his drinks bill, the bouncer knows that he hasn’t. The volume of the argument is going up. Harsh words are said and things are looking likely to go bandy very quickly.

  I have a chat with the bloke at the till collecting the dough. Apologising that we’ve lost a card, I offer to pay for all eight drinks that could have been on it, to get us all out of there with all limbs intact.

  He agrees so I pay up and everyone is happy. Apart from Kid B who is still shouting and cursing his head off at a very displeased looking bouncer who has now called the police.

  Kid B is not backing down even when the bouncer pulls a wicked looking cosh out and threatens to use it. Luckily the cops arrive just in time and grab Kid B.

  The red mist has descended by now and he goes completely potty. Kid B starts howling about his basic human rights and how the act of placing him under arrest is actually a contravention of The Geneva Convention.

  Mule tries to calm Kid B down but there’s no chance, ‘Kid B you don’t work for Amnesty International, just apologise to 5-0 and we can walk away.’

  With that line Kid B is now renamed Amnesty and will be for the next twenty years. Even his kids call him Amnesty Dad.

  He explodes ‘Just fuck off you pigs!’ Police are unimpressed and he is thrown in the back of the cop car in handcuffs.

  We can hear him still banging on about his rights, that this is an illegal arrest and bizarrely that he knows his way around The Data Protection Act of 1984. He is having a right old ding dong, yelling at the top of his voice. The dummy has been thrown out of this pushchair for sure.

  As they drive off to chuck Amnesty in to the nearest cell, I find the last card that we all thought was missing in my pocket. It’s only got one stamp on it, so I go back to the guy at the till who then gives me a full refund for the other seven drinks that I’d overpaid.

  He even apologised for the fact that the police had been called and got my mate in trouble. What a top fella. All that grief and aggravation for nothing in the end, apart from a great story and yet another new nick name.

  Poor Old Amnesty’s night does not get any better. On the way to the cop shop, he’s still making a right old noise. He just does not know when to shut up.

  The policeman in the passenger seat has had a gut of it. He turns round and punches Amnesty right between the eyes. He’s got these great big gloves on, like a boxer and it gives old Amnesty a beautiful shiner and a great big lump on his face that he has for the next couple of weeks.

  The cop comes out with a pay-off line worthy of Arnold Schwarzenegger after delivering the blow: ‘You are NOT in England now!’

  What a fantastic line, fair play to the Dutch cop. I’d have whacked him too! Fancy bringing up the boredom of Data Protection, you deserve a knock Amnesty. Although you didn’t need to be Mystic Meg to see that the card system in that club was always going to end in tears.

  Amnesty gets a night in the cells with a free pancake breakfast thrown in. I’m not going to bother booking a hotel room for the next trip, just get arrested and you get free B&B accommodation!

  The rest of us left are flagging as it has gone three a.m. by now. We find one last bar to have ‘one for the road.’ This soon becomes ‘two for the road’ and so on. I sneak off and find a quiet corner and sink down into a comfy chair.

  My eyelids are dropping, time for some kip. Just a quick forty winks and I’ll be as good as gold.

  As I’m starting to drift off, one of the lads slips me a pill and urges me to, ‘get this down your Gregory, it’ll perk you right up. You won’t regret it.’

  But I do. Oh I do.

  CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 13…..143 TO GO

  BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 3 PINTS 2 BOTTLES AND A CRÈME DE MENTHE FRAPPE

  Chapter Ten: The Euro Gimp Boy of Amsterdam

  Kid D awakes with a start. His head is pounding. He feels all floaty like a cloud in a storm and has the urge to vomit. He has no idea where he is, what day of the week it is or what time. He just is.

  He is having difficulty breathing because there is something round and hard in his mouth, secured there by a tight strap around his head. He slowly opens his eyes. The light is too bright and hurts his eyes, so he closes them again. They start watering and finally he can focus.

  As he reopens his eyes, he sees he is in a large room with mirrors along one wall and another mirror above him in the ceiling. This can’t be good.

  He can see his reflection in the mirrors and it is not a pretty sight. He is lying face-up on a four poster bed, tied to each corner post by what look like silk scarves. One securely knotted arou
nd each ankle and the same around his wrists.

  He’s held tight, there’s no escape.

  All he has on are a pair of skimpy tight leather shorts, a leather sleeveless, wife beater style vest with studs all over it and a mask.

  Though this is not a Halloween fun mask, this is black PVC gimp mask with red eye rims and a zip for a mouth. I know I did not pack this get up to wear out of a night, he thinks.

  The zip in the mask is open and he can see the S&M gag ball stuck in his mouth. He is still finding it tough taking a breath and he tries to shout out but it’s just a whimper. No-one’s going to hear that.

  Where in fuck am I? He has no idea. His watch has disappeared. His wife to be bought him it and she is going to have a massive paddy if it’s gone on the missing list. More importantly if he could see the time it might help him to remember.

  Through the fog in his head images start to appear. Are they distant memories or things that happened within the last few hours? He has no clue. Concentrate. He needs to get his head back on straight.

  How did he get here? Wherever or whatever this place actually is.

  For a very bad few minutes Kid D fears he is in the Amsterdam hovel they are staying in, tied up awaiting certain death by butchery in The Hotel Kebab. He does not want to become the next ‘chefs special’ shish kebab served up!

  Then he realises that the room he is in is clean, tidy and has decent furniture in it. The bed is really comfortable and even has satin sheets on it. There’s no danger he’s in that fleapit he reasons quite rightly.

  But where the fuck is he and why? It’s not his stag do. Or is it?

  More wisps of memories start to appear. Arriving at an airport somewhere very early in the morning. Then we are on board a plane. Some beer gets drunk. Some pills get taken. Powder is indulged in. Cigarettes get smoked down to the filter. No they are in Amsterdam.

  Definitely, Maybe. He’s pretty certain of this much at least, but why?

  He tries wriggling about a bit but it’s no good he’s tied up too tight and he’s going nowhere. This is a ‘Cluster Fuck’ or just might become one, he worries.

  Kid D gets all paranoid that he is soon going to be starring in his very own version of ‘Handsome Dog.’

  Please don’t violate my tea towel holder, he prays. I like my ‘balloon knot’ just the way it is currently knotted, thank you very much!

  Think! If he can remember how he ended up here, he may just figure a way out. He has not got a Scooby Doo (clue) what has gone on. He tries to shout again but the ball stops any real volume coming out. He could use one of these at home he thinks.

  But then the penny finally drops. Through his aching head Kid D remembers something and a cold sweat covers his body. He is afraid, very, very afraid.

  HE has suffered the ultimate double bluff. It’s his turn to suffer. This is payback for all the other stags that he’s stitched up over the past few years.

  Like a gang war, it’s escalated from petty and childish levels to what is sure to be a full on nuclear assault. One stag was made to wear a dress all weekend, the next poor sod is stripped naked and tied to an inflatable sheep while being covered in brown sauce.

  You shave off the eyebrow of one stag boy the next one loses his full head of hair. Tattoo one stag and the next has his left ball bag removed with a blunt razor blade while asleep.

  As you get older you are meant to mature, but not on a stag do! It’s all about how much suffering you put the main man through. Escalation is the name of the game. Stagging is great fun it’s just not worth dying for.

  So this is your comeuppance Kid D and he knows it is not going to be fun. For the rest of the herd, but not for him, it will be the highlight of their weekend.

  His stag do is next month in Edinburgh but the lads have decided to get him, right here, right now, when he is least expecting it in Amsterdam. Kid D has to admit it is a work of genius. Stitch up the pretender to the stag throne before his own stag do.

  The old brain finally kicks into another, higher gear and there’s the realisation that Kid D, soon to be rechristened for eternity as ‘Euro Gimp Boy’, is ME!

  Yep that’s right, your hard smoking guide/narrator through these super smoking stag do stories and tall tales of madness. I am Euro.

  It’s my turn to take the heat, all in the name of my impending matrimony next month.

  So what have my so called mates got in store for me here then? All bets are off.

  They may be my lifelong buddies that I can rely on for anything back home. But abroad on ‘the pop’ and ‘the whizz’, I would not trust any of the bastards as far as I could throw them.

  Now I am really nervous thinking I’m going to get ‘Teabagged’ or ‘Donkey Punched’ to death or worse.

  Suddenly a door starts to open. I am bricking myself massively. My arsehole starts pulling shapes, doing that old ‘fifty pence/five pence’ twitching thing. One second my ring piece is little, the next second large. Opening and closing like the gob of a goldfish.

  I have a bad feeling about this. Things are not going to end well.

  They say that as you face death your whole life flashes before your eyes. Well there was no flash this time, which either means I have lived no life worth reliving, up to this point (a distinct possibility) or even better, somehow I’m going to survive.

  The door opens further...light floods the room and finally I remember everything.

  Oh shit. This is going to be trouble, big trouble. Bigger than the biggest trouble, trouble.

  Oh Shit. My memory returns…

  CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: ZERO…I’VE BEEN SECURELY TIED TO A FUCKING BED…TRY TO KEEP UP!!!....143 TO GO

  BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: NOWT BUT WOULD HAVE KILLED FOR A BAILEYS TOP

  Chapter Eleven: A Lizard Gets Milked!

  The final piece of the jigsaw slips into place. I’ve been spiked. A good mate of mine, Old Mr Reliable has stitched me right up.

  This fella is normally the ‘go to guy’ of the gang. Got a problem? No worries he will sort you out. Well he’s properly sorted me out this time, slipping me some dodgy pill that has knocked me out, leaving me at the mercy of the mob.

  That’s how I’ve woken up tied to a bed in a brothel in Amsterdam early Saturday morning, on my stag do and I am pantsing it.

  I wonder what they’ve got in store for me. I’m going to find out pretty soon as the door is opening wider and wider.

  The fear has gripped me now. I’m convinced this is going to end badly, when in walks Kristall. I’d recognise her anywhere, the crazy blond hair and shapely bod are unmistakeable.

  ‘Mharmharmm?’ I try to shout as I’ve still got the gag shoved in my gob.

  She looks incredible. On her feet are the highest pair of stiletto’s I have ever seen. Is it even possible to walk in them? Well obviously as she is now sauntering sexily towards the bed.

  Kristall is wearing stockings and suspenders with the tiniest pair of panties ever invented and a push up bra. What an amazing body. Is this the worst that the lads can do? Bring it on!

  ‘Hwfmmahhh!’ I mumble again. She walks up to the bed saying ‘What have we got here? Have you been a naughty boy? I must discipline you.’

  It’s then I notice what she is carrying and start to panic. In one hand she has a leather riding crop and in the other, well as the old joke goes, I pray it’s her thermos flask and she’s about to pour me out a nice cuppa. Some hope.

  The vibrator looks like a coppers truncheon, it is ‘kin massive. Shove that up someone’s back door and you could tickle their tonsils with it quite easily. No thank you. Why does it need to be so big? I don’t want to find out, that’s for sure. Not my scene but each to their own.

  She whacks the crop down across my thighs hard. A band of pain burns through to my brain in an instant. That hurt. I look down and can see big red welts already appearing on my legs.

  ‘Fwwoooarrr!!!’ I yell, looking pleadingly at her, begging with my eyes not to be hit
again.

  ‘You want some more, you maggot?’ and again thwacks me hard across the legs. Tears spring up in my eyes. How can anyone find this a turn on? Stop it.

  She looks down on me and smiles a strange smile that isn’t exactly reassuring, but does reach over to remove the gimp mask and gag ball, which she throws on the floor.

  I draw in a deep breath, ‘Kristall what the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘I can be whoever you want me to be honey, so Crystal it is’, she replies.

  ‘Not Crystal; Kristall with a K, an I and two L’s. We met earlier today and spent an afternoon watching rotten porno films together in that museum before having dinner together. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Sweet thing, don’t you just know how to show a girl a good time? Look I’ll spell it out for you just once. I’m in charge here. You are here to be disciplined so no more talking or it’s punishment time,’ she holds up her hands and laughs like she is going to enjoy this a lot more than I am.

  ‘Welcome to the house of pain!’ I look again at the dildo she has. It is so long you could rod the blocked up drains with it to dislodge the shitty nappies that your simpleton of a neighbour keeps flushing down her toilet.

  I decide to keep quiet. I stare at this woman again and realise with horror that she looks absolutely nothing like my mate Kristall and I am in some pretty deep plop here for sure.

  She climbs onto the bed and straddles my chest. Reaching up she undoes her bra and throws it over her shoulder. She has a great top set and her nipples look like two puppy dogs noses.

  Leaning forward she brushes them across my lips and face. More of this and less of the whipping with the crop please. Happy days! She’s all over me like a cheap suit.

  Then she moves back down my body and sits between my legs. She reaches up and pulls my shorts down a little way. My little soldier is standing to attention, helmet ready for polishing.

  She grabs hold of my shaft like she’s got a cows udder that needs a damn good milking. Not to put too fine a point on it but if she carries on like this, she will soon see some white fluid appearing. Not milk, but fair to say you could call it man cream.