Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend

by Sloan, Phil

  I am convinced I am going to get a tug. If only I had a pair of Mule’s patented Puff Pants on, I’d be on easy street.

  I walk nervously through customs. Luckily Village is a few steps behind me and still tucking into his open bottle of vodka.

  I hear the words ‘Excuse me sir’ and turn around slowly bricking myself, sure that the officer is talking to me. This bloke has got built in X-Ray eyes and has spotted the two bags of dope in my pocket. This is it. Criminal Record Time!

  But as I look around it is not me the fella is talking to but it is Village copping the grief.

  ‘Excuse me sir you can’t drink that in here. Can you come with me please sir’ the customs cat demands. It’s then that he clocks Village’s graffiti’ed up sports bag. ‘I also understand that you took a little ride on our carousel recently sir.’

  What a touch. Village is finally getting his comeuppance. Hopefully the full rubber glove strip search of his anal chuff piece that he is sure to receive will teach him a lesson. Mind you he will probably enjoy it and ask for seconds.

  Village gets whisked away into one of the interrogation rooms out back to await his fate while the rest of us make a swift exit.

  We join the cab rank outside to grab some sherberts home have a couple of fags and roll up a couple of bomber joints for the journey. We’ve still got one last big night ahead of us.

  Next stop the nuclear sub, a lamp post and a humiliated naked stag itching away like a dog with a bad case of fleas.

  CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER 9…..27 TO GO

  BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: COUPLE OF BIG SWIGS OF VODKA

  Chapter Twenty Seven: The Stinging Ring of Exhibition Arse

  It’s not long until we reach the front of the queue and we all pile into cabs destined for the local.

  I end up sharing with Deviant, Amnesty and Mule, which is a real pisser as they normally all pretend to be skint leaving me mugged up to pay the entire fare.

  ‘Where do you want to go to guys?’ asks the cab driver.

  ‘Bexley Village, Kent please mate,’ replies Amnesty Boy.

  The four of us must stink of marijuana smoke and have the vacant glassy eyed stare of the perpetually stoned because the driver then says ‘Been to the Dam for a weekender by any chance lads? Had a couple of days of pussy, puff and premium lager? Good on ya.’

  ‘How did you guess where we’d been?’ wonders Deviant. ‘Do you pick up a lot from the airport and get a feeling as to where your passengers have been?’

  ‘Don’t be daft my friend. I’m not psychic. I read the labels on your bags that said Schipol Airport. It weren’t just a stab in the dark.’

  ‘Nice one,’ replies Deviant. He then goes on to ask the most dumb rhetorical question that everyone asks a cab driver ‘Have you been busy today driver?’

  Why do people bother to ask a cabbie this? You already know the answer you are going to get. It’s totally pointless and like asking any sane bloke if he enjoys getting a blow job.

  Of course your cab driver has been busy because he has spent all day ferrying around the dregs of society who are either, too poor, too old, too stupid or too intoxicated to be in control of their own motor vehicle.

  Everyone knows cabbies well coin it in. They only moan that times are hard because they worry that you might be the tax man sticking your beak into their cash-in-hand, paying the minimum amount of tax possible, huge income. I’ve never met a skint cabbie. Good on them though would you want members of the dim general public fouling up your jam jar? No thank you.

  Finally someone asks the drive a sensible question. ‘Dude I see the No Smoking sign there but any chance of us sparking up, I’m dying here?’

  ‘Sure thing, just don’t burn the upholstery as I’m only renting the cab. Also if you want to smoke the gear that you accidently left in your pocket from Amsterdam that’s not a problem. Only rule is that you skin me up a fat one as my tip so I can have a puff when I get home.’

  Result! Lighters appear and we smoke through the ready rolled jays. This is shaping up to be the best cab ride ever, as I sit here buzzing off my tits as we cruise around the M25 which amazingly isn’t just one huge car park today.

  The journey home is the bittersweet part of any stag do. You don’t want the weekend to finish but you are well looking forward to sleeping in your own bed. You know that you have one last night of debauchery followed by what is sure to be the Monday morning from hell.

  Getting out of your pit on Monday to go into work is bad enough but when you have a mega hangover and feel like a bag of washing it’s even worse.

  The sensible stag attendee will always book the next day off as holiday from his no mark job and stays suffering in his pit all day.

  But after the weekend we’ve just had the pain is worth it. Legends have been created and we have all survived more or less intact, well minus some ball bag juice.

  We’ve also had a few scrapes with the law. In fact Village is, at this very moment, getting a free prostate examination from the customs officer that he’s upset. Then again at least he acted as a decoy for me the ace drugs smuggler. He is taking one for the team and apart from his wrecked rectal hole, there’s no real harm done.

  The miles fly by and we are nearly at our grand finale. Mule pipes up with the following story to pass the time:

  ‘Guys I had to go to Hannover for a week recently to some boring trade show. Me and one of the other sales guys I work with Dan went there to flog our shonky wares to unsuspecting European mug punters.

  It was well dull. The exhibition was absolutely massive, halls and halls of dull engineering bollocks really. I spent most of the day walking miles to get to a client’s stand only to find that the person I wanted to talk to was not there but would maybe appear later.

  I covered miles wandering around trying to look busy and praying for 5 o’clock to roll around so we could go out on the piss and visit the nearest girly bar. Anyway after a few days Dan started to suffer from an ailment known in the sales trade as Exhibition Arse.

  This is caused by having a sweaty old bum crevice from too much walking around and being entertained on stands that are boiling hot making you over perspire a small river. Basically your ring piece gets well sore making you walk about like John Wayne after riding his horse for two weeks straight.

  There is no escape from Exhibition Arse once your chocolate starfish goes red you are on a one way trip to Pain City Central. It really is no laughing matter, but as it was Dan who had it and not me, it was fucking hilarious. Dan’s arsehole was so inflamed it looked like a blood orange.

  He was suffering and we still had two more days at the show. As we were in Germany there was no chance that he would be able to communicate with the Fraulein in the local pharmacy that his anus was alight and could he have some sort of soothing balm to cure it.

  That evening we returned to the hotel where Dan and I were sharing a room because our boss was too tight to weigh out for one room each. I jumped straight in the shower as I was keen to get away from his constant complaints about his chapped cat flap.

  As I came out the bathroom Dan was bent over his bed stark bollock naked trying to open his arse cheeks with one hand and apply some Lypsil he had found to his sore tea towel holder with the other.

  It was priceless. He was almost in tears of agony and was trying to soothe his red hot Khyper Pass with a chap stick. He was mortified that he had been caught red ring handed.

  Promise me that you will never tell anyone about this moment he begged. But deep down he knew he was fucked. It was just too funny a story to keep under wraps. Inevitably the tale went round the office like wild fire.

  Dan is now known at work as Flag for having a ring piece that looked like the Japanese flag. He is a top bloke, love him like a brother but just don’t ever ask to borrow his lip balm!’

  Sitting in the cab stoned out of our minds this tale makes us piss ourselves with laughter and we all start shouting out ‘FFFFLLLLAAAAAAAAGGGGG!!!!!!’


  Even the cabbie has a giggle, probably because he gets a sweaty Arris from sitting down all day driving. Maybe Exhibition Arse is known as Cab Crack in his profession.

  To be honest I don’t know if Cab Crack even exists all I know is that I never want to catch it!

  At last we pull up outside the local drinker. Our story is reaching its end. It’s time for Chariots to start taking the heat.

  CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 10…..17 TO GO

  BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: NOTHING…..THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

  Chapter Twenty Eight: The Stags Gone All Blotchy

  As the four of us enter the rub-a-dub-dub we see that The B Team have assembled en masse to witness the ritual humiliation of our stag, Chariots.

  Various brothers, cousins, assorted in-laws and mates of the soon to be chained up are all present and correct. Colleagues from his work are also there to ensure that the tale gets told during the hum drum of the nine to five. There will be nowhere to hide from the shame.

  One guy Stiffy has also turned up. (He is not nicknamed for the fact that he has permanently got a hard on but because he once tried to claim expenses for a lunch with a client who had died two weeks before. He got found out and sacked by his boss who had actually attended the poor fella’s funeral. Oh well shit happens.)

  Even Chariots fiancé is there and she can’t wait to see her man finally get what he’s been due all these years. She really wants him to be embarrassed in public and has brought along some itching powder to totally knacker him.

  ‘He’s allergic to this stuff,’ she whispers handing the powder over to me. ‘Be sure to throw it all over him,’ she says pointing down at her crotch and giving me a huge theatrical style wink. What an evil cow. I wonder what sorrows married life holds in store for Chariots?

  The second cab full of stags appears with roars of ‘Oi Oi Saveloy!!!’ and ‘What’s Benning?’ The pub becomes a sea of smiling faces, bear hugs and high fives. The atmosphere is electric like being in a crowd before a boxing match (EUUUUUUBANK!) or an Oasis gig (Noel! Liam!) Everyone is on a booze fuelled high knowing that the main event is now just minutes away.

  Oily rags (fags) get smoked and pints swiftly despatched until the man of the hour, Chariots saunters into the juicer.

  As soon as he sees the full herd gathered he knows that his luck has run out and that he is cattle trucked. His confident smile vanishes and he tries to run out the door and escape his fate but the crowd is far too quick for him.

  He is grabbed and frog marched up to the bar where he is made to down three shots of Sambuca.

  Gap has designated himself the ring leader of tonight’s extravaganza and says to Chariots: ‘There is an easy way and a hard way to do this. You can do as you are told or we will make you do it. There are enough of us and only one of you so make a choice bro. Get your kit off now!’

  Chariots is well aware that he is beaten and starts taking all his clothes off. He undresses until all he has left on are his underpants.

  ‘The lot!’ demands Gap.

  ‘Come off it mate,’ pleads the stag.

  Gap relents ‘OK fair enough, take your boxers off and I’ll give you this to wear instead.’ He takes a long white sports sock out of the bag he is holding.

  ‘That’s all you are allowed to have on and no arguments.’ Chariots removes his boxers and pulls the sock on over his cock. He stands in the centre of the pub looking like a right prat as the gang takes pictures of the naked lad with just a sock to cover up his nether region.

  ‘Put these on your feet as well stag boy,’ says Gap handing over two bright pink marigold gloves. He slips them on his plates of meat and Chariots now looks like some crazed human penguin hybrid creature.

  ‘Where’s your suitcase fella?’ enquires Gap of the distraught stag.

  ‘Over in the corner,’ comes Chariots half-hearted reply, he knows what’s coming next.

  ‘Mule can you go and get them two vibrators out of his bag mate.’ Mule whips the dildo’s out, turns them on and Gap gaffer tapes them to Chariots hands.

  ‘You better not have bought those for me you filthy fucker!’ bellows his Fiancé. ‘What do you think I am some sort of dirty whore? You cheap shit you know I wanted some nice perfume!’

  She has got the steaming hump. At this point one of the lads from the stag do helpfully pipes up ‘He said you had an elastic arsehole, love.’

  That is it the final straw, the camel’s back is broken. She goes into meltdown and punches Chariots in the face then knees him in the balls just for good measure. He goes down like a ton of rhino shite. The pub roars with guffaws.

  His stag humiliation has barely even started yet and already he is on his knees.

  As we have taped the dildo’s to Chariots hands creating fists with cocks protruding from them, he is having a real struggle to get back on his feet until one of the crew lifts him up. He really looks like a broken man so our mission so far is a success.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen it’s tattoo time!’ shrieks Gap clearly enjoying his role as chief stag tormenter. He grabs a load of black marker pens from out of his bag. ‘If anyone wants to make their mark on Chariots’ rather athletic body, now is your chance.’

  Folks step up to take pens and then cover Chariots in all kinds of offensive shit. He has a large W with an anchor underneath drawn on each of his forearms (did you crack the code W-Anchor…Wanker).

  Bolts are sketched on either side of his neck. Massive tits are etched on his chest and knobs of all sizes with dribbles of semen flying from them are scrawled everywhere. A hinge adorns each elbow and the most colourful words in the English language cover his body.

  Chariots has become one massive lexicon of very rude words, almost an illustrated dictionary of the sex act. This has all been drawn on him in permanent ink meaning it will take weeks of showers until he can remove all the evidence.

  Some wicked sod has even coloured the insides of his ears in with one of the marker pens, let me tell you that ain’t ever coming off! It is no surprise that Chariots is starting to get the right royal hump by now and throws a big hissy fit when Gap utters one word ‘Outside!’

  He starts lashing out with his dildo hands at anyone who dares to come anywhere near him. He does not want to be out in the street looking like this that’s for sure. People back away from him knowing if they take a whack from one of those big buzzing bastards it could take their head clean off.

  It is at this very moment that The Village Idiot makes his late entrance into the juicer and instantly catches a slashing vibrator right on the end of his beak. Blood flows quickly from his conk ruining his white shirt. It certainly is a case of assault with a deadly wobbly fake nadger. Add this incident to the shame of having a customs officers’ digit up his dung hole earlier and that makes for a pretty cruddy day in anyone’s books.

  Village’s bloody nose is just the distraction the gang needed and now Chariots is being hustled out of the ‘near and far.’ Across the street there is a conveniently place lamp post that Chariots is swiftly and securely attached to with a load of cable ties.

  He is going nowhere fast, standing there with his cock sock, pub tatts and rubber glove feet he certainly is a sight. Finally the ‘piece de resistance’ gets whipped out, the itching powder.

  Chariots face is a picture of abject terror. ‘Please geezer not that stuff. I’ve got a massive allergy to that shit. It well fucks my skin up.’ His begging gets him no mercy. The itching powder is thrown all over his chest, legs and ball bags. It is well sadistic but seeing him trying to scratch his bollocks with his plastic penis hands is just all wrong.

  The skin on his chest has gone all blotchy and looks like it itches worse than a hooker with saddle sores. Our Chariots must have been a very naughty boy in a past life because ‘what goes around, comes around’ as they say.

  ‘You utter, utter bastards!’ Chariots is yelling. ‘Let me go! I don’t want to be the stag anymore. The wedding is off! I thought you lot
were my friends.’

  ‘What can I say Chariots?’ Gap retorts. ‘You trusted us, you fucked up!’

  CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 7…..10 TO GO

  BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 2 PINTS, A SHERRY, A SNAKEBITE AND BLACK

  Chapter Twenty Nine: A Tiny Cock Causes a Huge Collision

  The lamp post that Chariots is attached to can be found along Bexley High Street in Kent opposite the pub full of grinning lunatics and next to a mini roundabout with three junctions.

  This roundabout is a well-known traffic hotspot. It is a really tight turn that buses and lorries always have a right torrid time of getting around in one piece.

  Even cars regularly have nears misses on it with daft folks being too easily confused about who actually has the right of way. To all you dumb mo’fo’s out there with no concept of The Highway Code you have to give way to the vehicle on your right!!!

  Any road, with Chariots making such a spectacle of himself, the traffic soon starts to back up along the High Street and into Bourne Road.

  People in cars slow down to laugh at the state that Chariots is in and helpfully shout abuse at him. The audience in the pub love it. All standing there in the warmth of the bar, with a pint in one hand and a fag in the other giggling their holes off, it’s better entertainment than when the footy is shown on the big screen TV’s.

  Chariots on the other side of the road is not a happy chappy. He writhes around trying to get free but the cable ties are holding him firm.

  An old boy walks along the pavement with his dog who decides to approach Chariots to have a damn good sniff. (The dog does the smelling NOT the old crumbly obviously!)

  The dog pushes his snout up into his crotch like he has some obsession with whiffing cheese. He keeps nipping at the sock dangling down off of Chariots Old Bill as his owner tugs on the lead pulling the animal away.

  Suddenly the dog lunges forward and bites the sock, tugging it off to reveal Chariots wee small tadger to the whole world. He is standing there naked as the day he was born, apart from the rubber gloves on his plates.