Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend

by Sloan, Phil

  The pub goes berserk, we could not have planned it any better. The comments come thick and fast:

  ‘Look, it’s like a nob but smaller!’

  ‘HELMET!!!!’

  ‘I didn’t know it was that cold outside!’

  Chariots’ fiancé yells ‘Even my clit’s bigger than that poor excuse for a penis!’ She really has it in for him. It’s a grudge that will last throughout their short but eventful marriage.

  Then someone else worryingly shouts out ‘Hello Mum!’

  Out in the street our canine pal trots off with the sock dangling out of his jaws while his owner looks back in disgust muttering something about how National Service would sort this generation of scum out.

  Cars are now crawling along the High Street beeping their horns at the stag. On the roundabout two vehicles come together with a huge crash. There is glass and bits of jam jar everywhere and all the roads are now completely blocked. Nobody is going anywhere.

  One of the drivers was very obviously some B.H. (Bored Housewife) who was too busy eyeing up Chariots’ meagre cock when she should have been paying attention to the road ahead and caused the shunt.

  Folks are getting out of other cars to make sure that no one has been hurt in the accident and insurance details are being swapped. I would just love to see that insurance claim. I wonder if you are covered for causing a smash while checking out a naked man’s wedding tackle.

  The whole of Bexley Village is now totally and utterly grid locked. The traffic has come to a complete stand still. There is now a big crowd of people around Chariots mainly admiring his body art and the gloved feet style that he is modelling.

  One bloke however does not get it. He starts having a go at our stag thinking that he has done this to himself and is some kind of sad exhibitionist sex case pervert. Chariots is trying to explain to him that he is the stag taking his punishment and asks him to scratch his chest as the itching caused by the itching powder is now unbearable.

  The fella is not amused and moves away sharpish. Chariots is screaming his head off to be freed and has huge red hives all over his body. He is going full on nutso, ‘Let me go NOW you fucking wankers!’ he bellows over and over again.

  The scene in the street is a total cluster fuck with abandoned cars and people everywhere. No one is going to forget this stag do in a hurry.

  Suddenly with a flash of blue lights a police car goes flying up the High Street on the wrong side of the road. With the accident blocking the roundabout and the hordes of bodies hanging around, the police must think that a full scale riot has broken out in this usually sleepy little town.

  The cop car stops opposite Chariots’ lamp post and two officers step out. One goes over to the two cars embedded in each other on the junction and the other guy wanders into the pub.

  ‘Great stag do lads,’ he says ‘you’ve done him proud. Sorry to break up the party but you’ve got to let him go now so the traffic can get moving again. So who is responsible for this?’

  The entire bar goes silent, thinking that someone is about to get arrested on some dodgy public order offence. No-one wants to take responsibility for the state of Chariots. Suddenly someone bellows, ‘I AM STAGTACUS!’

  ‘NO, I AM STAGTACUS!’ someone else replies. Then another voice squeaks ‘NO, I AM STAGTACUS!’ This phrase goes round like wild fire. By the time even the bar staff get to shout this out as well, the gag is well and truly milked, like my trouser lizard.

  The policeman cracks a smile. ‘Very droll but it’s time to sort this mess out. I’ve just got to get something out of the car, you can take some last pictures and then we’ll let this poor fellow go eh?’

  With that the cop walks back out the bar and goes across to his car. All the lads troop outside and go over to Chariots. The police officer re-appears carrying the biggest thickest truncheon you have ever seen, putting to shame the two vibrators taped to Chariots hands.

  The policeman then starts posing for pictures pretending to smack Chariots over the head with his riot baton while we whisk cameras out and take some classic photographs that get shown during his wedding reception. What a top cop. He is certainly game for a laugh and for a change he does not want to arrest any of us on trumped up charges.

  Not even Chariots for being in possession of an under sized penis while in a public place.

  ‘Nice one lad’s,’ says police. ‘Let him go now. Have a good evening.’ He then wanders off to help his colleague clear up the wreckage from the car crash.

  Within minutes the road is cleared, the traffic starts flowing again and life in Bexley returns to some sort of sanity.

  Begrudgingly we cut the cable ties from Chariots who legs it over the road straight into the pub’s bogs where he spends the next half hour desperately trying to scrub off all the abuse written on his body. The water does wash away the last of the itching powder but his body remains all red and blotchy like a miscoloured Dalmatian puppy.

  He has a change of clothes in his case and eventually comes out of the lavvy fully dressed to a warm round of applause.

  ‘Good on you Chariots,’ states Gap, ‘you took your humiliation like a man.’

  ‘Fuck you Gap, one day it will be your stag do and I am going to ruin you. I promise that you are going to pay for that lamp post stitch up big time. I am going to break you’, vows Chariots.

  The colour drains from Gap’s face. He had not even thought about this before instigating Chariots’ night of pain. Gap realises that revenge is a dish best served cold, so all bets are off for his stag do, if he ever has one. There will be blood.

  Beer is shipped in and cigarettes are consumed at a terrifying pace. All around the pub you can hear phrases like wig, chewing gum cocks, knowing your human rights, Boys II Men, baggage carousel and ‘Pyramid!’ are being bandied about.

  One guy is telling his girlfriend in great depth about the state of Dung Beetle’s bed, describing the mess of it as being like someone had poured an industrial sized tin of ox tail soup into it. The fella was not even on the stag do!

  These stag stories will live on long after we have all passed away from knackered lungs or livers, you can be sure of that. However always remember the number one rule of lad-dom: Careless talk costs wives! Not every other half is quite so considerate about their man’s over indulgence in illicit substances or ‘accidentally’ falling repeatedly into another woman’s body.

  The evening goes by in a flash. Burke has had enough. ‘That’s it gentlemen. I can’t do this anymore. All this copious drinking and taking recreational drugs is destroying my brain cells. I’ve had enough of this lifestyle. I’m going home to chuck me man milk up the Mrs and get her in the family way. I need a kid to get me away from you lot. You are leading me astray just like my Mum always said you would.’ He is up on his soapbox and his tongue is well racing away now.

  ‘I need a child to get something worthwhile out of my leisure time rather than sitting in seedy bars with you reprobates. All we talk about is boozing, sports, drugs, beer and weird sexual practices. I want out.’

  Mule interrupts this speech asking if anyone fancies yet another pint. Amazingly given his rant Burke is the first to pipe up, ‘Thanks matey I’ll have a large G & T and a pack of porky scratchings, I’m Hank. Emptying my nut sacks can wait until tomorrow.’ And so it goes on.

  Conversations around the place are about albino jellyfish, sun tatts, dead rabbits, lost teeth, TITZ and Bubonic. With each re-telling the tales are becoming more embellished and more incredible. Loud shouts of ‘Helmet!’ and ‘There’s more to Ireland than this!’ are greeted with gales of laughter.

  One of the lads goes off to the toilet and when he returns people have been down his bag and are now wearing his dirty shirts, jeans and pants. It takes him a good half hour to even notice.

  But all good things must come to an end. The pub bell tolls, it’s time for last orders one final drink and then it’s time to go home.

  CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 9…..1 TO GO


  BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 5 PINTS, A WATNEYS PARTY SEVEN, A LAMOT PILS AND A BOTTLE OF EKU 28

  Chapter Thirty: The Last Smoke of the Condemned Man

  With the last pint sunk it’s time to say goodbye. The weekender is over, finished, kaput, terminated, clipped, done and dusted.

  The parting isn’t too sad though because I’ll see all the lads again tomorrow night for The Monday Night Mellow Madness beer session where I’m sure we will re-live every moment of action from the last three days of excess.

  I grab my bag, slap some palms and wander out the back of the pub to the car park where I am meeting the soon to be wife. I rang her earlier to plead for a lift home at lobbing out time and incredibly she agreed to come and pick me up. I did push my luck a bit and asked for a bit of NORWICH as well but got nowhere. Got two hopes there I reckon, Bob and no.

  (For all you innocents out there NORWICH stands for Nickers Off Ready When I Come Home.)

  As I walk out the smoky bar I pause and spark up the very last cigarette with a lighter. It tastes vile. I am well smoked out but at least I beat the carton. I am a winner. The carton of ciggies has been defeated and I have the totally knackered breathing apparatus to prove it!

  I stroll across the car park to my breadknife’s car sucking down the last hit of nicotine. I toss the final dog end into the nearest drain and open the car door. ‘You don’t smoke,’ she states giving me a filthy look.

  ‘Not any more I don’t, that’s a fact,’ I splutter back.

  ‘So, how was your weekend then?’ she asks, dying for some juicy gossip to share with the girls.

  ‘Oh you know that lot they’re a boring bunch of teetotal bastards. We were all tucked up in bed by ten o’clock enjoying mugs of cocoa,’ I reply.

  ‘Yeah right, cocaine more like and a load of fanny on your mugs. Come on fess up who pulled and who got arrested? Who went whoring and who got hospitalised?’ she wants to know the full SP.

  ‘Come on love you know the rules. What goes on tour stays on tour. You never rat on your friends. Always keep your gob shut. I’m not some stool pigeon, grass, FBI informer type. All I can tell you is that I behaved myself and The Village Idiot was his usual fuckwitted self. I’m going to blame him for all the bad shit!’ I blag sitting there with my fingers crossed feeling like I’m in court in the witness box getting the third degree. ‘Besides you’ve got that hen do next weekend and you will be right mashed up if you last to this point in the proceedings.’

  ‘You are not wrong,’ she replies. ‘Newcastle here we come. Lock up your sons the saucey southern slags are on their way. It’s going to be a mad one!’

  ‘Yep I bet. Knowing your crazy mates it’ll be a miracle if any of you make it back alive,’ I say.

  Silence fills the car. I am exhausted. The over indulgence of the last three days have caught up with me. I can hear my bed calling and my normal boring weekly work routine just waiting to wrap its cloying arms around me again.

  I sit there with a huge grin on my grill remembering all the great stories from the weekend. I am truly thankful that I have some amazing friends and family around me. I am a blessed man for sure.

  I get all emotional as we pull up in front of our house, knowing how lucky I really am. Life’s a fucking fantastic ride so get out there and enjoy it!

  ‘I love you,’ I blurt out.

  ‘I love you too,’ she replies ‘but you really are a tit.’

  GAME OVER…..YOU ARE SPACE CADET….TRY AGAIN…….THE END

  Appendix Number One: The Glossary of Tossary

  Arris: This is cockney rhyming slang for ‘arse’ which originally came from ‘bottle & glass.’ Then in a slang within a slang style, Aristole means bottle so this got shortened to Arris in the end. What a fucking palaver, why not just write the word arse in the first place, it’s only four letters.

  Balloon Knot: Your ring piece because it looks like the knot in a child’s balloon. Simple as that!

  Battle Cruiser: Translates to ‘Boozer’. Other pub related rhyming slang include: Nuclear Sub-Pub, Rub-a-dub-dub….again Pub. Near & Far…Bar.

  Breadknife: Wife AKA ‘She who must be obeyed’ AKA Her Indoors AKA The Other Half AKA She who will be soon residing under the patio AKA Love of my life AKA ‘The Enemy.’

  Disco Biscuit: For all you young eggs out there with your trendy MP3 Players a disco biscuit is an old vinyl record played at 33rpm for an album or 45 rpm for a 12 inch or 7 inch single. To my ears vinyl sounds far superior and more ‘lived in’ than the clinical over produced digital quality of modern recordings. Mind you as I am as deaf as a post so please pay no heed to my opinion.

  Donkey Punch: A sexual practice not really recommended for the marital bed. As you are indulging in a bit of doggy sex you punch the back of the neck of your lover as you are about to come. Apparently this increases your orgasmic pleasure levels but is more likely to end up in your partner’s death or an assault charge. Either way it’s best to leave this nasty unpleasant business well alone. There is a movie about this called, strangely enough, DONKEY PUNCH if you want to check it out, where unsurprisingly it all ends in tears.

  Felching: To suck recently delivered still warm semen from vaginal or anal passages after sex. I’m sure that it tastes exactly like eating fresh oysters.

  Fortean Times: The greatest magazine on the planet. It is your monthly fill of bizarre news items and features on all aspects of the unexplained. The ‘strange deaths’ column alone is worth the investment. I urge you to purchase a copy when you next go to your local news agents to buy your porno mags.

  Harry Monk: Easy one this, it means Spunk. I wonder if there are any listings for people actually named Harry Monk in the telephone directory. What were his parents thinking?

  Mallet: Refers to a late-developing teenage lad who has yet to grow any pubic hair around his meat and two veg. My wife informs me that the female equivalent insult at her school was ‘White Triangle.’

  MILF: Mum I’d Like to Fuck. As I am hitting middle age this is gradually changing to an older age bracket of GILF……Granny I’d Like to Fuck.

  Mushy Peas: This was the nick name/rhyming slang for Tees Nightclub in Erith. A well dodgy old place that was full of ne’er-do-wells, manual labour types and lots of loose women up for a one night stand. However you were far more likely to get a smack on the kisser than a kiss on the smacker. It was a well classy joint with mirrors everywhere, big sofas and a dance floor that lit up like the one in Saturday Night Fever. Basically you only went there so that you could get a late drink once the pubs had closed.

  Siamese Knees: A strange condition that usually occurs after an argument where the knees of your Mrs seem to become fused together giving you no access to her ‘Holiest of Holies’ for at least a fortnight or until you apologise.

  Teabagging: The rather dubious practice of dangling your ball bags on to the forehead of a sleeping mate. It is massively immature but very amusing particularly if one of your ‘curly watch springs’ falls on to the face of your victim.

  To turn your bike around: To go and take a shit. Why it is called this I have absolutely no idea and could not be bothered to even Google it to find out.

  What’s Benning? This stands for ‘What’s Ben Hurring?’ (Occurring) As in what is going down? Also can be used as ‘What doth Benneth?’

  Appendix Number Two: Cures for a Bastard of a Hangover

  Before you dive into these notes, I want to state, for the record, that I am not a qualified Doctor and as such have no right to give you any medical advice. However I do know that drinking to excess regularly will lead to all sorts of horrible diseases that will end your life prematurely. You’ve got to face facts that none of us are here forever, so you may as well enjoy it while you can!

  All the following supposed ‘remedies’ for over indulgence in the loopy juice known as alcohol are a result of both personal trial and error plus tips I got on line through a very lazy search entitled unsurprisingly ‘hangover cures’.<
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  Some of them may work and others are just a load of old pony but probably worth a shot when you are desperate. Obviously the easiest way to avoid a hangover is not to drink at all the night before but really where is the fun in that?

  So when you are downing yet another shot of Black Sambuca at gone twelve on a school night, knowing your boss is waiting to break your balls first thing in the morning, you will pray hard that one of the following suggestions will at least tide you over to lunchtime when you can grab a swift top up pint.

  1] The Hair of the Dog:

  Or to use the full saying ‘More of the Hair of the Dog that Bit Me.’ This was a belief dating back to the Medieval days when if you were bitten by a rabid dog, a cure could be made by applying the same dog’s hair to your infected wound. Talk about stupid, you’ve been bitten once you tool and now you’re going back for seconds in the vain hope that sticking dog hair in a gaping bloody gash will see you right. You are going to be one foaming at the mouth, rabies infected motherfucker very shortly, my friend.

  This quick fix is also known as ‘The Hairy Dog’ and basically involves getting up and carrying on drinking. People reckon that a small measure of drink on waking can cure a hangover or at least take the sting out of it.

  I tried this once back at school during my A Levels. I had got completely upside down the night before a Chemistry exam that I knew I was going to fail, on account of going to none of the classes during the year, so had gone out and got steaming just for the hell of it.

  I woke up feeling like my head was going to cave in and was shaking like a shitting dog, so I mooched downstairs for some water. On opening the fridge I saw a cheeky can of lager giving me the eye, so popped the lid and downed it in one. I would love to report that this gave me super powers like Spinach does to Popeye but it didn’t. I still got a U grade and just postponed my hangover until I was mid-way through the poxy exam and then felt like I was going to have a stomach turnout in front of the whole class.