Stag!

This blog is sponsored by self-pity, the company today I keep. You see, I’m feeling worse for wear, a little sorry for myself. Every bit hurts. My head? Lost in space. My stomach? Tossed to sea. My mouth? Jesus in the desert. I’ve been on stag this weekend, and this is why I must pay. I didn’t feel like this on Saturday. There, I felt on top of the world. The bee's knees, the cat's pyjamas; a booming economy – Blair’s Britain, The Roaring Twenties, The Celtic Tiger, – the good times were here and they were here to stay. I was out shooting shit, drinking beer, eating burgers, laughing at bedtimes. I was untouchable. Now of course, I regret this arrogance. For every election win, there’s a sexed-up dossier. For every Gatsby party, a fallout. A bubble will always burst. A boom, bust. But what one must remember: it's good fun before that happens. 

Here is the story of the stag: a tale like all good tales: one that begins unhappily and ends triumphantly.

Friday 27^th October

The school bell rings and we’re out the door, pushing the kids out the way to get out the gate first. We’re in a rush because we’re against the clock. The plane is at eight and we’ve got A roads and motorways to negotiate. The Stag is in great spirits. It’s the end of half-term. Eight weeks is a long time when you’re having to crush classroom coups and instil autocratic rule – the boy thoroughly deserves his break. We get back to his and have a beer. The other boys arrive twenty minutes later and the party is ready to leave town.

I worried we might come unstuck on a Friday night, but the Gods are smiling and we get there with no problem. After a quick check-in, we meet some of the other boys in the pub, order a burger and have a few drinks. Time is getting on now. I, at this point, have no sense of time. Typically, I’m ultra-cautious when it comes to flight times, but in a group I don’t worry about a thing. I’ll just ride on the back of their coat-tails when they decide to leave. “Think we best get going now, lads” Paul says. The Stag still has a drink in his hand and says, “I’ll just finish this.” (You can take a Jonnie to the airport, but you mustn’t make him drink.) Most of the group have now gone. It’s just four of us left. We chat happily for a bit longer and then decide to go. I still have no idea on what time it is. I’m in a state known as post-school, pre-holiday euphoria, a timeless universe unencumbered by slot times and departure boards. We make our way down. Sam and I go into Smiths to get a drink and a Cadbury’s Twirl. Stag and Jonny wait outside. The connecting train we get on does not move. It does not move for quite a while. The phone rings: ‘Boys, you need to get moving fast or this flight is going to take off.” Stag’s face turns to ash. Still the train doesn’t move. That timeless state I was in before no longer exists. I feel time in my head, heart, fingers and toes. We’re properly in the shit. I bite into my Twirl - it doesn't taste so good now.

Finally, we get to the gate ten minutes before take-off. But there’s no staff member, only a closed barrier there to greet us. The boys have tried to make a case for us, explaining that our train was held and delayed, but Ryanair won’t listen. I think the lads should have said, “Look, there’s a brown dude back there and you don’t want the PR that comes with not letting him on the plane. Not after last week.” Unfortunately, there are no race cards to play, nor any of Queen of Hearts to take pity on us. We’ve screwed up and we won’t be getting on that plane. The first night of the Stag Do will take place without the Stag. It’s now a ‘Do,’ which isn’t nearly as good.

The first night: we didn't make it.

We’re taken back to Arrivals, in what will go down in history as the shortest holiday known to man, where we debate what to do. Jonny makes the darkly comic joke that we’re now in a plot-line of Planes, Trains and Automobiles – Sam and I laugh, but it’s too soon for the Stag. We brainstorm Exit Strategies: other flights, trains, coaches – and even a taxi. “A taxi to Edinburgh from Stansted. I’ll check that for you, Sir. (Sound of typing) That will be £800.” With a seven hour drive, it’s not worth it in both senses of the term. Jonny proposes that we go to his in Highbury and have a night out. We’ll then get the train at seven in the morning. Everyone agrees this is the best option.

We have a good time. The Stag even catches up with an old uni friend. And the rest of us get to know each other; now bonded in collective stupidity. By 1 we’re home in bed. Alarms are set for 5. “We can’t miss the train,” we parrot at each other. Someone makes a joke about it being funny if we missed transport right through to Sunday afternoon, arriving in just about enough time to join the others for the return flight home. This time the Stag laughs. (His cloud is lifting).

Saturday 27^th October

“Wake up! Wake up!” Sam is calling this to me. It’s 5.10. Why didn’t my alarm go off? I set it for 5. I look at my watch and realise I set it for 5 in the evening. (Me and Time weren’t good bedfellows on this trip.) The Stag will not move. We try every method to wake him. Call, coo and coax: nothing works. At 5.30 the rest of us are ready to go, but the main man is out cold – there’s more life in a morgue. Finally, we get him to his feet, throw an orange juice down him and push him out the door. We’re forty-five minutes early for the train, but then we were two and a half hours early for the plane and still missed that. To be on the safe side, we’re the first to board. We’re on our way.

It’s a lovely journey up. If the train was a bit cheaper, it really would be the way to travel. You get a comfier seat and more leg room, and if someone’s being a dick they can be chucked off without the guilt of hearing their screams through the clouds. On the way up we saw some landmarks (The Angel of the North/ Tyne Bridge) and some beautiful vistas (picturesque beaches and seas). At 11.30 we arrived in Edinburgh City Centre, fifteen hours after our flight had taken off. If you ask me that’s too long for a short haul flight. Ryanair really need to raise their game if they’re to compete with other low-cost airlines).

Those wings aren't very aerodynamic. Hopefully, technology is improving in heaven to get angels to destinations quicker.

We made the short walk down Princes Street and turn right to head up to our apartment, which is a stone’s throw from Edinburgh’s Stand Comedy Club (the best place in the land to watch comedy). The boys weren’t laughing though when we arrived. They had been in an overnight joke where they were the punchline. There was no hot water or heating at the accommodation. An engineer had been called, but was unable to fix it. The boys had slept in sub-zero temperatures with no radiator to warm them, no shower to revive them. (I didn’t mention that Jonny’s London flat was well insulated and heated. I didn’t mention that I got too warm in the night and took my t-shirt off. I didn’t mention that I slept soundly and needed a volley of shouts to wake me. It’s the least I could do).

So before we had got our feet under the table, our feet were out the door, as we moved base for the Hilton Hotel. Checked in, we quickly made our way to our activity. Stuey’s uncle – an Edinburgh native – kindly took us across town to World of Football. The plan was to play Bubble Football, which for the uninitiated involves putting on a huge bubble and then attempting to play football. Now, I was worried about this. The last time I did it there was more bubble than football. When I went previously, the football lasted for five minutes, and what followed can only be described as an untelevised episode of Jackass. We were pitted against each other, one on each side of the hall, and told to run into each other as quick as we could. My body is not built for collision. On impact, my body was launched through the air like an hadouken! victim in Street Fighter 2. Fortunately, that game was not played on this Stag Do (sorry I didn’t suggest it boys, but self-preservation before self-destruction is my mantra).

Man down.

After having a bubble playing bubble football, we got back in the minibus and made our way back to the hotel. Having had a bit of downtime, we congregated at the bar for a little light lubrication. Then, we were onto the City Café Diner for burgers and beers, before heading out for a trawl and crawl around Edinburgh’s pubs and bars. Given Stuie knew the land, he took over navigation and was responsible for choosing a good variety of old and new. My favourites were in the Old Town on the Grassmarket though because that’s where the party was in full swing. One bar had live music and another had the kind of 90’s pop that you’d hate to listen to at home, but love to listen to on a night out. 

At this point the party went its separate ways. We went on to Dropkick Murphy’s where live musicians banged out covers from the likes of Thin Lizzy, The Pogues and Oasis. A fire alarm then sounded at 2.30, which meant we were forced to evacuate the building. On gathering at the assembly point, we were told to go home, that the club was closed. Is the fire alarm just a Scottish ruse to get patrons out the door quicker? Some of the boys I was with then became familiar with the lesser-spotted Lithuanian unicorn. Budding Attenborough’s, they trekked across town to see them in their natural habitat.

Sunday 28^th October

We go downstairs and have breakfast. The Stag tells me five times how great watermelon is. “It really rehydrates you,” is a catchphrase that I don’t think is going to catch on. After filling our bellies, we check-out and take a short walk for our whisky tasting. Daniel, our guide, is quite the expert. Five whiskies are lined up in front of us, offset by a centred glass of water containing pipettes. His talk is a tale that covers the whole of time and space. He begins with Aristotle and his discovery of distillation, which was important for better drinking water. After about five minutes, he gives us a little preview for what’s coming later – like on Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares – before saying, ‘But I’ll tell you about that after you’ve had your next glass whisky.” We go through each whisky with his connected talk covering how the Catholic Church, Napoleon and bootleggers had a big role to play in its evolution. He makes the subject incredibly interesting, so much so he’s inundated with questions. “How many distilleries are there?” “What’s the oldest whisky?” “Is there any money in collecting them?” Then Sam drops a bomb. “I like Jack Daniels. What do you think of that?” There’s an audible silence in the room. Someone has sworn in front of teacher. A boy has blasphemed in Church. Daniel composes himself and replies, “Jack Daniels? It is what it is.” Daniel has killed the popular brand through cliché. He has denied it the dignity of an adjective. He will not lower himself to describe it. This is a whisky talk, thus Jack Daniels is excluded. He moves on.

Jack Daniels did not feature.

The next time, we have the same whisky but with just a drop of water. It gives the drink a totally different feel. Daniel tells us that whisky should be drunk on its own or with just a tiny bit of water. You get the feeling that if someone put ice in Daniel’s whisky, he would kill them and plead ‘self-defence.’ I loved the whiskey talk – it was worth every penny to hear someone so informed talk about a topic they clearly loved.

On leaving, we stopped in Byron’s (yes, I had burgers on back to back nights. I really should have done the early part of the month, then I could have called it Octburger. There’s always next year) and the Stag toasted us on ‘the best weekend he could have had.’ We then had just a bit of time to walk up to Castle, before making our way home.

This time Ryanair decided to delay our flight, which given the option of doing it on the outbound flight or the return, then I’m really pleased they chose this one. Finally, we did make our way home where the lovely Michelle picked us up.

All in all, a great trip with brilliant company. Specials thanks to Stuie on organisation, Paul on hotels, Pip, Michelle and Stuie's uncle on driving (I sound like a big band leader, so I might as well end on me) and myself for my role in fucking up our outbound flight. Cheers all. I had a great time. Just writing this has made me forget the aches and pains. See you at the wedding.