Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend (11 page)

Kid
L
:
Yeah
the
kids
are
going
to
dig
this
.
We’re
going
to
make
millions
and
get
out
of
the
shitty
rat
race
.
Tattoos
for
anyone
,
without
the
need
for
ink
or
needles
.
Result
.
I’m
going
to
patent
this
as
soon
as
we
get
home
.”

Obviously
he didn’t. He’s still as skint as the rest of us! END OF CONVERSATION…..

Halfway
through the meal I had to dart out for a piss. ‘Breaking the seal’ is never a good idea when out on a session. Visit the lavvy once and from then on you’ve got to have a slash every ten minutes to empty your belly of pissy beer.

It
was a nightmare getting the old todger out of my fly as I had a brand new pair of 501’s on and it took ages of faffing about getting the buttons undone. When I got back to the table there was no-one there, just loads of plates of half-eaten food and half-drunk pints of beer.

The
owner was standing at the deserted table with a phone in his hands saying, ‘I’m calling the police. Your friends have all run out without paying so unless you have the money to cover the bill, there is going to be trouble.’

‘I
haven’t got enough cash on me mate. It’s my stag do. I do have a credit card back at the guest house we are staying at. I’ll nip back and get it.’ I reply.

The
owner is getting the right hump by now. ‘Do you think I was born yesterday? There’s no way you are leaving here without paying your bill,’ he menaces. Suddenly a couple of the cooks almost magically appear next to him holding big shiny and very sharp meat cleavers.

They
are wiry little blokes but look like they know they’re way around the choppers they are waving about in the air.

They
also look pretty unimpressed that this English fella can’t pay up. Looks like someone is getting a kicking very soon and that person is me.

‘Look
guys, I’m really sorry, my mates have well dropped me in it here. Look, I tell you what, I’ll leave you my watch and get back to my hotel where I’ve got a credit card and I’ll sort this out’ I beg and plead.

‘I
don’t want your fucking watch or your card, I want Pound Notes and lots of them,’ he spits. ‘This is an insult to my family. You come into my restaurant, you little turd and eat my food without paying. I’m going to fuck you up!’ he exclaims.

He
is absolutely seething. The two chefs are smiling and look like they are going to really enjoy delivering the beating that is surely coming my way. I am terrified. I wonder if breaking out the tears will get me any pity.

‘Please
fella, calm down,’ I whimper. ‘Let’s call The British Consulate, we can sort this situation without violence.’

On
hearing this, the owner and the cleaver twins start howling with laughter. He whistles and all the lads reappear from a room behind me where they have been hiding and listening to me crawling for my life. One guy shouts out, ‘British Consulate, you massive ball of cock cheese!’ Nuff said. The stags are all falling about. They’ve heard the whole lot.

‘We
got you!’ says the owner. He absolutely loves a wind up and he can’t stop laughing, so brings out another round of Cobra lagers on the house. He then grabs his camera and takes loads of photographs of me and the boys being ‘attacked’ by the lads with the meat cleavers.

‘These
pictures are going up behind the bar,’ he announces proudly. So if you are ever in Edinburgh in an Indian restaurant and you see the evidence hanging up, spare a thought for the seat of those nice new jeans I was wearing. They were a little squelchy I can tell you.

The
lads are over the moon that they stitched me up. ‘That will right learn ya, stag boy. You thought because we got you in Amsterdam you were getting away with it this time out. Well you are wrong so you best be on your guard fella,’ crows the gang.

Food
gets put away. Beers drained. We shake hands with the owner and job done, it’s time to make like Tom and Cruise.

We
carry on down the road and soon see a huge neon blue sign that holds us like a tractor beam, slowly drawing us in. There is no escape. It’s as if our minds are now in someone else’s control and our will is no longer our own.

This
place is calling out to us, it is our destiny. The sign is just four letters glowing in the dark saying ‘T I T Z’.

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 8…..121 TO GO

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: COBRA x 3, A GLASS OF BLACK TOWER WINE, A DOUBLE BACARDI AND COKE

Chapter Seventeen: The Trail of a Snail Ruins Jeans Made of the Skin of a Mole

The eight of us join the short queue of people that are unsurprisingly, all well shifty looking gentlemen. All making a bad hash of looking like they really don’t want to be here, but they very obviously do.

We
reach the front and ask the bouncer standing there in his regulation black bomber jacket and earpiece, what the full S.P. (starting price) is.

His
reply must be the same answer he has been reeling off for months as he does not even pause for breath as he explains:

‘
Right
this
is
a
lap
dancing
bar
.
It
is
£
3
each
to
get
in
, £
2
per
drink
and
then
£
5
per
private
dance
.
The
rules
are
very
simple
to
understand
.
Number
one
,
you
do
NOT
touch
the
ladies
.
Number
two
,
you
do
NOT
proposition
the
dancers
.
You
best
believe
that
you
will
not
be
getting
a
‘
poke
in
the
whiskers’
in
this
establishment
.
Number
three
,
you
do
NOT
touch
the
merchandise
or
there
will
be
big
trouble
coming
your
way
.
We
only
employ
the
sexiest
ladies
and
I
guarantee
you
no
munters
on
these
premises
!
Gentlemen
step
this
way
.
’

To
be perfectly straight the fella lost me at the words ‘this is a lap dancing bar’ the rest of his spiel was a load of white noise, blah blah blah, with a threat of mindless violence if Captain Grope pays a visit! We get it. Look but do not touch. There is no ‘try before you buy’ policy in this joint.

We
hand over three sheets each for the entrance fee and enter the club. As soon as we get through the door we notice one very small detail that ‘Mr I love the sound of my own voice’ has rather conveniently forgotten to mention. Unsurprisingly, the fella’s out-number the scantily clad dancers by about twenty to one.

The
place is absolutely ram-packed solid with geezers who are all over the sexy ladies like bluebottles buzzing about turds. The club has certainly seen better days with a 1970’s décor of tack, disco balls, loads of mirrors and a carpet that is as sticky as quick sand. I am hoping this is due to the number of pints of ale spilt on it over the years and not stray bodily fluids.

One
side of the place is a long bar that is about fifty deep, all hollering for lager, at the two over worked and totally pissed off bar staff standing behind it.

On
the other side of the room is a small stage with a steel pole, where one of the girls is slowly peeling her kit off to applause and cheers from the leering punters. The way she is throwing herself around the pole really is impressive. Twisting round and round the silver pole in the centre of the stage and then hanging upside down legs akimbo, with not a stitch on, is certainly a skill worth learning. Maybe they should do a degree course in it. She has an amazing body and if pole dancing was a new Saturday night tea time TV programme, viewing figures would go through the roof.

It’s
no surprise that Deviant has rushed straight down to the stage and elbows his way to the front where he stands with a shit eating grin, beaming from ear to ear. He is in his element. There is no way on Earth we are getting him out of here tonight.

Other
strippers walk around the club in their best underwear asking if you would care to join them for a private dance in one of the rooms out the back. Your five pound note gets you one song, during which your chosen lady will strip completely naked and give you a real eyeful. She will also have a writhe around on your lap, a wriggle up your thighs and if you are especially well behaved, may even give your veiny bang stick (that will definitely be on the semi) a half-hearted squeeze. Then it’s a peck on the cheek and you get fucked off before the next customer. It is a fiver well spent!

Business
is brisk, as soon as one of the girls reappears from the booths at the back of the club, another bloke grabs her and she is back taking off all her scrundies that she has only just put back on again. They are coining it in.

The
amount of silicone enhanced breast on display is staggering. As Village remarks to the gang, ‘This place is packed with fake tits and real cock-ends!’

We
manage to get served a round of pints and stand there soaking up the ambience. The place whiffs of cheap perfume, mould, man sweat, stale cigarettes and eggy beer farts. If you could bottle the pong, you could make dough selling it as the brand-new cologne for ‘the right dodgy geezer in your life’ and call it ‘Eau de Seedy.’

The
blokes in here are mainly young fellas out for a few laughs and looking to top up the old ‘wank bank’ by ogling pretty girls they know they could never pull in a million years. There is an atmosphere of desperation about the place but it is the perfect venue for a stag do.

Let’s
face it you are very unlikely to meet the girl of your dreams while you are totally incoherent with a gut full of booze surrounded by all your mates in the same rotten state. Stag boys tend to lose their respect for women along with their power of witty repartee while under the influence and revert to shouting out Neanderthal man comments like ‘Get your tits out for the lads!’

At
TITZ [you can tell it is a classy place as the name uses a Z and not an S] the girls are only too pleased to ‘whop them out’ as long as you pay, so everyone is happy!

Over
a weekend the dancers here will probably earn more than I will for a full week sitting at a poxy desk doing telesales bullshit so you have to ask ‘Which one of us really is the mug?’

Well
me, as usual, to be honest. If I had a gorgeous body I could use to make a living and avoid the ‘nine to five’ rat race, I certainly would. Unfortunately the only modelling work I could get with my beer gut, would be the ‘before’ photograph in an advertisement for the local gym. I am not even going to be able to donate my well knackered body to medical science after I’ve finished with it.

Back
at the bar we spark up some coffin sticks just as Deviant returns. He has already had three private dancers out the back and is now skint so is looking to borrow/beg/ponce another fiver so he can stare at another one of the fantastic girls undressing.

‘Do
you get your money’s worth out the back in the private booths then?’ asks Kid L.

‘You
bet!’ Deviant roars. ‘This place is full on rock and roll. The Jacks (Jack the Rippers-Strippers) are top dollar. They get completely naked and climb all over you dangling their bits in your face. They have less hair downstairs than you can find on Kojak’s head. You get a better view of their pubic area than a fully qualified Gynaecologist! Although saying that, one of the girls was a major disappointment. She dropped her panties and she had a pierced clit. It was a right let down, was like finding a five pence piece in your doner kebab! But I swear one of them was completely in love with me and deffo would have let me shag her. She was wetter than an otter’s pocket. I was knuckles deep and she was all over my cock like a rash!’

‘Well
that is lucky then,’ replies Kid L, ‘as you have a rash all over your cock after that visit to that Dutch knocking shop the other month, but we won’t mention that.’

‘Come
on Kid L don’t be tight, sub me a tenner so I can road test another couple of these top fillies. Hell, why not come along and we can both nonce them right up? Let’s go and grin at some quim! Let’s go and fumble with some grumble!’ yells Deviant at the top of his voice.

With
that the two lads wander into the crowd searching for their next deposit into their personal Bank of Wank Fantasy Investment Portfolio. You know the rules: a shag’s alright but you can’t beat a bit of the old mind’s eye!

So
now there are six of us left at the bar to get stuck into yet another round and then wobble over to the stage area to join the mob of geezers standing there gawping with their eyes out on stalks.

Why
waste a Lady Godiva (fiver) going out the back for a private when you get a free fully nude show out here for zero pence? There’s more bare skin on display than at ‘The Changing of The Guard’ up in London. Sorry that’s bear skins, so that’s my mistake, that analogy really does not work does it? We will move on.

While
watching the show Kid M is looking really uncomfortable, which is odd as a beautiful girl is slowly taking her bra off to reveal a splendid set of top bollocks, not five feet away. This is not something you see during your daily drudgery at work so he should be getting a right good stare on.

‘What’s
wrong with you mate? Not classy enough in here for you? Not enjoying the reek of desperation?’ I ask.

‘No
it’s not that Euro, I errr, I really need to go and take a big shit - that curry has gone straight through me. My guts are rotten.’ He blurts out.

‘Well
go and have one then, they have got bogs in here.’

‘But
the bouncers will think I’ve gone in there to jerk myself off. I’d feel right embarrassed cos I don’t want them to think I’m a pervert.’

I
can’t believe I’m having this conversation, this is surreal. This guy has got some real issues with public defecation that need sorting.

‘I
promise you they have not got cameras in the toilets to stop people having a quick Jodrell. Besides you won’t even get in one of the traps as there will be a load of ching monsters in there hoovering the white stuff up their conks. Just go to the lav, wait for a stall and have a dump.’

‘I
just can’t stand to do it in here I know it’s going to be a three flush jobbie at least. I’m going back to the hotel.’

‘That
is the lamest excuse to skip the beer I have heard in my entire life. We only let the pretend stag avoid appearing on tonight’s show because he’s lost two of his pearly whites and he is up the local A&E. You’re baling out to go home and have a poo. Get a grip on yourself top man, stop being such a massive flange piece.’

‘No
I’ve got to go, I’m touching cloth already. I can feel the turtle neck poking out. I’ll see you back here in half an hour I promise.’

With
that Kid M is in the wind and we are now down to seven in total. That’s half of the herd lost and it is not even ten o’clock at night. This is a piss poor performance. There was a famous saying during World War II that went: Loose Lips, Sink Ships.

The
modern version of this in the lighter than lightweight Kid M’s case would be: Loose Bowels, Lose Pals! The rest of the posse are not surprised that he has performed an early retreat from the booze battle. ‘He’s normally full of shit anyway,’ someone remarks.

I
stand at the bar staring at the woman gyrating sexily on the stage and go off into my own little world. I look like a tit in a trance or rather I’m in a trance staring at tits.

At
that moment I get a tap on the shoulder and turn around to see one of the scrumptious strippers in her full kit standing there yawning away. She looks very well-travelled and I don’t mean that she goes on holiday a lot.

Through
her open gaping mouth she manages to ask me, ‘Would you like a private dance out the back?’ She yawns in my face again and I get a whiff of her halitosis. Thanks love!

‘I
do very sexy dance for you. You can touch my pussy and my tits,’ she says and yawns sleepily for a third time.

‘Darling
you need to work on your sales technique. You should be rubbing your Jack & Danny up and down my leg or tickling my todger, instead of looking bored shitless when chatting to me. I really don’t think that your heart is in this stripping lark. You ain’t getting a fiver out of me, so do one!’ I tell the disinterested tart. She spins on her heel and slouches off giving me the finger. I don’t think she is overly keen on her chosen career path.