Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend (12 page)

Just
then, like a bad penny, Deviant pops back up again. ‘What have you done with Kid L you twisted spleen eater?’ Village asks.

‘Slight
problem there guys, he’s just been thrown out. He went out for a private and kept groping the poor girl up, he was all over her Bristol’s. She was having none of it and called the bouncer over who gave him a right good clip round the ear and threw him out.’

Unbelievably
we are now down to just a half dozen made up of: Me (AKA Euro) Deviant, Amnesty, Village, Hit and Run. What a total let down. We are on a stag do of disaster and losing bodies at a horrific rate.

But
just as the night was looking bleak, Amnesty spots something that will elevate this evening to legendary status. An evening that will be discussed long into the future with the whole gang pretending they were there to witness it. Exactly like everyone of a certain age knowing where they were when JFK got shot.

Amnesty
points at the front of Deviant’s trousers and asks ‘what the fuck is all that?’

Over
the weekend Deviant has been banging on and on about his brand new pair of black moleskin jeans that cost him a fortune from Covent Garden. He has been rabbiting on about denim being dead and that moleskin is the future of trouser wear.

Needless
to say that moleskin is not actually made from the skin of a mole - that would be gross! It is a heavyweight cotton fabric brushed on both sides to produce a soft, smooth pile surface that has a velvety kind of feel to it.

Up
and down the thighs of Deviant’s jeans are white trails of crusty gank that looks like a load of snails have been competing in the 50cm world sliming championships.

Deviant
knows exactly where this mess has come from and boosts proudly, ‘I told you all, that dirty lap dancing bird wanted a piece of me. She was really frothing at the gash as she was writhing about on my lap and thighs, covering me in her lush clam jam. Knew I was making her all gushy by putting on the old Deviant charm, works every time. No one believed me when I said she was right into me and I could have been conkers deep into her. Well there’s the proof, sticky fanny batter all over my moleskins!’

He
is so proud of the snail trail stains that I’m sure he is going to get the trousers framed when he gets home. It would be like having a signed Charlton Athletic Football Club (go on you reds!) shirt hanging up in your front room. The frame would become a family heirloom that you keep to pass on to future generations.

But
I reckon those trousers are beyond saving and even after a boil wash are only destined for the nearest rubbish bin. Even the local second hand shop won’t take them in.

We
all stand about laughing and joking but Deviant is having none of the piss taking. In fact he is jubilant about the cruddy muck on his moleskins.

A
random stranger walks by and clocks the state of them saying, ‘bad move fella, black moleskins and lap dancing don’t mix. Get yourself some stone washed denim jeans, they hide all the evidence!’

And
there’s another bit of free, great advice to live your life by.

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER 9…..91 TO GO

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 2 PINTS, A BOTTLE & A SHIRLEY TEMPLE COCKTAIL WITH A PINK UMBRELLA

Chapter Eighteen: The well moody old juicer of Edinburgh Town

We’ve left the smeggy cock whiff of TITZ far behind us and rocked up in some right dodgy battle cruiser near the city centre. As soon as we walk in we are greeted by the traditional friendly Scottish welcome of:

WHO
ARE YA? WHO ARE YA? WHO ARE YA?

WHO
ARE YA? WHO ARE YA? WHO ARE YA?

This
is being chanted at us full volume by a group of feral, ferrety looking fuckers at the back of the bar. They are getting right into it, pointing at us and snarling, really making us feel wanted.

This
joyful song is then followed by a few choruses of; ‘Who the fucking hell are you?’ to really get across the fact that we have strayed off the beaten track and are now about to get a beating.

These
lads are obviously not old enough to drink legally but have covered their chins in bum fluff to look older and wiser than their years.

Their
uniform of shell suits, sports clothing, tracky bottoms and scuffed up trainers (from climbing up walls and through open windows while out robbing people’s houses, no doubt) all spells out one thing: TROUBLE!

They
look like nasty bastard tea leaves (thieves) who are quick with their fists and would gladly support their local dentist by smashing all your teeth out.

Up
here in Scotland they are known as NEDS (Non Educated Delinquents) over in the good old US of A they would be called TPT (Trailer Park Trash) but I call them Plague Kids, as in ‘Avoid like the….’

There’s
a group of ten Plagues all hanging around two knackered looking pool tables at the rear of the pub. They don’t seem to be playing though, just using the tables to roll up the thick joints we can seeing them smoking and you can smell the Mary Jane from the doorway.

There
is an air of violence and menace hanging over the whole place but the impending threat of danger is just not sinking in to our pissed up brains.

At
this end of the bar nearest the entrance is an older crowd of mainly men all suited and booted in their best clobber. They all look in their sixties but are probably only in their mid-forties, with faces that suggest they have lived very hard lives being very hard men.

What
with the bad diet of prison food, filter-less cigarettes, home brewed alcohol and a heroin habit, what chance did they have? Male models this lot most certainly are not.

These
‘oldies’ all seem to have bits missing, like teeth, brain cells and parts of ears/noses which can’t be good. They may even be the parents/grandparents/great grandparents of the no marks younger crew, who are still sizing us up from the pool tables.

There
are women in this joint but even they look tougher than tough. If one of them asked you to accompany her out to the car park you would not be able to tell if she wanted to pull you or punch your lights out.

With
our beer goggles firmly on, the six of us just cannot see the potential for a damn good kicking in this drinking establishment so we approach the old crone behind the bar.

‘It’s
my round gents, so choose your weapons!’ shouts Village. The following is what was ordered up, using an Enigma code breaking machine to decipher the actual alcoholic drink required:

1]
VAL……Vodka And Lemonade (AKA Valerie, as in ‘Dob us in a Valerie, cocker baby winkle)

2]
Supersonic……Gin and Tonic.

3]
JD and coke……Jack Daniels and Coke, bit ‘kin obvious that one.

4]
Gold Watch…Scotch.

5]
Large Rouge….Half a vat of red wine.

6]
Uri Top…(A Pint of Stella Artois with a splash of lemonade. Uri Geller is mockney rhyming slang for Stella. For the more politically aware chap you could also use Nelson Mandela)

With
a round like that it’s no wonder that half the blokes in here want to knock the snot out of us, while the other half laugh and would then stick the boot in themselves. We should have ordered six pints of heavy to at least make an effort to try to fit in.

******DRINKS INTERLUDE******DRINKS INTERLUDE******

At this point in the proceedings here is a short do’s and don’ts list for ordering drinks on a stag do:

DO:
Pace yourself. It’s a marathon not a sprint, so feel free to order a bottle instead of a pint. A man has to know his limitations and keep within them.

DO:
Order regular strength ‘cooking lager’ rather than the stronger stuff available. It’s a better session brew. It will still get the job of intoxication done but over a much longer time of supping.

DO:
Avoid entering the spirit world for as long as possible. As tempting as it is to hit the top shelf early in the day it really is not the way forward.

DON’T:
Order a Lager Shandy EVER. Yeah it is a refreshing alternative when behind closed doors at home where no one else needs to know. On a stag do you will have the piss ripped out of you by the rest of the gang, for at least half an hour for shouting one in.

DON’T:
Order Lager & Lime. Enough said. It ruins the taste of a perfectly good pint and again opens you up to verbal abuse. The same rule applies for white wine spritzers, alco-pops, etc.

DON’T:
Drink anything non-alcoholic. This is all shades of incorrect.

******DRINKS INTERLUDE OVER******DRINKS INTERLUDE OVER*****

We get served and sit at a table mid-way between the young hard nuts screwing us out and the old hard nuts who are also giving us the evil eye.

This
table seems to be in the ‘no man’s land’ of the drinker that separates the two different groups of head cases.

I
wonder if on Christmas Day they have a truce, kind of like during the trench warfare of World War I. Someone brings in a football to have a bit of a kick about with. Jumpers for goalposts! All good clean fun. They then have the traditional pub lunch of roast turkey flavoured crisps and buy each other a pint.

Half
an hour later they are battering each other senseless in the street, losing more molars and parts of their anatomy. Merry Christmas everyone!

I
have a moment of clarity and wonder what the hell we are doing in this scuzzy tavern? It is all going to go Pete Tong in a matter of minutes.

As
the toilets are down at the Plague boy’s end, it’s a racing cert that when you have to go and empty your bladder, this will result in a definite mugging that will also empty your wallet. We all cross our legs and aim to get our drinks down us in record time so we can get The F out of D (The Fuck out of Dodge).

We
sit there feeling like we’ve accidently entered the pub on the moors in that top movie ‘An American Werewolf in London.’ The two unwary tourists enter the place to a right frosty reception and it goes completely silent until they are then warned to ‘stay on the path boys.’

I’m
no mind reader but it seems everyone in the bar wants us to Foxtrot Oscar and sharpish. The six of us English lads are as popular as a fart in a spacesuit in here. But so what?

We
sit there and pretend we are not cacking our whacks and front it out. The conversation as usual soon turns nonsensical. We laugh at how the number in the stag party has been whittled right down as if we were starring in some ‘stalk and slash’ horror movie from the 1980’s. Who is going to reach the end credits and what body parts will be left on them?

We
all decide to grab another round as closing time is fast approaching. The clientele in this ‘inn of doom’ seem to tolerate us a little, even though we are still getting stared at by the scrotal little savages by the pool tables.

The
gang is all cool with this, except for Amnesty who is getting the right hump by now. He keeps glancing over their way and mutters to himself under his breath. All the signs are there that very shortly he is going to go completely radio rental.

It
looks like the red mist is starting to descend. Like Dr Bruce Banner he is spinning out of control and you won’t like him when he is angry. No good will come of it.

Amnesty
is fed up with being bogged out by the plague of plagues and jumps up saying ‘Right I’m going to show those little twats who is the main man in here!’

He
marches down to the back of the pub looking like a man possessed. He has well and truly lost what little plot he had left. His face looks like thunder and it is very likely someone is going to get a punch. This situation is only going to end with flashing blue lights, sirens and bags of donated blood.

He
approaches one of the pool tables and slams down a twenty pound note with the words ‘I bet this twenty spot I can beat any one of you bastards at pool using just one hand! Come on then who wants some of them apples?’

Amnesty
has finally wigged completely out and fallen into the mouth of insanity. What the hell is he thinking? Even if he really can beat them he will still end up in a fist induced coma.

The
plagues stand there looking shocked and confused. They’ve just been challenged by a lunatic who wants to play one handed pool in their local juicer on their table for money. Finally one of the plagues, let’s call him Bubonic, breaks the silence and puts down his own note saying ‘I’ll take that bet you massive numpty. I am the king of this table. When I beat you the lot of ya can fuck off out of here!’

About
the only response we can expect from Bubonic I guess. It’s a very fitting nickname as he looks like he could end your life in a very painful way or leave you with permanent facial disfigurement. He even has scars on his chin that may well have been caused by The Black Death centuries ago but this is more realistically to have been the result of acne or too much teenage glue sniffing.

As
Amnesty selects a cue from the selection leaning against the wall, a couple of the mini plagues rack up the balls and it is ‘Game On!’

We
gather around the table to witness what will surely be the quickest game of pool in history, swiftly followed by the fastest hospitalisation of six pissed up blokes from down South.

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER 9…..82 TO GO

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 1 x VODKA, A PINT OF LAGER AND A LITRE BOTTLE OF WHITE LIGHTNING CIDER