Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend (17 page)

Paddy
repeatedly buzzes the call button above his seat and is asking the two old biddies next to him if they know who did this to him. The pair of them cop a deaf ‘un and want no part of it. The coffin dodgers stare out the window wishing they were sitting anywhere else on the plane and wondering why they always end up lumbered with a head case in their row. They decide that they are going to fly club class next time to avoid the pond life scum you get seated in economy.

Finally
one of the air stewardesses reaches Paddy’s seat and ask him what the problem is. He then has the audacity to blame her for the penile protuberances that have mysteriously appeared while he slept. He is really going into one asking why she stuck the crud all over his face and that he wants to talk to the pilot and/or his local Member of Parliament to put a strongly worded complaint in.

The
poor woman is desperately trying to calm Paddy down apologising for the incident and asking him if he would like some free coffee to sober him up.

He
then starts demanding his membership of The Mile High Club which he swears blind was promised to him when he booked his ticket. ‘Come on Air Bint how about a quick knee trembler in the bog? You know you want to, you dirty slag!’ he shouts.

That’s
it. The air stewardess has had enough and she slaps Paddy around the face with an open hand, hard! It is a beauty of a smack as we all heard it from our seats way at the back of the plane. Serves him right, she should have just opened the door and flung him out to his doom.

She
storms off leaving Paddy sitting there with the perfect imprint of her hand in red etched on his cheek. Bet that stung like fuck. He doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered by the slap and sits there grinning away like an imbecile.

All
the other passengers around him are stunned into silence and all look away not wanting to catch the mad man’s eyes. You could hear a pin drop through the aircraft until the old broken record starts up again with a yell of:

‘THERE’S
MORE TO IRELAND THAN THIS!!!!’

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER…..NOT ONE………IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE YOU COULD LEGALLY SMOKE ON A PLANE AND JOIN THE ELITE RANKS OF THE ‘MILE HIGH TAB CLUB’…………………..…36 TO GO.

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 3 MINIATURE BOTTLES OF TIA MARIA…..REMEMBER THE RULES….ON A FLIGHT DON’T DIE SOBER.

Chapter Twenty Five: A Quick Nightcap, I mean Recap.

As we have now rechristened all our barmy band of hard smoking and binge drinking bastards here is a quick recap of who is who:

Kid
A: Deviant

Kid
B: Amnesty

Kid
C: Village Idiot

Kid
D: Euro Boy [Stag of Edinburgh Trip AKA Your Narrator]

Kid
E: Mule

Kid
F: Burke

Kid
G: Gap

Kid
H: Hit

Kid
I: Run

Kid
J: Chariots [Stag of Amsterdam Trip]

Kid
K: Light [or was it Weight?]

Kid
L: Dung Beetle

Kid
M: Paddy

Kid
N: Weight [or was it Light?]

All
these lads were given perfectly acceptable names by their parents at birth, but I’m buggered if I can actually remember any of them now. Their legends live on……

Chapter
Twenty Six: The Luggage Carousel of Doom

‘Thank you for flying flight 69 from Amsterdam. Welcome to London Gatwick, where the temperature is sub-zero, it is pissing down with rain and the local time is 5:25 PM.’

Arse!
It’s Sunday evening and the pubs turf you out at ten thirty. That means I have less than five hours to puff my way through the remaining thirty six smokes.

I
calculate my FPH speed (that’s Fags Per Hour) is about seven or approximately one cigarette every eight minutes. That should be a breeze or should I say a huge nicotine cumulus cloud of gas to inhale. But I am going to do it!

What
started as some macho bet has now become a matter of family pride. I will get through that carton of ciggies if it’s the last thing that I do. I’ve always wanted lungs as knackered as a 1920’s coal miner or a 1950’s asbestos worker and finally my wish is coming true.

I
am wheezing away like a ninety year old codger trudging down the local high street through a snow storm to collect his pension from the post office.

They
say that over indulgence is a great way to finally stop smoking and I could not agree more. It is lucky that the same principle does not apply to alcoholic bevvies otherwise I would be a tee total by now!

The
plane finally lands, taxis to the gate and comes to a stop. The front door is opened and we all troop down to baggage reclaim to grab our bags. My pooper stops going ten to the dozen and my heart rate goes back down to normal now I am off that aluminium flying bird in one piece. I light up a cigarette to chill me out.

We
get to the reclaim area and are prepared for the usual lengthy wait for our luggage to appear. All the lads around me are bored already and have started arsing about.

Chariots
has his two giant vibrators out again which are merrily buzzing away, waiting for the moment when they will be shoved somewhere that the sun does not shine.

Amnesty
and Deviant are giving some Doris standing near them the glad eye. Hit and Run are playing ‘Penny up the Wall’ together, gambling the minutes away until hopefully our bags appear. Unless of course they have ended up anywhere else on the planet but where they are meant to be. This is a distinct possibility.

Village
Idiot and Mule are well pissed up, having spent the flight quaffing mini bottles of champagne and are now play fighting, acting out the final scene of
The Karate Kid
. One of them stands on one leg while shouting out ‘Wax on! Wax off!’ and then does a high flying kick that narrowly misses the balls/gut/throat/moosh of the other fighter.

This
is not a sensible course of action as they are both well bandy and there is a great chance that claret will be spilt. Although a spray of arterial blood will certainly liven up a well dull wait for the luggage carousel to start up so we leave them to it.

After
I have sucked through two more smokes the thing finally grinds into life and the belt starts going around but without one single item of baggage on it. Folks start to crowd around hoping that their bags will appear first, so they can get home.

The
carousel is a huge oval shape that goes around the hall and then disappears beneath strips of plastic that look like a huge jelly fish has been stuck to the doorframe leading out to the loading area behind. This plastic stuff stops you peeking out at the room where the baggage handlers stand around scratching their back sides, reading newspapers and generally doing anything but unloading the suitcases awaiting collection.

(
Dear reader I don’t mean to be condescending by explaining to you what a luggage carousel is. I am sure the vast majority of you are well travelled intelligent individuals. I have put this paragraph in for the plebeians who have never boarded an aircraft before and think that I am talking about a funfair carousel for kids. They are expecting some garishly painted horses to appear in this tale instead of suitcases and for that horrendous pipe music to start up that goes on until you want to rip your own ears off!)

Occasionally
a lonely bag does travel around the carousel until someone claims it or it disappears out the back again to then return, minutes later for another victory lap.

Mule
and Village are getting well close to the belt now and their fight has become serious. They are doing some mad karate moves both of them looking like Bruce Lee if he had been on a twenty-pies-a-day diet. Suddenly Mule does a crazy two footed flying kick that smashes into Villages mid-riff sending him through the air to crash down onto the baggage carousel.

Due
to the fact that Village is hammered and that the belt is moving a furious rate of knots he cannot seem to get off of it.

His
legs are hanging over the side and the people gathered around the carousel waiting in vain for their suitcases all have to take evasive action to avoid getting booted.

‘Sluts!’
Village yells as he passes the other passengers by. ‘Help me you sluts!’ He is really struggling to get off but the belt sends him round the hall and through the plastic covering out to the loading room at the back.

As
Village appears sitting on the belt, one of the baggage handlers exclaims ‘What the fuck are you doing out here mate? This is a restricted area. You can’t be out here. I’m calling security.’

Village
does not hear a word of it but unbelievably spots his bag on the trolley that the guys are just starting to unload.

‘I
say old bean,’ the Village Idiot utters in a plummy English accent, ‘would one of you kind fellows mind passing me that grey sports bag over there? It’s the one with the words VILLAGE IS A CUNT written on it in black marker pen.’

The
handler man is so shocked that he hands Village his bag as he trundles past on the belt. As he reappears through the plastic sheeting into the reclaim hall he lifts his bag skywards like he is holding up the World Cup or something and shouts ‘The self-service baggage collection carousel is now open!!’

He
travels around on the belt proudly showing the crowd the cuss word written on his bag to where we are standing and we help him off almost uncontrollable with laughter.

Only
Village could pull a stunt like that without getting a punch and/or getting arrested. He opens up his bag, pulls out a huge bottle of vodka which he unscrews and swigs down his gullet. ‘Come on lads, let’s get loudy!’ he screams as we all pass his booze around necking it furiously.

All
our bags eventually turn up so we head through to customs. It is then that I realise that I still have two poly bags full of cannabis in my pocket. I meant to smoke it all before we got on the plane but in the mad rush to the airport and all that Chariots buffoonery I completely forgot about them. It is too late to bin them now I’ll have to keep my fingers crossed I don’t get caught.

As
we walk towards the ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel I totally start to brick myself. Even though I only have an eighth of gear or less on me, I imagine getting caught and banged up in some shit-hole prison like in
Midnight Express
. All I would have in my future would be a life sentence of arse rape, chivvings with sharpened up tooth brushes and a shower room far worse than the one at school or in the kebab house of Amsterdam.

Let’s
face it though with this quantity in my pocket I am hardly some international drugs baron like top man Howard Marks!

I
break into a sweat. My under arms gush like Niagara Falls as my face goes all shiny and moon like. Quite simply I look as guilty as a motherfucker. I pray that there are no customs officers on duty but some hope, as we turn the corner there are tons of the uniformed bastards waiting there but luckily no sniffer dogs.

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