Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend (19 page)

Dan
is
now
known
at
work
as
Flag
for
having
a
ring
piece
that
looked
like
the
Japanese
flag
.
He
is
a
top
bloke
,
love
him
like
a
brother
but
just
don’t
ever
ask
to
borrow
his
lip
balm
!
’

Sitting
in the cab stoned out of our minds this tale makes us piss ourselves with laughter and we all start shouting out ‘FFFFLLLLAAAAAAAAGGGGG!!!!!!’

Even
the cabbie has a giggle, probably because he gets a sweaty Arris from sitting down all day driving. Maybe Exhibition Arse is known as Cab Crack in his profession.

To
be honest I don’t know if Cab Crack even exists all I know is that I never want to catch it!

At
last we pull up outside the local drinker. Our story is reaching its end. It’s time for Chariots to start taking the heat.

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 10…..17 TO GO

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: NOTHING…..THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

Chapter Twenty Eight: The Stags Gone All Blotchy

As the four of us enter the rub-a-dub-dub we see that The B Team have assembled en masse to witness the ritual humiliation of our stag, Chariots.

Various
brothers, cousins, assorted in-laws and mates of the soon to be chained up are all present and correct. Colleagues from his work are also there to ensure that the tale gets told during the hum drum of the nine to five. There will be nowhere to hide from the shame.

One
guy Stiffy has also turned up. (He is not nicknamed for the fact that he has permanently got a hard on but because he once tried to claim expenses for a lunch with a client who had died two weeks before. He got found out and sacked by his boss who had actually attended the poor fella’s funeral. Oh well shit happens.)

Even
Chariots fiancé is there and she can’t wait to see her man finally get what he’s been due all these years. She really wants him to be embarrassed in public and has brought along some itching powder to totally knacker him.

‘He’s
allergic to this stuff,’ she whispers handing the powder over to me. ‘Be sure to throw it all over him,’ she says pointing down at her crotch and giving me a huge theatrical style wink. What an evil cow. I wonder what sorrows married life holds in store for Chariots?

The
second cab full of stags appears with roars of ‘Oi Oi Saveloy!!!’ and ‘What’s Benning?’ The pub becomes a sea of smiling faces, bear hugs and high fives. The atmosphere is electric like being in a crowd before a boxing match (EUUUUUUBANK!) or an Oasis gig (Noel! Liam!) Everyone is on a booze fuelled high knowing that the main event is now just minutes away.

Oily
rags (fags) get smoked and pints swiftly despatched until the man of the hour, Chariots saunters into the juicer.

As
soon as he sees the full herd gathered he knows that his luck has run out and that he is cattle trucked. His confident smile vanishes and he tries to run out the door and escape his fate but the crowd is far too quick for him.

He
is grabbed and frog marched up to the bar where he is made to down three shots of Sambuca.

Gap
has designated himself the ring leader of tonight’s extravaganza and says to Chariots: ‘There is an easy way and a hard way to do this. You can do as you are told or we will make you do it. There are enough of us and only one of you so make a choice bro. Get your kit off now!’

Chariots
is well aware that he is beaten and starts taking all his clothes off. He undresses until all he has left on are his underpants.

‘The
lot!’ demands Gap.

‘Come
off it mate,’ pleads the stag.

Gap
relents ‘OK fair enough, take your boxers off and I’ll give you this to wear instead.’ He takes a long white sports sock out of the bag he is holding.

‘That’s
all you are allowed to have on and no arguments.’ Chariots removes his boxers and pulls the sock on over his cock. He stands in the centre of the pub looking like a right prat as the gang takes pictures of the naked lad with just a sock to cover up his nether region.

‘Put
these on your feet as well stag boy,’ says Gap handing over two bright pink marigold gloves. He slips them on his plates of meat and Chariots now looks like some crazed human penguin hybrid creature.

‘Where’s
your suitcase fella?’ enquires Gap of the distraught stag.

‘Over
in the corner,’ comes Chariots half-hearted reply, he knows what’s coming next.

‘Mule
can you go and get them two vibrators out of his bag mate.’ Mule whips the dildo’s out, turns them on and Gap gaffer tapes them to Chariots hands.

‘You
better not have bought those for me you filthy fucker!’ bellows his Fiancé. ‘What do you think I am some sort of dirty whore? You cheap shit you know I wanted some nice perfume!’

She
has got the steaming hump. At this point one of the lads from the stag do helpfully pipes up ‘He said you had an elastic arsehole, love.’

That
is it the final straw, the camel’s back is broken. She goes into meltdown and punches Chariots in the face then knees him in the balls just for good measure. He goes down like a ton of rhino shite. The pub roars with guffaws.

His
stag humiliation has barely even started yet and already he is on his knees.

As
we have taped the dildo’s to Chariots hands creating fists with cocks protruding from them, he is having a real struggle to get back on his feet until one of the crew lifts him up. He really looks like a broken man so our mission so far is a success.

‘Ladies
and Gentlemen it’s tattoo time!’ shrieks Gap clearly enjoying his role as chief stag tormenter. He grabs a load of black marker pens from out of his bag. ‘If anyone wants to make their mark on Chariots’ rather athletic body, now is your chance.’

Folks
step up to take pens and then cover Chariots in all kinds of offensive shit. He has a large W with an anchor underneath drawn on each of his forearms (did you crack the code W-Anchor…Wanker).

Bolts
are sketched on either side of his neck. Massive tits are etched on his chest and knobs of all sizes with dribbles of semen flying from them are scrawled everywhere. A hinge adorns each elbow and the most colourful words in the English language cover his body.

Chariots
has become one massive lexicon of very rude words, almost an illustrated dictionary of the sex act. This has all been drawn on him in permanent ink meaning it will take weeks of showers until he can remove all the evidence.

Some
wicked sod has even coloured the insides of his ears in with one of the marker pens, let me tell you that ain’t ever coming off! It is no surprise that Chariots is starting to get the right royal hump by now and throws a big hissy fit when Gap utters one word ‘Outside!’

He
starts lashing out with his dildo hands at anyone who dares to come anywhere near him. He does not want to be out in the street looking like this that’s for sure. People back away from him knowing if they take a whack from one of those big buzzing bastards it could take their head clean off.

It
is at this very moment that The Village Idiot makes his late entrance into the juicer and instantly catches a slashing vibrator right on the end of his beak. Blood flows quickly from his conk ruining his white shirt. It certainly is a case of assault with a deadly wobbly fake nadger. Add this incident to the shame of having a customs officers’ digit up his dung hole earlier and that makes for a pretty cruddy day in anyone’s books.

Village’s
bloody nose is just the distraction the gang needed and now Chariots is being hustled out of the ‘near and far.’ Across the street there is a conveniently place lamp post that Chariots is swiftly and securely attached to with a load of cable ties.

He
is going nowhere fast, standing there with his cock sock, pub tatts and rubber glove feet he certainly is a sight. Finally the ‘piece de resistance’ gets whipped out, the itching powder.

Chariots
face is a picture of abject terror. ‘Please geezer not that stuff. I’ve got a massive allergy to that shit. It well fucks my skin up.’ His begging gets him no mercy. The itching powder is thrown all over his chest, legs and ball bags. It is well sadistic but seeing him trying to scratch his bollocks with his plastic penis hands is just all wrong.

The
skin on his chest has gone all blotchy and looks like it itches worse than a hooker with saddle sores. Our Chariots must have been a very naughty boy in a past life because ‘what goes around, comes around’ as they say.

‘You
utter, utter bastards!’ Chariots is yelling. ‘Let me go! I don’t want to be the stag anymore. The wedding is off! I thought you lot were my friends.’

‘What
can I say Chariots?’ Gap retorts. ‘You trusted us, you fucked up!’

CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 7…..10 TO GO

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 2 PINTS, A SHERRY, A SNAKEBITE AND BLACK

Chapter Twenty Nine: A Tiny Cock Causes a Huge Collision

The lamp post that Chariots is attached to can be found along Bexley High Street in Kent opposite the pub full of grinning lunatics and next to a mini roundabout with three junctions.

This
roundabout is a well-known traffic hotspot. It is a really tight turn that buses and lorries always have a right torrid time of getting around in one piece.

Even
cars regularly have nears misses on it with daft folks being too easily confused about who actually has the right of way. To all you dumb mo’fo’s out there with no concept of The Highway Code you have to give way to the vehicle on your right!!!

Any
road, with Chariots making such a spectacle of himself, the traffic soon starts to back up along the High Street and into Bourne Road.

People
in cars slow down to laugh at the state that Chariots is in and helpfully shout abuse at him. The audience in the pub love it. All standing there in the warmth of the bar, with a pint in one hand and a fag in the other giggling their holes off, it’s better entertainment than when the footy is shown on the big screen TV’s.

Chariots
on the other side of the road is not a happy chappy. He writhes around trying to get free but the cable ties are holding him firm.

An
old boy walks along the pavement with his dog who decides to approach Chariots to have a damn good sniff. (The dog does the smelling NOT the old crumbly obviously!)

The
dog pushes his snout up into his crotch like he has some obsession with whiffing cheese. He keeps nipping at the sock dangling down off of Chariots Old Bill as his owner tugs on the lead pulling the animal away.

Suddenly
the dog lunges forward and bites the sock, tugging it off to reveal Chariots wee small tadger to the whole world. He is standing there naked as the day he was born, apart from the rubber gloves on his plates.

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