Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend Read online

  Cigarettes & Alcohol

  Confessions of a Stag Weekend

  Phil Sloan

  © Phil Sloan 2013

  Phil Sloan has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This book is dedicated to Louis, Tanya and all my family & friends. Love ya!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: The Stags Are Rampant!

  PART ONE: AMSTERDAM

  Chapter Two: The Airport Jellyfish Tank

  Chapter Three: A Carton Of Ciggies

  Chapter Four: Puff Pants & Torture Chambers

  Chapter Five: The Amsterdam Whore Equation

  Chapter Six: That Dutch Dog Sure Is Handsome

  Chapter Seven: Somewhere A Village Is Missing Its Idiot!

  Chapter Eight: Amsterdamgoodpissup!!

  Chapter Nine: I Know My Basic Human Rights!

  Chapter Ten: The Euro Gimp Boy of Amsterdam

  Chapter Eleven: A Lizard Gets Milked!

  Chapter Twelve: Cardinal Charlie Chunder Comes A-Knocking

  PART TWO: EDINBURGH

  Chapter Thirteen: Dead Rabbits and Cock Crazed Hens!

  Chapter Fourteen: The Edinburgh Pyramid Catastrophe

  Chapter Fifteen: A Short History of Stagging

  Chapter Sixteen: The Cursed Saturday Night in Edinburgh

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

  Chapter Eighteen: The well moody old juicer of Edinburgh Town

  Chapter Nineteen: Playing One Handed Pool

  Chapter Twenty: I see the shit storm rising

  PART THREE: BRIGHTON

  Chapter Twenty One: Back to the Present AKA Flab in the Future

  Chapter Twenty Two: The Stag, his Scrubbers and a Very Bruised Penis

  PART FOUR: BEXLEY VILLAGE

  Chapter Twenty Three: The One Hundred Metre Dildo Relay

  Chapter Twenty Four: Why I Hate Flying with Chewing Gum Cocks

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

  Chapter Twenty Six: The Luggage Carousel of Doom

  Chapter Twenty Seven: The Stinging Ring of Exhibition Arse

  Chapter Twenty Eight: The Stags Gone All Blotchy

  Chapter Twenty Nine: A Tiny Cock Causes a Huge Collision

  Chapter Thirty: The Last Smoke of the Condemned Man

  Appendix Number One: The Glossary of Tossary

  Appendix Number Two: Cures for a Bastard of a Hangover

  Acknowledgments

  Extract from The Instant Best Man’s Speech by Michael Davenport

  Chapter One: The Stags Are Rampant!

  Let’s face it, every man loves a stag do. Whether it’s a night down the local public house or a full weekender away on the lash, what’s not to like?

  It’s your chance to let your hair down. You can become the ultimate ‘man’s man’ by immersing yourself in beer, strippers, football, cigarettes, more beer and illegal substances.

  You’re let off the leash. All the grief at work and chores at home disappear in a top beer buzz.

  During the early to mid-nineties, a number of my mates decided to take the plunge into wedded bliss.

  For the couple concerned this was a major commitment and a huge outlay of cash, involving loads of planning for the big day, the honeymoon, the dress and all that good stuff. To the lads this meant just one thing…..STAG DO!!!

  The wedding day holds no interest to real men, not even the groom. Getting togged up in a dodgy looking hired morning suit that reeks of piss, being on your best behaviour, paying out for yet another new outfit for the Mrs (even though her wardrobe is already full to bursting point with kit) it’s all dull, dull, dull.

  The first question on hearing that another sucker is being dragged down the aisle is ‘Where we going for the staggie then lad?’ These weekend jaunts were where legends were made, crap was talked, gallons of alcohol drunk and drugs were smoked, snorted and slipped into people’s drinks. Not the sort of behaviour to condone really, but as my Old Man says, ‘if they can’t take a joke, fuck ‘em!’

  The main stag attendees were guys I’d known since school. We were in our early twenties, had cash on hip and were well up for abusing our bodies in the name of a good time. We’d all grown up together and knew all there was to know about each other: our dating failures, the states we got ourselves into, the jobs we did, the fact that most of us still lived at home with our parents.…all the embarrassing stories that would have us howling with laughter whenever we got together. Obviously more and more exaggerated since the last time the tale was told.

  There’s no point describing these guys, you know what a group of blokes being blokey are like, you’ve been round the block yourself I’m sure. There’s the cool one, the thick one, the permanently-drunk one, the loud one, the good-looking one, the slightly-creepy-looking one, the border-line-serial-murderer… the list goes on.

  In addition to the core stags were various family members, workmates, flatmates and anyone else who fancied it. As long as you were male, could drink your own body weight in Stella Artois and smoke hard you were welcome to be part of the weekend.

  In this book, characters are going to be known as Kid A, Kid B, Kid C etc until they do something truly spectacularly daft and then will gain the nickname that has followed them around for the last twenty odd years.

  Yeah that’s pretty lazy writing but if you want a love story, you’re in the wrong place my friend. This is a book about a group of immature lads on ‘the hit and miss’. If lavatory language and bodily fluids being spilt is not your bag, look away now.

  Also by giving nicknames to the characters this will protect the guilty from getting the old ‘broken television set’ routine from their other half. You know what I mean, a couple of weeks of no sound and no pictures from ‘her indoors’ as punishment for your drunken crimes.

  You’ve heard all the old clichés…what goes on tour stays on tour…you’re not cheating on your girlfriend if you’re in a different time zone and all that old nonsense. Well this book shows you what really goes on when the lads disappear for the weekend. Most people think stags just want to fight, flirt and fuck. Well we do, but we do other things as well, like talk utter horseshit and laugh at other peoples’ misfortunes.

  This book is real stag stories, almost 100% truthful, OK maybe 90% truthful, though embellished for maximum levels of embarrassment and laughter.

  Some may well find these tales of debauchery highly offensive and sexist. I honestly do not want to upset any sensitive souls out there. This book is no more sexist than your average ‘chick lit’ paperback dribbling on about shoes, shopping and shagging. In fact this book may be the first in an all-new genre called ‘dick lit’ as it is about a load of dickheads just dicking around. The only shops you will find these stags in are beer shops!

  The ‘Cigarettes Smoked Countdown’ at the end of each chapter is simply a plot device giving the book some sort of framework to connect all the incredible tales of idiots being inebriated. I’m certainly not telling people to go out there and smoke 200 cigarettes in one weekend because that will properly ruin your lungs your health and your looks. Same with ‘The Booze Binged Counter’ featured in each chapter, this book is a work of fiction not an instruction manual for the easily led!

  Also for those civilians who do not speak Cockney/Mockney/Estuary English/Man of Kent/Kentish Man-speak as well as I do, there is a ‘Glossary of Tossary’ at the back of the book. Here you will find translations and explanations of some of th
e phrases used within this book that you may not understand.

  The action takes place across three days of one mad weekender on two stag do’s in Amsterdam and Edinburgh from way back in the early 1990’s and then one in Brighton in the present day, so do try to stay with the programme. We flit about across time and space like some demented drunken Dr Who.

  So please come with me, in this time travelling DeLorean, like in Back to the Future.

  Buckle up, set the dials to 1993, hit 88 miles an hour and bada bing here we are in an airport lounge…..it’s time to Laugh, Joke, Drink, Smoke!!!!!!!

  PART ONE: AMSTERDAM

  Chapter Two: The Airport Jellyfish Tank

  Another single man falls into the matrimonial chasm and the usual gang assemble at the local airport early on a Friday morning for a weekend on the pop. There are fourteen of us in all, overnight bags, passports and loads of local currency in hand. Remember stagging isn’t cheap!

  It’s six a.m. and we’re already on pint number two sitting in a bar next door to a huge duty free shop full of toot that people swarm around and buy before they fly. Wallets and purses are being opened and all sorts of expensive crap is now being bought by the great unwashed.

  What good is a king sized bar of Toblerone going to be when the plane crashes into the North Sea? It’s not a flotation device, pal.

  Why buy all that overpriced perfume and aftershave? That bad boy jumbo comes down from 37,000 feet, all you are is a nice smelling corpse.

  If people really buy stuff at airports to overcompensate for a fear of flying and possible impending death, why don’t the shops flog parachutes? They’d make a bleeding fortune.

  This is why I drink heavily before boarding a flight because I don’t intend dying sober if I can help it.

  Two of the lads have wandered off to a table away from the rest of the herd. The conversation looks serious and we all know that Kid A is not getting on with his girlfriend.

  They’ve only bought a house together six months ago but there’s trouble in paradise already. Nobody’s going to be surprised when their gaff is back on the market. The only person coming out a winner in this scenario is the local estate agent, odds on another juicy bonus coming his way soon.

  Kid A and Kid B are yakking away so we let them get on with it. The following was overheard by a nosey fly on the wall:

  Kid A ‘Things ain’t going too well at home at the moment, so I am well happy to have a damn good excuse to be away this weekend. Am getting a bad case of the cold shoulder and the girlfriend seems to have a terminal case of Siamese knees!’

  Kid B ‘What you done now then bro? Surely it can’t be any worse than turning up at ten o’clock, totally off your head, when you were meant to be home at seven, to have dinner with her folks.’

  Kid A ‘Not my finest hour I’ll grant you, feel it’s all going to end in tears very soon. There’s a huge difference of opinion in my household. I think I’m a top fella, unfortunately she thinks I’m an arsehole.’

  Kid B ‘But you are, she’s got you well sussed. You can’t blame her for wanting out really.’

  Kid A ‘Good point well made. I’ve got to tell you a top story though, but keep it to yourself. The other night I got in from work & dived straight into the bath for a chill out. Grabbed a bottle of Bud and was having a good soak when I thought….right, time for a wank. So I pull a cheeky quick one off the wrist, rinse myself off and my spunk looks like a load of albino jellyfish floating in the water. Swim my pretties, swim! I shout with glee.

  ‘I get out the bath and the very soon to be Ex-Mrs comes bowling into the bathroom and says mind if I use that water I’m going out in 5 minutes and can’t be bothered running another one? No knock yourself out I say with a wry grin. I can’t really fess up to having a toss, can I, so she jumps in.’

  Kid B ‘So are you now scared that you’ve somehow made her pregnant with your floating man fat?’

  Kid A ‘No chance of that, she’s got a bush like a scouring pad, my Harry Monk will just get caught up in that. Maybe it got stuck in between her toes giving her webbed feet like The Man from Atlantis or some such.’

  Kid B ‘You really are one sick puppy my boy. You could have just told her the water had gone cold and got her to run another bath. In fact it’s not too harsh to call you Deviant Boy.’

  And so, two things happened that day. Kid A was given his nickname of Deviant, that follows him around for the next two decades and a bath is henceforth known as The Jelly Fish Tank or JFT for short.

  I did ask my doctor once if a woman could get ‘in the family way’ by getting into a bath full of floating spunk. He just gave me a very strange look and politely asked me to leave the surgery before he called the police.

  CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 0

  BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 2 PINTS OF LAGER & A SOUTHERN COMFORT AND LEMONADE

  Chapter Three: A Carton Of Ciggies

  Two of the other lads have drifted out of the bar into the duty free shop of crud. They want to avoid pint number three that is currently being shipped in, even though it’s still silly o’ clock on Friday morning.

  Boys will be boys. Standing by a huge display of cartons of cigarettes they start squabbling like a couple of school kids, which they were not too long ago.

  Kid C starts winding Kid D up big time saying ‘Do you see that pack of 200 smokes over there?….They are fronting you out. They are proper staring at you.’

  ‘What are you talking about you plum?’ Kid D replies, sick of the conversation already.

  ‘That carton reckons that you couldn’t get through the whole lot in one weekend like a real man would.’ Laughs Kid C.

  ‘But I don’t even smoke, you know I just ponce the occasional one. It’s cheaper as I don’t buy my own and it’s better for my health as I convince myself that I’m a non-smoker. I’m not some desperate addict like you. Besides to smoke 200 cigarettes in less than 72 hours I’m going to need to have the nicotine intake of a chimp in a test laboratory. What’s the point? Is this some new sports event, the 5,000 metre inhale or what?’ moans Kid D.

  ‘Come on,’ says Kid C, ‘let’s get amongst it. Are we going on a stag do or an OAP’s coach trip to Margate? Let’s buy this carton and you can smoke the fuck out of it by Sunday night. It’ll be an achievement you can be proud of and tell your grandkids about.’

  ‘That amount of ciggies is going shrink me to four foot nothing and besides what about the damage to my lungs?’ worries Kid D.

  ‘Fella, with the litres of booze going down your screech this weekender, I wouldn’t be concerned about it. Your liver will pack up way before your chest does. Trust me, I’ve got a medical background, I’ve been up the STD clinic. Shit, did I just say that out loud? Anyway I’m buying the carton and you is smoking the ‘kin lot. You cool with this?’ asks Kid C knowing he’s won.

  ‘Does James Brown get down? Ship ‘em in and I’ll get smoking hard!!’ Kid D relents.

  So fags get bought. The lads wander outside the store and crack open the carton. There’s something about the smell of a new pack of cigs and the way you tear out the silver paper that makes you want to waste a shit load of cash on them over the years you use the deadly coffin sticks.

  Kid D lights one up, breathes in the vapours and even a casual passer-by gets a free lungful as well, lush! Peer pressure is a wonderful thing.

  CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 1…..199 TO GO

  BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: NADA

  Chapter Four: Puff Pants & Torture Chambers

  After sinking a few more beers on the plane, we finally land at Schiphol Airport, wobble over to the station and catch the first train into Amsterdam city centre. Being Friday morning the place is packed with average Joe commuters on their way to work. Now we’re racing. Bring it on. Beer, Drugs, Smokes and Hookers - result!

  This being a lad’s weekend away we obviously haven’t sorted anywhere to stay, but we know we’ll be fine as we have that alcohol-fuelled confidenc
e that all is going to be Rock N Roll. Besides we’re not here to sleep. Drop some pills and all will be well.

  On the train one of the guys - Kid E - stands up and puts his hand down his pants. Has a rummage about for a minute or so and comes up with a big lump of black cannabis resin.

  ‘What the fuck?’ we all pipe up amazed. It’s a better trick than a crap magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat at a five year olds birthday party. ‘Where did that gear come from?’

  ‘My puff pants,’ beams kid E proudly.

  ‘Your what? Explain yourself man!’ Deviant Boy shouts.

  ‘Puff Pants! I had my Mum, bless her, sew a little pocket into the seat of my pants in between my balls and my arsehole.’

  ‘What near your gisp you mean?’ says Deviant. ‘That area is known in medical circles as the stinky ridge but I believe on a woman it can be called the chin rest!’

  ‘Yeah that’s where,’ laughs Kid E. ‘I wrap the gear up in cling film put it in the pocket, spray it with aftershave and then the natural whiff of my bollocks and bum hole do the rest. I’m telling you lot, no sniffer dog or customs officer is going to beat the Puff Pants fellas. Let’s get some joints skinned up pronto!!’

  Cigarettes, Rizla’s and lighters fly his way and he gets building the first jazz fags of the trip.

  With my head in my hands I say to him, ‘Bro, you do realise that drugs are as good as legal here in Holland don’t you?’

  Kid E stops what he’s doing and says ‘Shit I thought we were in Cologne.’

  ‘What made you think we were going to Cologne you bell end? You’ve just smuggled an illegal substance from the UK into Amsterdam. You are now officially the most shit Drugs Mule on the face of the planet!’

  The whole gang piss themselves with laughter and Kid E is now known forever after, as Mule. We then passed around the joints and started puffing hard, all a bit uneasy that not moments before the gear had been nestling in Mule’s genital area: it’s a well-known fact that the back of his pants have more skid marks than the flight deck of an aircraft carrier but we don’t care to dwell on that.