In Scarborough, No One Can Hear You Scream

I had the pleasure, nay, privilage, of being on a Stag Weekend recently, and although I seem to have contracted the Norovirus from being exposed to the North Sea, it was a most enjoyable experience, vomiting yellow golfballs aside.

It isn't the first Stag Weekend I've ever been on, and I realize that people shouldn't talk about what goes on during the debauched male drinkathon, by some ancient unwritten rule. I also realize that few people actually genuinely care about what I have to say at the best of times, and that people quickly lose interest if I'm not screaming blue with rage by the end of the first paragraph, but it was good.

The idea here is not to do a summary of 'My Happy Weekend', or 'Things I did in Scarborough', since those fond memories are kind of boring if you weren't there. And I don't do fond. So instead, I'll express unholy amounts of gratitude to whatever deity - probably Odin, as we discussed on the train - ensured that I did not wake up with two dead prostitutes. Because that would have been really, really awkward.

Hail Allfather, we who are about to die salute you.

Although doubtless I have some brain damage from the amount of bludgeoning that went on into the early hours of the morning as we fought tooth and claw with every scrap of furniture the hotel room - I'm not sure why -  it went well. Better than that, actually. From the first second the local pigeons lapped up a skaghead's warm vomit to the last minute of being on a train with my former friend's lifeless cadaver, the whole thing was a masterpiece, balancing the right amount of alcohol, entertainment, and crushing despair* in equal measure. And we managed to do it without resorting to the following:

Drag, dehumanizing women, punching donkeys, driving tanks, stealing cars, fighting the police, copious amounts of drugs, or featuring in a newspaper column that ends with the phrase 'before turning the gun on himself'.

Oh God, not again!

I mean, the main thing is that the Stag had a good time, I suppose. I can't be one hundred percent on this. We buried him in the sand twice, almost crippling his legs, before sending him insane with headstroke. The last I remember is toasting to his swift demise on top of a cliff over the South Bay. Maybe Odin did betray us, after all.

*Crushing despair usually was because of the enormity of the cliffs, the crippling hangover and desperate search for bacon, or the realization that you may yet have to decapitate two of your friends with a table lamp because the Jagermonster said so.