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Mictoboy asks: Everybody knows that stag and hen parties are a veritable gateway to Hell, and quite the worst thing to happen to anybody full stop. So, tell us what happened.

(, Thu 30 Jan 2014, 16:00)
Pages: Popular, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I didn't have enough friends to do a stag
So I drank half a bottle of domestic sherry and watched whatever crap was on television.
Then I drew a face on my scrotum with magic marker.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 14:29, 10 replies)
Blackpool, sin city of the north.
My very, very Christian friend was getting married at the tender age of 21, essentially in order that him and his missus to be could finally get their end away with God's approval. With the big day looming, a stag do was arranged to Blackpool. This would be fine if we were Glaswegian, or even from anywhere remotely north of Surrey, or in my case, Portsmouth...

After a hellishly long coach journey we arrive in our sunny crappy seaside paradise hellhole for the next two nights. The 'hotel' was more like a ramshackle house, however needs must, so in we went. The room we were to share had dirty grey hand prints on the wall. By placing my hands over said prints I realised it was only really possible to stand, bum out, using the wall as support. The mental image of what caused these prints is still burned into my mind many years later - a corpulent, middle-aged vision of flesh spilling into free space like a non-Newtonian fluid, tracksuit bottoms around ankles, roaring "OOOOoooh, TAKE me Barry, take me hard!" while gyrating wildly.


Trying to block out any thoughts of previous occupants of our room we head out on the town and into a club. A club with a stage! A club with a stage and some bloke is getting up onto it and... flopping his unimpressive willy out for all to admire (or not). This was not some kind of raucous tease aimed at a nearby hen party, no, this was just some random, standing there with his todger rapidly shrinking in the breeze, attracting seagulls. Just as we turn to leave there is a mighty cheer. A female has clearly taken inspiration from the entertainment already offered and is pulling her top down to flash mammaries that resemble two fleshy carrier bags filled with thick custard. The female in question could well be the source of the mystery hand prints from earlier and all of us are starting to realise that a three-pub crawl in Welwyn Garden City is about the limit of our wild side and we are hideously, hideously out of our depth in this town.

After some drink has been consumed we are starting to get into the swing of things however. Unfortunately this seems to entail the groom-to-be developing a rather worrying pervy side as he attempts to grope the bum cheeks of any unsuspecting woman that happens to pass within ten metres. This rapidly becomes even more unfortunate when the shaven-headed steroid cupboards of boyfriends take offence at this gropey Christian shouting "ARSE!" in the campest, yet simultaneously blandest possible way. Something tells me that talking isn't going to solve this one, especially as every time we open our mouths the local populace stare at us with the kind of look usually reserved for someone who's just shat on your garden path.

Making a bid for freedom we escape into another club, but where's the best man? "Oh, he's gone into a strip club, he said (groom-to-be's name) is your job now." Fucking great, I get to keep Preachy McGrab-Hands do I? Thank you very fucking much! Ho hum, there's only one way out of this, paralyse him with drink and carry him back to the 'hotel'. One request to the bar-maid for "something that'll destroy him," and I suppose I should have been nervous that she disappeared before emerging out the front of the bar a few minutes later with the drink because "I worra see wha' 'appens to 'im!"

Well folks, I can tell you that chugging half a pint of vodka and tabasco does indeed destroy someone. It also destroys anything else within a spray radius of twelve feet. Comprehensively.

As we are being escorted out, my plan is working! He's done for the night, I'm on guard duty so I can escape and hide like a big wuss in the room. Result! Only problem is he keeps stopping on the way to violently retch flaming globs of tabasco onto the pavement. Outside one fine drinking establishment we pause for breath - when did Blackpool get so bloody LONG???? He needs a proper rest and while we're out of harm's way I don't mind a breather. At that moment however, the creature from the Jagermeister Lagoon pokes its head out of a window. "Ere, are you ginger?" it slurs at me.

"Ummm, no... why?"
"I've gotta shnog a ghinggggher, fuckit, you'll do!"

And with that, the creature latches a taloned claw to the back of my head and, with surprising strength forces me towards the gaping maw, belching as it does so. Desperate to avoid the Saarlac I try to think of anything...

"I'm not ginger, but HE is!"
"He is? Fuckin' great!"

What happened next does not need description, but it is my own personal 'Nam flashback that visits me in my darkest moments.

With groom-to-be having had his head cleared a little by virtue of all available moisture being sucked out through his soul by the kraken, we finally get back in one piece to the room. Thank Christ, safe at last! All I've got to do is get him into his bed and it's night over, job done, but no, wait, he's locked himself in the toilet. He's locked himself in the toilet and fallen asleep. He's fallen asleep and then there is a loud THUD! Oh balls! He's collapsed! The vodka was too much, and he's in the bathroom, collapsed, behind a locked door. Thankfully, it's something the hotel are clearly expecting as the lock is one of those public lavatory type ones that you can open from the outside with the aid of a screwdriver / bank card / any thin straight object. Having popped the lock I get in and discover something else that I can never un-see. There he is, on the floor, having shat himself AFTER falling off the loo, flaccid grey dormouse looking at me, challenging me to just leave him there and be done with it, but I can't. He's no more cut out for this than I am, poor sod. Another forty minutes trying to clean up what is essentially a breathing corpse in a scene reminiscent of Borat's naked wrestling, and I finally get him into his bed, mentally scarred in so many different ways by the night's events.

Blackpool is indeed filled with stag and hen parties, but they are none of them inexperienced, middle-class, lightweight, southern, fresh-faced wimps. It is savage and aggressive, leering with danger and exuding menace from every pub door.

For what it's worth, the best man in the strip club had to pay £50 for a drink of water and a 'show' akin to the later stages of labour involving various soft fruits.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 0:03, 14 replies)
Weaponized Garlic
On stag night out with groom-to-be Steve and my co-conspirator Bob. He was a chemist working on anti-fouling ship paint (keeps barnacles off ships). Names changed, just in case a crime has been committed.

"Look at this" he says, as we are readying ourselves for the night ahead. He produces a rubber glove. There's an odd whiff of garlic in the air. He untwists the glove and reveals a tiny, sealed vial with a few drops of liquid in side. The smell of garlic is much stronger now.

"It's garlic oil...distilled. It's something I'm working on. Those few drops are the equivalent of a bazillion garlic cloves."

"I know, I can smell it from here", says I, for it reeks. "Open it, let's have a whiff, how bad can it be?"

"You have no. fucking. idea." says Bob. "This is like....weaponized garlic. You are going to put it on Steve tonight."

"Why can't you do it?"

"I just....can't. It would be bad", he says. After we re-enact a few scenes from Ghostbusters he has a warning for me. "One more thing: Do NOT get this on your or anyone else's skin".

So, cut to a few hours later, we're nicely beered up, and I see my opportunity. We're between pubs, Steve kneels down to tie a shoelace. I unwrap the glove. Bob starts backing away. I stoop next to Steve as if to do my shoes up. I twist open the vial.


I splash his shoes with it and run like hell.

Steve doesn't seem to notice, and continues into the next pub. Thinking I must have misfired, we follow him in.

The smell was indescribable. You didn't just sense it your nose. You could feel the stinging on your eyeballs. Steve was trying to get the next round in, oblivious. Suddenly, the music stops and a barman shouts


We file out, and Steve realises he is patient zero from the wide berth everyone is giving him. He returns to the B&B, throws his clothes out the window and has the longest shower of his life.

Even though I smelt like Satan's own garlic bread, I stuck it out for the rest of the night, and a good time was had by all. Eventually.

Plus, from that day to this, I've *never* had any barnacle problems.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 21:21, 2 replies)
My stag do was a relatively sedate affair.
I'd instructed my best man that the key components were my good mates, good conversations, and getting very drunk. If I want to see a pair of tits I'll either ask Mrs Vagabond or look some up on the internet.

I suggested that, considering what pricks all my friends are, we hold the do somewhere relatively distant from significant civilisation.

Thus he hired a cottage on the outskirts of a lovely little village on the coast of South Devon, in the middle of August.

We went fishing in the morning - he and another friend landed a couple, and then home via various pubs.

As the afternoon developed, we sat by the swimming pool the cottages shared, drank more, and discussed a variety of matters, one of which was terribly high-brow and witty, and then repaired to the local pub to dine.

The way to the pub was through a field, now high with late summer grass, and commanded a wonderful view down to the Atlantic Ocean.

As we walked - I at the head of the column as stag - I needed a slash, and thus stopped for one. My best man saw fit for this to be instruction for the whole column to stop, and in reverence to me, all decided to relieve themselves then and there.

And so we stood - a row of of variously burly, unshaven, drunken idiots - all of us facing the ocean. The warm summer evening sun bathed us, and with our peckers in our hands, we urinated contentedly onto the dry, cracked earth, as a light breeze played through our hair.

There was a wonderful moment of silence, and then - as was fitting and exactly right for such a moment - we all spontaneously broke into a verse of Jerusalem.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 11:10, 17 replies)
Have a Pearoast
A jug of Piss & Vomit
I was on a stag do in Newcastle.

On the Saturday we ended in a pub/bar called the Vaults as it was showing football & ropey strippers at the same time.

At half time the DJ started playing a game which consisted of the following:

1 pint of fizzy water
1 pint of fresh orange squash
1 pint of milk
1 pint of coke

The idea of the game was to get the Stag to down the 1st pint then do 30 seconds of star jumps then the 2nd pint more star jumps & so on.

By the end of the 4th pint & star jumps said Stag pukes in a jug.

We watched one bloke do it & then went back to chatting between the ourselves waiting for the footy to come back on.

Then a group of 5 Para’s ask the DJ if one of there group could do it as it was his 25th birthday.

The DJ agreed so the game started but halfway through one of them disappeared off to the toilet with an empty pint glass which came back full of piss.

It was placed after the pint of coke.

The Para who was partaking in the game got to the pint of piss & knocked it back like it was Champagne.

He then puked the contents of his stomach into the large jug which all 5 of them filled their pint glasses with & chugged it back.

That’s when we decided to leave.
(, Thu 30 Jan 2014, 16:18, 15 replies)
No stories about the stag do's I've been to.Just one about a bloke I used to know.
One of the kids I hung round with back when I was in school and this was all flids was a bloke called Dai Mong (Not his real name). Dai was even more of a loser than the rest of us. Not helped by the rumour that he once wanked off his dog, or that he looked like Anthony Perkins and used to mutter to himself.
As time went by Dai got more introverted and drifted away from the rest of the gang, this was not a complete surprise as he'd spent more time in school on the mitch than in lessons, and even used to disappear for weeks at a time after getting into the sixth form, before dropping off the radar completely. As for rest of our gang, some of us left our dead end valleys shithole, some stayed, some left and came back again, most of us stayed loosely in touch and there were always a few to be found in our old local pub on a Friday night.
One Friday afternoon, seven or eight of us had met up for a few drinks in the pub and some MASSIVE DRUGS and a bit of a wander in the nearby country park (always good for a pleasant trip and a bit of a smoke) before heading back to the pub for the evening. After a bit we decided to head to the one nightclub in the town that we all liked (Because they had a two hour Happy Hour).
As it so often does when you reach the incredible age of mid-twenties, our conversation drifted into the realms of 'Remember when?' and at some point Dai Mong's name came up, partly because despite him not having moved from the town, none of us had seen him since he dropped out of sixth form several years earlier. After a few Dai Mong stories we started talking about his sister, who was seriously sexy, and then other women. As you do.
A bit later a couple of the guys came back from getting a round in and Wally said 'You know we were talking about Dai Mong earlier? Well he's here.'
'Fuck off' I said 'You're fucking kidding.'
'Nope, he's sat at the bar with a slapper.'
Up we all got and over to the bar we all went, and sure enough, sat at the bar, large as life and twice as ugly, was Dai Mong. With what would nowadays be called a chavette at his side, resplendent in her shellsuit, looking at her trainers, chewing gum while drinking her alchopop and playing with her ponytail.
'Fucking Hell Dai, how've you been?' etc went us all.
'Oh hi you lot, I'm working these days. This is my fiancée Tracy' Dai muttered.
After introductions Rob asked in passing what had brought them to the club that night.
'Oh' Dai replied 'Tonight is my Stag Do.'
'Ah, so you're having a drink with Tracy and then going off to meet up with your mates, yeah?'
'No, this is my Stag Do.'
So, yeah, Here's to you and your One Man Stag Do Dai Mong. Still at least you found someone that loved you, you lucky, lucky dog molester, you.
(, Wed 5 Feb 2014, 16:14, 7 replies)
Stag night planning FAIL
Last year I was a Best Man, and had the task of planning the stag. This wasn't to be a wild night of debauchery; the groom wanted a day of various fun activities. A list of potential ideas was formed, and one of them was to do a brewery tour - as we're all fans of BEER, and there are several great breweries in our area.

However, after phoning around, I discovered that they all had huge waiting lists, particularly on Saturdays, and it just wasn't going to be possible. Reluctantly I told the groom that we'd have to abandon that particular idea.

He then gleefully pointed out that it was now official: I couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery...

(, Wed 5 Feb 2014, 11:22, 5 replies)
The power of random
I was invited to the stag night of a friend of my brother-in-law. So not someone I knew that well. He was definitely not a party animal, so decided to just have a meal out at a restaurant. Unfortunately, he didn't know any restaurants, so selected one by the time-honoured method of sticking a pin into the yellow pages.

When we finally left the pub and headed to the restaurant, we discovered that it was in fact a temple of twee - doilies over everything, plates on the walls featuring cute kittens, and porcelain milkmaids covering every horizontal surface. It was like being in Barbara Cartland's wank fantasy.

The owner immediately told us that he didn't have an alcohol license as he was a committed christian and didn't approve of drunkenness.

Strangely, for reasons that seemed logical at the time, we decided to continue, and proceeded to have what was probably the quietest and least raucous stag night in history. As it turned out, the food was good, and the owner was quite entertaining too - he was clearly in total homosexual denial: so far back into The Closet that he'd met Aslan. And probably sucked his cock.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 16:46, 4 replies)
Plymouth 2009 £5000 breakages bill and the only time I've been in a fight
15 old school mates. 10 beds in the house. 3 day stag. We all agreed that the first ones there claimed the first beds. Can't take a 3 dayer then you sleep on the floor.
1st night Cue the usual revelry, drinking, swimming in the sea (not a good idea in Nov at 2am) casino, stripping the works. Lots of banter, taking the piss etc.
2nd night. Cue the early start, more boozing, revelry, pisstaking. But this time a bit more close to the bone personal. We're all tired not thinking straight. More guys arrive
3rd night. Cue no sleep, tempers flaring, still fun but it's all getting a bit out of hand. Back to the house. 3 am. 1st 'fight' over who burned the carpet. Next a fight over who drank more. 3rd fight over sport.I'm thinking everyones been spiked. All between different guys so I go to bed thinking "right, this lot can fuck off its getting out of hand"

I get to my room and a latecomer is asleep in MY bed. Having pushed all my shit on to the floor.

I wake him up, an argument ensues, A massive verbal and a few scuffles. The rest of the stag come to watch. Like some crazed film the stag party is split between whose side to take. EeVRYONE starts getting angry. A LOT of personal shit gets dragged up. and I mean a LOT. I finally snap when he makes a comment about my step son not being my kid!

Everyone sucks their teeth. the line has been crossed. So I say the best ever come back line. Said across a silent landing with 13 on lookers

Ok. So tell me. How does it feel to know that every single guy in this house has fingered your girlfriend at least once? I know he used four fingers and I point to the groom.

The fingering was of course was when we were 13 and we're all at least 33 on the stag. Childish yes. Cutting yes.

The guy goes fucking mental and shoves me through a bannister and I fall a full story down stairs. Unbelievably I'm ok. It all kicks off upstairs the only guys to see if I'm ok is the groom who told me straight faced "It was just 3 fingers"

Anyway, next morning house is trashed and I mean it. Staircase has no bannister. Carpet is peppered with hot rocks and fag burns.

Knowing it was going to get messy we agreed that we would factor in the loss of our 'damages' deposit. But the bill came in at £5000. Ouch.

He no longer is going out with said girl
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 17:16, 17 replies)
Let your fingers do the walking
One of my mates got married very young, while still living at his parents. Not sure how, but he ended up having his stag do at their house while they had gone away for the night. With loads of booze and some loud music, a good time was had by all. Next morning we all woke, bleary eyed, and starting cleaning up the place: collecting glasses, washing away the suspicious stains, bagging up the bottles and cans, putting all the furniture back. Everything was going swimmingly until, with just one hour before the parents were due back, the stag himself moved a magazine off a table to discover an enormous scratch in the polished surface. Panic! Luckily we found a copy of the Yellow Pages and quickly rang a French Polishing service, who turned up and restored a lustrous sheen to the tabletop with just moments to spare. Ironically my mate's dad was called J R Hartley. Star Wars.
(, Thu 6 Feb 2014, 11:49, 5 replies)
Went on a big-house-in-the-middle-of-nowhere stag do, twenty of us, mostly 40-something pro- or ex-musicians, a mini-bus and a space-bus loaded to the gunwhales with beer and rot-gut scrumpy, our pockets stuffed with MASSIVE drugs and two huge hampers of pies and cheese. Three hours solid drinking in the pub beforehand, three more en route. We got there without incident, and over the next two days, drank all the booze, smoked crippling amounts of weed, played music at stupid volumes, did the washing up, bagged up the empties, and came home again. Mind you, someone did crack a beer-glass while rinsing it under the hot tap. Animals, we are.
(, Wed 5 Feb 2014, 21:58, 1 reply)
Peak District Stag Weekend
Last summer I attended a stag weekend in the Peak District. This was a bit of a magic mystery tour for all except the two best men. We were all asked to arrive at a pub a few miles from Buxton, for a weekend varying activities.

The stag, Jim, had arrived much earlier in the day, along with the two hi-vis jacketed best men (the jackets an attempt at whackiness). Throughout the afternoon and evening the rest of the 16 strong group arrived, each in turn buying Jim a pint and a chaser. By the time I reached the venue (about 9pm) Jim was very merry indeed. The last of the group to arrive was Rolly, a portly young man with a fondness for port. Indeed this fondness for said fortified wine led him to bring a bottle that had been laid down in 1978, to share amongst us, Jim included. Rolly’s arrival gave the crap raver versions of the Chuckle Brothers to announce that our night’s accommodation was in fact the very pub we were drinking in. We then scrambled to bag ourselves good rooms. Wisely the best men chose not to share a room with Jim; instead that honour was left to his young chum Dan.

Before actually going to bed Rolly insisted on sharing his wonderful, rare bottle of port, giving the lion’s share, rather generously to Jim. The port was rather ripe, with a strong aroma of mildew and fear. Jim wasn’t put off by this and downed it, on top of the variety of ales, lagers, spirits, liqueurs and malevolent little shooter drinks that he’d been consuming throughout the afternoon and evening. We all retired to our respective beds.

We were all woken at 8am on the Saturday, breakfasted and dressed, to await the ‘party bus’ (a minibus with a loud stereo and strobe lights). This arrived, we boarded, but there was no sign of either Jim or Dan. The DayGlo Duo ventured up to the stag’s room, before rushing down to announce a delay. Half an hour later Jim and Dan toddled out, green faced and whimpering in the light. Dan apologised for the delay and explained what had transpired in the night.

He was woken up by the sound of Jim being violently sick in his bed. Dan went to help and make sure that Jim wasn’t going to choke. He turned on the light and was confronted by the sight of Jim’s vomit marinated top half and a rich brown aroma emanating from his bottom half, which upon further inspection was found to be accompanied by a rich, brown, semi-solid sludge. This was too much for young Dan, which led him to in turn vomit his share of port, ale and miscellaneous drinks on to the mixture currently embalming Jim.

Jim blames Rolly’s port. He would have been fine aside from that.

TL/DR: My friend shat the bed and sicked up in it. His chum then sicked up on top of him too.
(, Wed 5 Feb 2014, 13:56, 4 replies)
i've just been asked to cough up £350 for a hen do
for 2 nights in a cottage in england. they hope this will cover everything, but best bring additional cash in case it isn't. what the fuck is that kitty going towards, pints of unicorn spunk and children's tears?

other than that, nothing exciting. my friends are far too boring/civilised. we had one trip to marbella where the groom's 38 year old sister and bridesmaid was somewhere on the comfortable side of a size 24. she ended up snogging a 21 year old boy, who was clearly just looking for somewhere to spend the night. he wooed her with a bar of dairy milk because "she looked like someone who liked her chocolate".

another occasion we had a cottage in the cotswolds, and the hottest barman you've ever seen in your life came for a couple of hours to teach us how to make cocktails. his girlfriend sat in the car, glowering at us throughout the entire thing - clearly she didn't trust him or us.

and on one classy occasion, we were blowing up cockshaped balloons. i'd done 3, but my friend was still on the same 1. it was enormous. oh the hilarity - mine were pink and hers was brown.
(, Tue 4 Feb 2014, 9:25, 10 replies)
I was a bit miffed at not being invited to a mate's stag party
...until I remembered that I'd slept with both his bride AND his sister (though not at the same time, unfortunately). On reflection I decided he was entirely within his rights.
(, Mon 3 Feb 2014, 12:35, 6 replies)
I went to a bar by myself
read a book and had several pints.
(, Sat 1 Feb 2014, 1:56, 2 replies)
"e could get sausaged!"
Mate I work with came in looking rough, explained was on brother-in law`s stag day the day before. Got a blow by blow up to the point poor sod had done the shots and passed out.

They`d stripped him naked and cable tied him to a lamppost with "please help, i`m getting married" label and gone on for more beer.

Someone had a pang of conscience and said "lads, lads, listen up we`ve gotta go back, I`ve just fought, thass near Soho, `e could get,,, sausaged!". They went back and got him.

The last part of that quote still brings a smile.
(, Sat 1 Feb 2014, 0:37, 15 replies)
Don't I know you...?

The groom-to-be was a firefighter, so naturally we handcuffed him semi-naked to a lamp-post in the middle of town, then called the fire brigade...
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 10:42, 2 replies)

My stag involved going down the local for a bit of a session, nothing too heavy. I’ve never been one to make a fuss about stuff like this, but a mate had arranged for loads of friends I hadn’t seen for a while, ex colleagues etc. to turn up. It was like an episode of This is You're Life, every few minutes another person from my past walked in the door. Loved it.

The Lovely Mrs Ring Of Fire did the more traditional pack of squealing wimmin thing. I got home from my evening first and went to bed. I work to the early morning light and got the fright of my fucking life. The Mrs had crashed into bed without changing out of her Hen gear. Her friends and done her up in way over the top makeup, glitter false eyelashes, glitter wig etc. For a split second my brain was screaming “YOUR IN BED WITH A TRANSVESTITE CLOWN”.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 9:59, 12 replies)
To my former best mate
Sorry I didn't make it to your stag do. Maybe if you hadn't held it in Africa and made everyone pay €1300 air fare to get out there, I would have gone. Or maybe if you hadn't married someone who turned you from a funny, interesting, bohemian jazz lover into a vapid consumerist prick, I would have gone as well. Such is life.
(, Thu 30 Jan 2014, 23:51, 5 replies)
My guilty pleasure is answering QOTW almost six years late
not pissing in my own mouth, nor mentioning sheds, nor staying about from anybody's bins. I'm proper retro with my references.
(, Thu 30 Jan 2014, 21:30, Reply)
It was all going rather well until a heated discussion about the coolest animal.
Eventually it came down to a head-to-head between the ever-popular monkey and the fearsome shark. And then a moment of genius from the groom's brother. What if you combined a monkey and a shark! A hybrid! A monark, if you will. The irrepressible head of a monkey and the powerful body of the king of the oceans!

And that is how the groom ended up with a tattoo of the world's ugliest mermaid.
(, Tue 4 Feb 2014, 17:18, 15 replies)
Obviously, Amsterdam was involved.
But not for the reasons you would probably suspect. Our accomodation on this stag jaunt was a lovely converted fishing trawler moored up in Amsterdam harbour. I can thoroughly recommend it as great way to stay in the city, although it does carry a slight frisson of danger for the alcoholically challenged or nautically inexperienced. But anyway.

The accomodation was split between the front and the rear. In the front, the cabin contained 3 sets of bunks, and to access the top bunks involved using a set of steep metal grille steps of the kind favoured on fire escapes. These had been helpfully painted with anti slip paint. We returned from whatever we had been up to on the friday evening and retired. It should be pointed out that the lights inside this boat had a master switch by the stern cabin, so those in the bow had to make their nocturnal trips to the pisser in almost total darkness. And so it went that *name redacted* attempted to make it for a piss in the early hours and slipped on these steps in bare feet. It apparently stung a bit, so he went for his piss and then tried in vain to find the master switch, failed, and got back into bed.

I had to be up early to catch a flight and, feeling a little tender as the alarm went off, I glanced over the side of the bed to scenes of what appeared to be total slaughter. Rememeber the bathroom in Very Bad Things? yeah, that. It later transpired that *name redacted*, when he slipped, had almost fully de-gloved his big toe and had spread an astonishing amoung of blood about the entire boat in his nocturnal wanderings. Including a pool in the toilet where he had stood for a piss that wouldn't have looked out of place in an abbatoir. He was blissfully unaware of this in the darkness and had gone back to bed to somehow avoid bleeding out in his sleep.

I should have checked as to who the blood was from and if they were OK. I should have made sure that there wasn't a dismembered hooker somewhere nearby. But as I'm the kind of cunt that posts on here I fucked off to get my plane instead and left the next person to wake to deal with the problem

tl/dr - humans contain quite a lot of blood and seem to be able to lose a large portion of it with limited permanent effect.
(, Tue 4 Feb 2014, 15:29, 12 replies)
There were about 30 of us on a Stag do to that Amsterdam. We went there for the art galleries and
the museums because most of us had seen the major European offerings of that nature. Plus, Amsterdam has all those coffee shops and the louche nature of the sexual mores of Holland has a certain appeal.

Obviously, the museum stories are a tad dull and so I shall tell you about the part where the stag was taken to a live sex show, but what he did not know was that he was to become part of that show. Major lols. He was stripped and tossed onto the stage where women dressed as dominatrix and slave got to grips with him. Unfortunately, this is where the good natured ribaldry started to unravel. The Stag was supposed to be turned on by the women, supposed to grow to his full tumescence and possibly even blow his load. However, as we all witnessed the exact opposite happened - his penis and testicles began to withdraw, it was like the opposite of going through puberty. Toe curling embarrassment has nothing on watching a fellow male lose his cock. The more the women tried the worse it got, everyone in the audience began to empathise - they too began to lose their cocks and testicles were ascending. The stag ended up with a mangina but without the tuck, it is said his left testicle has still not descended. Oh yes, live sex shows with the groom and charming Dutch women sounds a wonderful idea but it wasn't. I still sometimes weep at the memory.
(, Tue 4 Feb 2014, 12:08, 15 replies)
"Why did you choose this shit hole hotel?"
(typical Blackpool flea pit)

"Because REGAL is LAGER backwards"
(, Mon 3 Feb 2014, 10:51, 11 replies)
on my stag night my mates cling filmed me upside down naked to a lamppost
on a main roundabout in town, then fucked off to the other side of the road to point and laugh/take pictures. i was there for ages,couldnt move or nothing.

long story short i pissed in my own mouth.
(, Thu 30 Jan 2014, 18:42, 1 reply)

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