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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)
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This question is now closed.

The groom was a bit of a classic-car fanatic so I hired a 1962 Bentley convertible and we went for a drive in the country
On they way back I took him up the ring road.
(, Mon 3 Feb 2014, 20:33, 5 replies)
i've been to 2 hen parties
both of them were for my sisters. the worst that happened at either of them was that i got pissed on raki and puked haloumi on a bouncer's shoes.
(, Mon 3 Feb 2014, 17:17, 1 reply)
We had a curry and an early night
The marriage lasted less than a year. Really makes you think.
(, Mon 3 Feb 2014, 16:57, 6 replies)
Nameless has a great story but it doesn't involve stag parties, just checking if it would be ok with you guys if he posted it here anyway?
Edit: Enjoy!
(, Mon 3 Feb 2014, 12:49, 7 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)
"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)
Ah York, such a beautiful, cultured city. It was my mother-in-law's 70th birthday so the whole family met in York for a nice meal together and a walk around the city walls. Unfortunately it seemed that every stag and hen party had descended on York that same weekend. So as we walked from our pleasant litle B&B into the city for a meal, we could hardly move for drunk blokes carrying sexdolls and pissed-up women in tiny skirts waving inflatable cocks around. My 7-year old son asked 'Why has that lady got a willy on her hat?' And I didn't have an answer for him.
(, Mon 3 Feb 2014, 8:58, 9 replies)
Wow, what a topical QOTW!
I've been seeing a lot of particularly fat hen parties wearing cowboy hats lately. Seems like hags and stens are the hot new trend!
(, Sun 2 Feb 2014, 21:18, 1 reply)
As a best man, I was tasked with setting up the bachelor party for my friend.
I organised a small room in a quiet restaurant, some boardgames, a projector with a PlayStation and no strippers.

My friend thanked me profusely, said he was really glad there were no strippers.
(, Sat 1 Feb 2014, 11:10, 6 replies)
À la française
(, Sat 1 Feb 2014, 7:35, 1 reply)
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)
Best evs,
15 Evangelical Christians
No booze
Youth hostel in the Lake District
Barbecue in the rain

Sounds like a recipe for boredom; right?
Wrong. It was actually really good.
And a whole lot better than mine, where a concoction of the sordid stories featured below can be imagined.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 21:26, 3 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)
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)
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)
Hairy Arse
We all turned up to his stag night chewing gum.

He was a very hairy chap.

He was pissed senseless by 9pm at which point we collected together the chewing gum into a ball, hauled down his trousers and kaks, and stuffed the tennis ball sized lump of goo into his (very) hairy ass-crack. Gay? No. Confused? Maybe

His fiancee picked him up at about 10pm, put him to bed, and spent most of the next morning trying to freeze / shave the matted ball of juicy fruit from between his buttocks.

More happy days.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 16:07, 8 replies)
On a stag night / rugby tour in Holland, we turned up at a bar where there was a local girl's hen night taking place. Lots of very pretty Dutch ladies and lots of beer later, the majority of the stag party were all stood on chairs in the middle of the dance floor completely naked.

The girls were all dancing around the chairs with their drinks in their hands, and on cue, they all smashed their glasses on the floor, laughed lots and left.

Leaving a dozen or so blokes stood on chairs, surrounded by loads of broken glass in a pool of various alcoholic substances. We were there, sorry, they were there for at least an hour until everything was swept / mopped up.

The one chap that did try to get down from his chair (a full back, full of shit) spent a couple of hours in the local A&E having needle thin shards picked out of his feet by a Bella Emberg look-alike.
Happy days
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 15:55, 6 replies)
My mates Stag do in Blackpool
Having attended my own stag do in Blackpool which, from what i can remember of it, was actually quite a good night my mate decided that he was going to go one better and book an entire weekend there for his. The best man, who was in charge of organising the proceedings, was a bit of a skinflint and when it came to choosing the hotel plumped for the very least expensive one he could find.

The hotel we stayed in on my stag do was a pretty good B&B with a pool table in the bar and most importantly they sold beer into the wee hours at £1 a pint.
Not so Guest house El Crappo the cheapest nastiest shit hole in a town full of cheap nasty shit holes and the one chosen to be our residence for two days. After picking our way through the crap encrusted front garden the door was answered by a Scottish tramp whose dress sense was inspired by Rab C Nesbitt. This turned out to be the owner of the establishment and it was obvious that his standards of personal hygiene extended to the house. A fusty smell of decay and despair permeated the entire place. All of the bedroom doors had been forced open at some point so the locks didn't work properly and the sole bathroom had a hole in the door where the lock should be. The rooms held four bunk beds with no/broken slats in them contained in a space so narrow that the wardrobe was in front of the hand basin/room window. Previous occupants had kicked and punched holes into the plasterboard walls so it possible to reach into the adjoining rooms should you so desire

Worse beer was £3 and served out of a can (this was around 12 years ago) so we couldn’t even have cheap pre evening drinks there. Well we thought we won't mind so much when we come back later pissed up. Of course we were wrong. Inevitably stuff was stolen from the rooms while we were out either by the dregs of humanity that were staying there or the decrepit owner. In addition due to the paper thin walls and very saggy beds even heavily inebriated no sleep was had by anyone. We were greeted in the morning by the alcoholic cook offering us the greasy remnants that was supposed to be breakfast. I didn't make it to night two (which involved a punch up and was worse) i gave up and went home early.

Mind you on my stag night the stag in one of the other parties staying at the hotel got his eyelids super glued shut so maybe it wasn't that bad.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 15:54, Reply)
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)
I got invited to Shambo's Stag Night
It was held in a pub,

I didn't go,

Neither did anyone else (he's got no mates) except,

For AB who showed up late and spent the night insulting the people who were already at the pub,

And made recordings of people's drunk lies, to embarrass them with later
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 12:40, 36 replies)
I had two stag bashes
The second involved a trip to Stringfellows and a £700 bill which I didn't have to pay.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 11:52, 11 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)
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)
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)
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)

This question is now closed.

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