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This is a question Stags and Hens

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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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)
In your whole life
have you actually ever been able to get to the point?
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 0:51, closed)
tl;dr plus it's getting in the way of me scrolling past loads of other stories I don't read

(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 7:44, closed)
This one is definitely about Star Wars

(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 9:02, closed)
The fuck is this shit?
Have you cunts never met a normal person who was able to tell you how fucking dull you are?
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 9:07, closed)
i tried to read this, i really did
but it's just so fucking boring
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 9:11, closed)
I quite liked this

(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 9:18, closed)
I think
Dr.Skagra should remix this post and add Daleks. Then it would be perfect
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 9:46, closed)
Yeah. Don't pretend you read past the first couple of lines.

(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 10:31, closed)
I had
to concentrate and everything but got there in the end.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 10:59, closed)
Impressive dedication.

(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 13:46, closed)
well i was amused and disgusted in equal measure

(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 10:35, closed)
If you'd stuck with Welwyn G.C.,
you could have done your 3 pub pub-crawl, then claimed to any who asked that you'd done a crawl around "every pub in the city".
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 10:42, closed)
I think you thought about the hand prints a little too often if your adding sound effects and names
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 13:13, closed)
A reluctant click
For the last line. The rest was a bit tortured.
(, Fri 31 Jan 2014, 19:07, closed)

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