The open road

When heading to a stag do in Liverpool it is always sensible to arrange your diary so that your working day ends somewhere approaching the North-West. Somewhere such as Maidstone is not the most sensible.

We wish we could record that his drive up to Liverpool was marked more by its duration then anything else and indeed a hugely tedious 7 hours in stop start traffic would ordinarily be due that description. Disturbingly as he made his way up the M6 his equilibrium was disturbed by a blonde in the car next to his coming up for air after, as the Daily Mail would describe it, having performed a lewd sex act on the driver.

This all had him ready to kill by the time he got to the rather odd hotel they were staying in (the Britannia Adelphi) which can best be described as being stuck in a Edwardian time-warp.

We should just record that the stag was Johnners a very solid old chum of his and he is marrying the lovely Mimi. Sadly he cannot make their wedding because he is off skiing with Gay George (Not Actually Gay).

Liverpool provided a solid first night out before the boys headed off for a day of paint-balling. The directions were less than good and he promptly got lost in the wilds of Merseyside…not a wise course of action.

The paint-balling itself was the usual display of testosterone fuelled charging around through mud and stagnant water and self-congratulatory debriefs. His head seemed to make an overly attractive target and for a worrying moment it appeared that he had dyed his hair ginger again. He meanwhile did not quite appreciate what a sight he was and he blithely wandered into Tesco’s afterwards (to pick up some biscuits) and promptly drew a great deal of attention from security.



Another night on the pop was planned and this time they kicked off by heading to Aphrodite’s - a “gentlemen’s club”. This was, to say the least, a very odd location. Upstairs it was a real old man’s pub full of retired old couples nursing a half of stout and a port and lemon whilst downstairs was a collection of ladies of extremely negotiable affection and, it must be recorded, a rather unusual range of skills. Charlotte in particular caught his attention mainly through the size of her décolletage.

Now the size was due to the surgeon’s art and whilst she gyrated for him all he could do was try and spot the scars, tragic.

With that nonsense out the way they hit a super-club. He did his usual trick of getting totally lost and confused in the enormous warehouse and losing the rest of the boys.

A somewhat less tedious drive back to Bristol (less then 3 hours this time) capped off an excellent weekend.