On stag dos
As I approach 30 a new ritual has entered my life. One that I had only previously heard of through the secondary and primary accounts of others. Tales of reprehensible conduct in the unwitting capitals of former-communist Eastern European countries. Of prostitutes. Of Bratislava. Of what was coined the Bratislava palaver. The ritual, of course, is the stag do.
Since last June I have been required to attend three stag dos, all that of friends of many years. So one of course feels at the very least obligated. But my experience of each is that of negligible difference.
In each case I and my cohorts would arrive in a British town, roughly equidistant from each participants point of origin. From there three days drinking would commence, punctuated only by various intervals whereby the hoard would re-fuel in one mediocre eatery or another. The cuisine would be much as you would expect: Chinese or Indian; anything that could be washed down with lager without too much fuss. The result, of course, being something akin to the tales that were once peddled about the results of drinking the water in Spain. A whole weekend of it from which it takes a further two days for the digestive system's natural equilibrium to be restored.
Perhaps I'm slowly easing into my long (eagerly) anticipated curmudgeonhood. But really what is the point?