The Stag Do

Ouch. Eek. Ow. My body is a miscellany of incipient bruises, minor abrasions and flaring cold sores, and God alone knows what the insides are like, but I survived my first stag do. Not only that, I had a ball doing it. A lovely bunch of fellas, not the type of crowd to spike the groom and put him on the train to Leeds with nothing but an inflatable woman under his arm and a sock on his cock, instead we had a proper good laugh drinking our way around The Ox, Knott Fringe, Duke's, Mojo’s and The Purple Pussycat with some dancing and latterly some considerable sweating on my part. I coulda shoulda woulda called it a night then of course but I don’t recall ever saying no to after hours debauchery and I have no intention of doing so now just because I’m thirty. So it was off to Tim and Dan’s in Chorlton for all-night records, smoking and salty talk, followed by a pleasingly chilled walk home in the Bank Holiday sunshine next morning.

A veerrry slow Bank Holiday Monday (have I ever had any other kind??) with Joffrey, Neil, Pugling, plus my usual dread and hatred of going to bed with a hangover. I wish I knew why I loathed it so? Still in advanced physical meltdown now. Managing to get fiddly bits of work done though. Slowly digesting enormous carb lunch from Gregg’s and listening to clarinet rehearsals from the music rooms across the way which began as soothing interludes then breached the upper reaches of squalling “weasel “weasel” scales, then back again. Might pop a request through for a bit of Cagney and Lacey. I do realise that’s the third mention of C&L in a week’s blogging. It can’t be helped.