Nelson Galaxy

‘Tis the season to get married, or so it seems. All I hear is talk of stag dos and hen nights. Once upon a time these consisted of a drink of an evening, now things are far more complicated. An evening with select friends and family has now expanded into a weekend away. Trips are arranged to European cities with elaborate itineraries and activities. Hundreds of people are invited. Above all, the point seems to be to get very drunk.

Any prospective groom or bride can look forward to an adventure that will see them summarily humiliated, deformed, degraded and debased. Ridiculous costumes will be worn, head hair and eyebrows shaved off, celebrities hired, nakedness will ensue, animals will be purchased and vomit will freely flow. Enormous same sex parades of dishevelled British hordes will bring true refinement to any European cultural centre. Doesn’t that sound appealing?

I was recently invited to two stag weekends. One was in Prague and would have included a trip to a cheap seedy unsavoury strip bar, an afternoon on a rifle range and copious amounts of Budvar. I refused. I have visited the beautiful city of Prague and would much rather wander around the bohemian old town, visit the Kafka museum and take a boat trip down the Vltava.

The other was in Birmingham . . . mmmm yes Birmingham. Arrangements were made for paint-balling, go-carting, cheap strippers and booze upon booze. Did I go and relish the hedonistic side of Birmingham? No, I stayed at home reading Baudelaire whilst supping a glass of Château Margaux and nibbling some rather fine French cheese.

One stag event I did attend was for the mighty musical genius Davy Lawrence, a man I literally think of as a brother. He agreed with me that a quiet evening visiting some friendly local bars with a few friends was a grand idea. However, yet again, I unintentionally managed to become the centre of attention. I arrived moments before the festivities began, I had not slept for two days, I was very drunk for I had been imbibing since six in the morning, make-up was smudged all over my face, I was dressed outrageously and I was rather chemically stimulated.

I do not remember much of the evening but I am sure Davy had a difficult time keeping me under control. I recall suddenly coming to whilst being marched up and down the street with Davy supporting me on one side and The Boff on the other. With a slur I enquired what the heck had happened.

Davy explained that he had exited the pub to check on me for I had mysteriously remained outside. He found me lying unconscious on the floor with a lycra clad bicycle courier crouched over me repeatedly punching me in the face. Sensing an audacious rescue the cyclist made a quick getaway on his sleek chrome machine shouting, “Keep that drunken weirdo under control mate. He’s a flipping lunatic.”

To this day what I had said or done remains a mystery. I hope I was expressing my concern about the disreputable state of modern cycling discipline and etiquette. I have not been on a stag do since. Come on the Stags.

On the Nelson hi-fi today:
Rough Trade Shops: Post Punk Vol. 1