minutes of power nap will sort me right out’ theory. Bad move as they end up deep asleep never to awake until the next morning and miss all the fun.
Amnesty Boy is sharing a room with Mule who has had a lie down and is now totally out for the count. There is no waking him up so Amnesty does the only sane thing you can do in that situation and stitches him up like a right kipper.
He goes down to reception to see if they have any shoe polish that he can borrow as he wants his boots to shine to catch the eyes of the ladies. The owner of the guest house is only too pleased to lend him some, but that polish is ending up nowhere near any shoe leather, that’s for sure.
Amnesty goes back up to the room where Mule is snoring away like a good ‘un. He smears a load of polish all over his fingers while he sleeps on. Then Amnesty starts tickling Mules nose who then wipes his polish smothered hands all over his own boat race. Within seconds his whole face is covered in the stuff and he now looks like a crap camouflaged Rambo.
Amnesty rushes across to our room to show us his handiwork. It is a work of art. The polish is even all up his nose now, as he must have been having a cheeky pick while he’s been fast a kip. We try not to laugh too much and wake the sad bloke up. Let him be, he can’t take the pace of ‘the in crowd’.
That’s one more casualty added to the two guys in casualty so the posse is down to eleven men now. We start knocking on the other rooms so we can make tracks into the city. Lads start to appear, ready for action but in various states of health. Some look well sorted after a quick splash slash and dash.
Others still look a bit pasty with the beer sweats and red veiny eyes that suggest that they may well be struggling to keep up the drinking pace. Then there are the ones chemically enhanced by ‘Class A’ substances who have pupils the size of pin heads while talking utter tosh at one hundred miles an hour, but they are definitely ready to go back into battle.
We knock on one room but the two guys (Kid K & Kid N) inside refuse to answer. They just cannot face chucking any more ale down their sheep and goats (throats) today. We know that they can hear us shouting abuse about them being wimpy let downs and they know that we know they can hear us, but they will not be intimidated into coming back out on the piss again.
They instantly gain the new nick names of Light and Weight. We never could tell which one was which, so we ended up calling them Lightweight 1 and Lightweight 2. In fairness the pair of them had recently had babies with their wives and only came on the stag do to get a decent couple of nights sleep away from the nagging Mrs and the endless supply of milky baby sick that would end up all over their designer threads.
So that is just nine of us heading out for a night of hard stagging without an acting stag because he is still up at the hospital with a cattle trucked gob.
With his wired up jaw he will be only able to open his mouth a few centimetres and it will look like a letter being shoved into a post box when eating his new all flat diet consisting of poppadum’s, crisps and pizza’s.
We leave the guest house saying a fond goodnight to the owner who is on reception. He has on the moodiest Irish jig (wig]) I have ever seen in my entire life. The colour of his rug does not even match the small remaining wisps of his natural hair poking out from underneath his very crap Syrup of Figs (wig).
What the fuck is the point of wearing ‘an oil rig’ (wig)? Just shave the lot off and man up!
Apart from his love of wearing half a dead cat on his head, he’s a good bloke and tells us about a cheap boozer up the road that he assures us will be full of top quality women. Hopefully his eye for the ladies is not as poor as his selection of fake hair pieces.
We decide to pop our head around the pub’s door as it’s on our way into town anyway. However not one hundred yards further down the
Amnesty Boy is sharing a room with Mule who has had a lie down and is now totally out for the count. There is no waking him up so Amnesty does the only sane thing you can do in that situation and stitches him up like a right kipper.
He goes down to reception to see if they have any shoe polish that he can borrow as he wants his boots to shine to catch the eyes of the ladies. The owner of the guest house is only too pleased to lend him some, but that polish is ending up nowhere near any shoe leather, that’s for sure.
Amnesty goes back up to the room where Mule is snoring away like a good ‘un. He smears a load of polish all over his fingers while he sleeps on. Then Amnesty starts tickling Mules nose who then wipes his polish smothered hands all over his own boat race. Within seconds his whole face is covered in the stuff and he now looks like a crap camouflaged Rambo.
Amnesty rushes across to our room to show us his handiwork. It is a work of art. The polish is even all up his nose now, as he must have been having a cheeky pick while he’s been fast a kip. We try not to laugh too much and wake the sad bloke up. Let him be, he can’t take the pace of ‘the in crowd’.
That’s one more casualty added to the two guys in casualty so the posse is down to eleven men now. We start knocking on the other rooms so we can make tracks into the city. Lads start to appear, ready for action but in various states of health. Some look well sorted after a quick splash slash and dash.
Others still look a bit pasty with the beer sweats and red veiny eyes that suggest that they may well be struggling to keep up the drinking pace. Then there are the ones chemically enhanced by ‘Class A’ substances who have pupils the size of pin heads while talking utter tosh at one hundred miles an hour, but they are definitely ready to go back into battle.
We knock on one room but the two guys (Kid K & Kid N) inside refuse to answer. They just cannot face chucking any more ale down their sheep and goats (throats) today. We know that they can hear us shouting abuse about them being wimpy let downs and they know that we know they can hear us, but they will not be intimidated into coming back out on the piss again.
They instantly gain the new nick names of Light and Weight. We never could tell which one was which, so we ended up calling them Lightweight 1 and Lightweight 2. In fairness the pair of them had recently had babies with their wives and only came on the stag do to get a decent couple of nights sleep away from the nagging Mrs and the endless supply of milky baby sick that would end up all over their designer threads.
So that is just nine of us heading out for a night of hard stagging without an acting stag because he is still up at the hospital with a cattle trucked gob.
With his wired up jaw he will be only able to open his mouth a few centimetres and it will look like a letter being shoved into a post box when eating his new all flat diet consisting of poppadum’s, crisps and pizza’s.
We leave the guest house saying a fond goodnight to the owner who is on reception. He has on the moodiest Irish jig (wig]) I have ever seen in my entire life. The colour of his rug does not even match the small remaining wisps of his natural hair poking out from underneath his very crap Syrup of Figs (wig).
What the fuck is the point of wearing ‘an oil rig’ (wig)? Just shave the lot off and man up!
Apart from his love of wearing half a dead cat on his head, he’s a good bloke and tells us about a cheap boozer up the road that he assures us will be full of top quality women. Hopefully his eye for the ladies is not as poor as his selection of fake hair pieces.
We decide to pop our head around the pub’s door as it’s on our way into town anyway. However not one hundred yards further down the
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