Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend by Phil Sloan Page B
Authors: Phil Sloan
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have a slash every ten minutes to empty your belly of pissy beer.
It was a nightmare getting the old todger out of my fly as I had a brand new pair of 501’s on and it took ages of faffing about getting the buttons undone. When I got back to the table there was no-one there, just loads of plates of half-eaten food and half-drunk pints of beer.
The owner was standing at the deserted table with a phone in his hands saying, ‘I’m calling the police. Your friends have all run out without paying so unless you have the money to cover the bill, there is going to be trouble.’
‘I haven’t got enough cash on me mate. It’s my stag do. I do have a credit card back at the guest house we are staying at. I’ll nip back and get it.’ I reply.
The owner is getting the right hump by now. ‘Do you think I was born yesterday? There’s no way you are leaving here without paying your bill,’ he menaces. Suddenly a couple of the cooks almost magically appear next to him holding big shiny and very sharp meat cleavers.
They are wiry little blokes but look like they know they’re way around the choppers they are waving about in the air.
They also look pretty unimpressed that this English fella can’t pay up. Looks like someone is getting a kicking very soon and that person is me.
‘Look guys, I’m really sorry, my mates have well dropped me in it here. Look, I tell you what, I’ll leave you my watch and get back to my hotel where I’ve got a credit card and I’ll sort this out’ I beg and plead.
‘I don’t want your fucking watch or your card, I want Pound Notes and lots of them,’ he spits. ‘This is an insult to my family. You come into my restaurant, you little turd and eat my food without paying. I’m going to fuck you up!’ he exclaims.
He is absolutely seething. The two chefs are smiling and look like they are going to really enjoy delivering the beating that is surely coming my way. I am terrified. I wonder if breaking out the tears will get me any pity.
‘Please fella, calm down,’ I whimper. ‘Let’s call The British Consulate, we can sort this situation without violence.’
On hearing this, the owner and the cleaver twins start howling with laughter. He whistles and all the lads reappear from a room behind me where they have been hiding and listening to me crawling for my life. One guy shouts out, ‘British Consulate, you massive ball of cock cheese!’ Nuff said. The stags are all falling about. They’ve heard the whole lot.
‘We got you!’ says the owner. He absolutely loves a wind up and he can’t stop laughing, so brings out another round of Cobra lagers on the house. He then grabs his camera and takes loads of photographs of me and the boys being ‘attacked’ by the lads with the meat cleavers.
‘These pictures are going up behind the bar,’ he announces proudly. So if you are ever in Edinburgh in an Indian restaurant and you see the evidence hanging up, spare a thought for the seat of those nice new jeans I was wearing. They were a little squelchy I can tell you.
The lads are over the moon that they stitched me up. ‘That will right learn ya, stag boy. You thought because we got you in Amsterdam you were getting away with it this time out. Well you are wrong so you best be on your guard fella,’ crows the gang.
Food gets put away. Beers drained. We shake hands with the owner and job done, it’s time to make like Tom and Cruise.
We carry on down the road and soon see a huge neon blue sign that holds us like a tractor beam, slowly drawing us in. There is no escape. It’s as if our minds are now in someone else’s control and our will is no longer our own.
This place is calling out to us, it is our destiny. The sign is just four letters glowing in the dark saying ‘T I T Z’.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 8…..121 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: COBRA x 3, A GLASS OF BLACK TOWER WINE, A DOUBLE BACARDI AND COKE
Chapter Seventeen: The Trail of a Snail Ruins
It was a nightmare getting the old todger out of my fly as I had a brand new pair of 501’s on and it took ages of faffing about getting the buttons undone. When I got back to the table there was no-one there, just loads of plates of half-eaten food and half-drunk pints of beer.
The owner was standing at the deserted table with a phone in his hands saying, ‘I’m calling the police. Your friends have all run out without paying so unless you have the money to cover the bill, there is going to be trouble.’
‘I haven’t got enough cash on me mate. It’s my stag do. I do have a credit card back at the guest house we are staying at. I’ll nip back and get it.’ I reply.
The owner is getting the right hump by now. ‘Do you think I was born yesterday? There’s no way you are leaving here without paying your bill,’ he menaces. Suddenly a couple of the cooks almost magically appear next to him holding big shiny and very sharp meat cleavers.
They are wiry little blokes but look like they know they’re way around the choppers they are waving about in the air.
They also look pretty unimpressed that this English fella can’t pay up. Looks like someone is getting a kicking very soon and that person is me.
‘Look guys, I’m really sorry, my mates have well dropped me in it here. Look, I tell you what, I’ll leave you my watch and get back to my hotel where I’ve got a credit card and I’ll sort this out’ I beg and plead.
‘I don’t want your fucking watch or your card, I want Pound Notes and lots of them,’ he spits. ‘This is an insult to my family. You come into my restaurant, you little turd and eat my food without paying. I’m going to fuck you up!’ he exclaims.
He is absolutely seething. The two chefs are smiling and look like they are going to really enjoy delivering the beating that is surely coming my way. I am terrified. I wonder if breaking out the tears will get me any pity.
‘Please fella, calm down,’ I whimper. ‘Let’s call The British Consulate, we can sort this situation without violence.’
On hearing this, the owner and the cleaver twins start howling with laughter. He whistles and all the lads reappear from a room behind me where they have been hiding and listening to me crawling for my life. One guy shouts out, ‘British Consulate, you massive ball of cock cheese!’ Nuff said. The stags are all falling about. They’ve heard the whole lot.
‘We got you!’ says the owner. He absolutely loves a wind up and he can’t stop laughing, so brings out another round of Cobra lagers on the house. He then grabs his camera and takes loads of photographs of me and the boys being ‘attacked’ by the lads with the meat cleavers.
‘These pictures are going up behind the bar,’ he announces proudly. So if you are ever in Edinburgh in an Indian restaurant and you see the evidence hanging up, spare a thought for the seat of those nice new jeans I was wearing. They were a little squelchy I can tell you.
The lads are over the moon that they stitched me up. ‘That will right learn ya, stag boy. You thought because we got you in Amsterdam you were getting away with it this time out. Well you are wrong so you best be on your guard fella,’ crows the gang.
Food gets put away. Beers drained. We shake hands with the owner and job done, it’s time to make like Tom and Cruise.
We carry on down the road and soon see a huge neon blue sign that holds us like a tractor beam, slowly drawing us in. There is no escape. It’s as if our minds are now in someone else’s control and our will is no longer our own.
This place is calling out to us, it is our destiny. The sign is just four letters glowing in the dark saying ‘T I T Z’.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 8…..121 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: COBRA x 3, A GLASS OF BLACK TOWER WINE, A DOUBLE BACARDI AND COKE
Chapter Seventeen: The Trail of a Snail Ruins
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