Woomph... So that's a stag do, then.

Order of the weekend was:

• Meeting up at hotel near Saafhampton. Ben got lost and ran a bit late, so he met us at
  the place. I can highly recommend go-karting ("for fun"). Even though there were lots of karting geeks there who clearly went every weekend, we had a great time, and the nice man even gave our stag the winner's medal and associated bottle of champagne (well, sparkling perry, but close enough for podium purposes).
  
  
• Ben had to leave to get back to his school books for today's GR, which meant the rest of us returning to the perfectly comfortable Holiday Inn Express = splash water on face and get changed into something vaguely respectable. So, time for a drink in the bar with Chris before heading to...
  
  
• the comedy club in Saafhampton itself. A very funny night. There was dancing. There were random photos. There were lots of ladies' arses in photos. Chris managed to retain command of his speech (if not his thinking), but not his motor functions, so ended up like a puppet with some slack strings. Once I'd managed to keep him in one place (restraining as well as restraint was employed), carrying was required to get him back to the hotel (via the convenient kebab house fornenst the comedy club), which was fun.
  
  
• what felt the world's LONGEST wait for a taxi. I thought Nottingham had been bad, but this was nuts. We must've been there for well over an hour, in the not-too-warm coastal night. But my celtic jeans came out to play, so I managed to survive. Plus Rob was also jacketless and I wasn't going to be the wuss. Then, though, with a massive stroke of luck, a big van-style taxi turned up when it was our turn in the queue. I'd like to be able to apologise if we nicked someone else's big taxi (don't think we did, but just in case), but by the time you've been waiting outside, that drunk, that cold, and that replenished by kebab, you'll do anything to get back to the cave.
  
  
• Returning to the hotel, Chris decided to phone the Best Woman's bloke, who thought he sounded coherent. I can only guess that being South African must've had something to do with it. On arrival, we accidentally left the effectively legless Chris to the vicious grip of gravity before the Best Woman had to go back and help him fall forwards into the hotel reception. We got him back to his room (somehow -- this is a little hazy, frankly) then I realised what a good idea it would be to flip Chris's mattress over (only if he was on it obviously). Then we were made leave. Then the key was sitting in the "Make Electricity Go Now!" socket, and someone removed it — not saying it was me — and then ran down the corridor. The wrong way, then back to the lift and thence bed.
  
  
• TV on in room, some strange movie on 5 where stuff kept happening, with no apparent point. It just kept getting more and more confusing and scary. No dialogue was happening, more flames, chimneys apparently involved.... turned out it was Spawn, the movie.
  
  
• Waking. Hangover happened between 0830 and 0915 when I got out of the shower. Then everything was fine, and while RobOffOfTheStagDo went to get drowned awake, I rang himself:
  
  
  
  • "Hello!"
    
  • "Fuck off."
    
  • "How's the head?"
    
  • "I feel fantastic. I've never felt better..."
    
  
  It was at this point that I suspected he may not be telling the truth.
  
  Turns out I was right...
  
  
• Post-packing, meself and RobOffOfTheStagDo wend our way up to Chris's rheum. The Best Woman opens the door, smiling. Chris, it turns out, is not smiling. He is nearly dead from Tequila and all the other shite that we fed into his system during the night out.
  
  
• We depart, minus one Chris, for breakfast. Disappointingly, there is no fried food on the go, so cereal & coffee do the job.
  
  
• I manage to rouse Chris B from the pit by EvilPhone. I know it was an EvilPhone because both Chrises reacted with the same colour of language to its ringing. I was the one doing the ringing, so I didn't care. Chris B joined us in the departure lounge while we waited for the Best Woman to burp Chris and get him ready for the outside world. After a suitable fag-break for Rob, we re-wended our way up there, and found him a new man, about to have tea in hand.
  
  
• A bit of a search around in the car park with every map we had, and Chris B got the idea to go pitch'n'putting. Not something I'd ever done myself, but outside = fresh air = goodness = anti-hangover. So we eventually found it, and then proceeded to split into two groups: those who could reach the green, and those who could not. There is a tale involving a manhole cover, but I'm not going to go into that one right now. Maybe next century... Chris, however, visibly recovered between holes 1 and 6, going from being unable to actually see the ball, to hitting it a good whack onto the green for most of the remaining dozen holes.
  
  
• After an ice cream and a return to the Best Woman's car, we drove back to the hotel for a slash and thence the final part of the Stag Weekend itself: dinner. Nothing like eating in style, so we went to a Harvester. First time I've ever been in one. I didn't care. They cooked dead animal, and I was hungry. This is where I learnt that the Best Woman's bloke thought Chris had sounded fine. The groom-to-be even managed to keep down his dinner, which I thought was seriously impressive, given that his eyes still stung from the earlier tequila rejection process.
  
  

Mr Paul (no e-mail surname) has done some photos which, for some reason, my machine can't access. Think my proxy settings must be knackered, or — unbelievably — the lab network might be fucking around.