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Another Saturday…

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Stag weekends. Don’t you just love ‘em? A good friend of mine is tying the knot later this year and we went to Dublin for his stag party was last weekend. Don’t ask me how we ended up going to Dublin for the stag. Considering that we all live in the commuter belt, it’s not exactly “away” for the weekend; we could (should) have been lapping it up in Riga or dropping out in Amsterdam. Shit, we could have at least travelled down the country for a couple of nights…

…Actually, fuck that shit…  Dublin was okay, I guess.

We hit the bottle fairly hard on Friday night and anything that happened after 11pm has now been locked into the ‘black hole’ segment of my memory. Saturday morning hurt so bad, the damned sunlight was piercing a hole right through my brain. The lads all went straight to the pub, but I, having learnt my lessons in the past, said there was no way I was drinking again until I consumed something that qualified as food. So while the boys were getting the drinks in, I decided to sneak off for a quick bite to eat.

Walking had become a bit of a challenge to my poisoned body, so I thanked the holy lord when I saw that there was a quiet little cafe next door to the pub. I stumbled in the door and made my way down to the back, away from the windows and that awful sunlight. I saw a vacant table beside the toilet. Perfect. There had been an awful lot of gurgling going on inside me that morning and this usually meant that an anal eruption was imminent. I’d fucking swear that laxatives are one of Swithwick’s main ingredients.

As I took my seat, yet another degenerate staggered in the door. This guy looked even worse than I did. With blood all over his angered face and a torn shirt, he hurriedly made his way down towards me and the paranoid side of my brain began to wonder if we were involved in some sort of altercation the previous night? Thankfully, that didn’t seem to be the case, as he walked right past me and sat down beside a woman at the table next to mine. Okay, so I’m a bit of a nosey cunt, but when he started to mutter something in her ear, I listened carefully to try and hear what he was saying:

“…I got attacked for being a pervert…”

????

Fuck this, I said to myself. I’m going to join the lads. The food can wait.

So I returned to the pub and we proceeded to spend the next five or six hours drinking… heavily. At this point, everyone started to realise that if we didn’t eat soon, we wouldn’t last another hour. It was around 5 o’clock when we all bailed from the pub and began wandering around looking for a good restaurant. With the state we were in, we agreed that the nearest place with some proper food would suffice, so our search didn’t take long. I have to say, that as we all piled in the door, the manager of the restaurant didn’t look at all happy to see us. Not that I can blame him really. Whilst we weren’t rowdy, obnoxious or loud, there was no denying that we were all very, very drunk.

The waitress took our order as soon as we sat down, and our meals were all served very promptly. I suspect the staff were told to get us in and out as fast as was humanly possible, and they were certainly doing their best to accomplish that. After the meal, I ordered a large coffee to try and perk myself up a bit, this all-day drinking lark isn’t as easy as it used to be. As I drank down my coffee, I immediately felt my stomach cramping.

‘Oh shit…’, I muttered, ‘…here it comes!’

I really should have known better, especially since my stomach was groaning and gurgling earlier in the day. You see, for me, coffee acts as a dangerous catalyst in my digestive system. Like throwing a cylinder of gas on a bonfire, I knew I had only a matter of seconds between the first few creaks and the fiery, or in this case, shitty explosion.

I fucking legged it to the jacks.

I’m not exagerrating when I say that I was undoing my trousers as I crossed the restaurant, for every fraction of a second was vital now. Please God, let there be a cubicle free, I thought. Otherwise I’ll have to do it in the sink, and fuck me, that’s gonna be messy. As I burst through the men’s room door I was relieved to see that there was no-one else in there. I swiftly locked myself into the nearest cubicle, got my trousers down the rest of the way and flung my arse down onto the seat just in the nick of time. What happened next was, I’ll admit, unnaturally disgusting. It was an evacuation that the White House Chief of Security would be proud of. The words “Flag of Japan” sprung to mind and, in the relief of it all, I couldn’t stop myself from letting out a little laugh. All was not well, however, when I discovered that the flush mechanism for my chosen cubicle was not working. Jesus, I can’t leave it like that, I thought, it’s an awful sight. Then I thought about it again and said to myself, fuck it. It’s their fault that the toilet’s not working, not mine.

So, guilt free, I cleaned myself up and made my way back to the table.

The lads were all looking in better shape now, with food in their bellies and hot beverages to take that drunken edge off. When I sat back down, I advised the lads not to use the toilet, explaining what I had just been through down there. Needless to say, they weren’t in any hurry to go after hearing that story. The waitress then returned to our table to ask if we would like some dessert, and the few of us that felt they could fit it in gave the waitress their orders. At this stage, the staff still didn’t seem to know about the mess in the toilet, so when one of the lads asked for chocolate mousse, I just couldn’t help myself…

“I’m sorry sir, but we’re all out of chocolate mousse”, the waitress explained.

Athough she had no idea what I was talking about, the stifled laughter from the lads was all too apparent when I replied:

“Actually miss, if you look very carefully…

…I’m sure you’ll find there’s been a fresh delivery!”

Oh yes… I am the King of Class.

CONTINUE TO PART IV>