Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend (6 page)

We
have had a top night with some top people but it’s time for us all to move on. We pay up and then we hit a place called The Melkweg and from here things start to become all a bit of a blur. The place was a superb music venue, club and bar all in one hip spot. I remember that a ‘lower league’ Brit Pop band were playing a gig there so we all went to see them and had a mad jump about. Pills get dropped, powder is snorted and predictably the local brewery will have to do an extra shift next week to replace all the beer that we sunk.

Women
are hit on and I think someone else got hit for hitting on the wrong blokes girlfriend. I then go into full wobble mode and lose hours of time in a hideous tail spin. My body cannot handle the abuse any more. We somehow manage to lose Kristall and all her mates in the club, or more likely they decided to lose us. Our drunken English charms had worn well thin by this time of the night.

We
do the offski.

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 16…..156 TO GO

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 5 PINTS, 2 BOTTLES, A PORT & LEMON, 2 X BLACK SAMBUCA AND A CARTON OF KIA-ORA

Chapter
Nine: I Know My Basic Human Rights!

Friday night slides into Saturday morning as the fourteen of us wobble around Amsterdam town centre. Finally we come across a nightclub that has a queue of bodies waiting outside to get in. It looks right up our strasse as it’s a hard house night and the queue is full of ladies.

We
all get in with no bother from the bouncers. They have a strange system for buying drinks though as they don’t take cash at the bar. As you pay to go in they give you a card with eight empty boxes on it. Every time you get a beer, the staff on the bar, stamp the card and as you leave you present the card and pay for your alcohol as you exit the club.

All
drinks cost the same so you pay per stamp you have on the card. Seems well over complicated to me, but when in Rome, I mean Amsterdam. Besides what could go wrong?

Inside
the club the volume is turned up to ELEVEN. It’s a huge warehouse-looking place and the DJ is spinning his ‘platters that matter’ from a booth at one end. He’s playing full on bibbly bibbly house music. This is proper ‘industrial house music’, with bass so low it rattles your fillings.

The
place is full of folks getting down to the hard beats. Plenty of people have their hands up in the air, pumping their fists, arms waving about. All that ‘big fish, little fish, cardboard box’ nonsense is going on. Or was it ‘big box, little box, cardboard fish?’ I could never remember.

Just
a noisy, smoky room full of ‘pilled up’ clubbers, gurning their faces off. Everybody is pouring with sweat and wearing ‘shit eating’ grins as they have a top night out. Most of the ravers are swigging bottles of water, rather than beer, not a surprise.

It
is crazy loud though, loud enough to wake the Devil and all his imp helpers. Even my tinnitus has tinnitus. We wander up to the bar which is empty, even though the club is busy. This is a sure sign that illegal chemicals are fuelling the majority of people in this joint.

We
shout in a round of beers, so everyone has to produce their cards that then get stamped and returned. We then explore the club properly.

Some
of the lads make a bee line for a group of fruity looking frauleins dancing around their handbags and start up all the old chat. A few others are up on the podiums waving their arms about and throwing shapes like they are having some kind of seizure.

Although
the music is way too heavy for me we all have a great laugh. We are all smoking, boozing, sniffing and snorting.

The
dance floor is a big slab of raised metal. Kid G legs it halfway across and then slides on his knees the rest of the way. He looks extremely cool and it looked like bloody good fun.

Then
Hit runs and flops down on his belly to glide over the dance floor. Some of the locals join in and soon a big crowd take turns bombing across the floor on knees or beer guts. This sliding game is something for nursery school children or folks with limited intelligence to enjoy. Know what category we fall into. We’re well feeble minded.

Suddenly
the bouncers appear and with just two words ‘No More’ our fun ends. That’s that game over for sure. Was a giggle while it lasted but ‘rules are rules.’

DUN-PHER!
DUN-PHER! DUN-PHER! The music is absolutely blaring louder and louder, our eardrums are in serious danger of splitting. Kid L has got chatting to the manager of the club while standing at the bar. He has given the guy a healthy dose of bullshit and told him that back home he is a top London DJ playing at all the big clubs. He would gladly spin some tunes in this establishment for the next hour for a couple of free beers.

The
manager is well chuffed and leads Kid L up to the DJ booth that overlooks the ice rink like dance floor. Kid L is in his element. He waves his arms over his head, raving it up.

The
punters in the club go mad believing that Kid L is the real deal and that some heavy duty house beats will soon be coming their way. This is going to be aural pleasure for all, live and direct from London town.

Unfortunately
there is a major fly in the ointment. Kid L is higher than the sun after sticking half of Bolivia’s finest export up his nasal cavities. His coke-fuelled enthusiasm for DJ’ing is let down badly by his sad lack of experience. He has never actually DJ’ed in his entire life but to his credit he tries valiantly to get by.

As
the track is still playing from the regular DJ’s set Kid L goes through the stack of vinyl and selects the next disco biscuit to be played. He takes the record from the sleeve, places it on the deck and sticks the headphones on his bonce. He looks like he knows what he is meant to be doing. He may even pull this stunt off.

On
the dance floor the ravers are right raving and Kid L chucks his arms aloft soaking in the adoration of the crowd of party goers. He starts fiddling about with all the buttons on the massive DJ console convinced that his Charlie-induced confidence is enough to see him through.

The
tune is now coming to the end so it’s time to mix one song into the next in a flawless superstar DJ kind of way. Kid L starts looking desperate. Even though his pupils are the size of pinpricks you can see the utter terror in them. His arms get thrown up in the air yet again hoping this will make everything alright.

Suddenly
the record stops, the club becomes as silent as the grave. You could hear a squirrel fart, if they let squirrels in this gaff. Kid L is frantically pushing buttons and tugging on levers but nothing is happening. With a huge blast of feedback Kid L picks up the needle off the record and plonks it back down at the start of the hard core tune once again. Sorted!

Arms
reach for the sky, his mug has a huge grin over it but the game is up. I look over at the manager who is shaking his head and mouthing something in Dutch. I’m not too sure of the exact translation of the phrase ‘Oh for fucks sake’ but I’m sure that was what the fella was saying as he put his head in his hands.

Kid
L gets escorted from the DJ booth ending his very brief career as a house DJ. He is still posing and flapping about like a nut job as the ching makes him feel unbeatable. The bouncers come over and ask us all to leave. We are no longer welcome in the club so it’s time to beat a hasty retreat.

We
all troop back up to the entrance where we now have to pay for all the liquids that we have consumed.

There
are fourteen of us, so they are expecting fourteen cards with stamps on them. Unsurprisingly there’s a disaster as between us we can only find thirteen of the soppy cards. One of the bouncers starts hassling Kid B who seems to be the one who has lost his card and the pair of them are having words.

Kid
B in his inebriated brain is convinced he has already paid his drinks bill, the bouncer knows that he hasn’t. The volume of the argument is going up. Harsh words are said and things are looking likely to go bandy very quickly.

I
have a chat with the bloke at the till collecting the dough. Apologising that we’ve lost a card, I offer to pay for all eight drinks that could have been on it, to get us all out of there with all limbs intact.

He
agrees so I pay up and everyone is happy. Apart from Kid B who is still shouting and cursing his head off at a very displeased looking bouncer who has now called the police.

Kid
B is not backing down even when the bouncer pulls a wicked looking cosh out and threatens to use it. Luckily the cops arrive just in time and grab Kid B.

The
red mist has descended by now and he goes completely potty. Kid B starts howling about his basic human rights and how the act of placing him under arrest is actually a contravention of The Geneva Convention.

Mule
tries to calm Kid B down but there’s no chance, ‘Kid B you don’t work for Amnesty International, just apologise to 5-0 and we can walk away.’

With
that line Kid B is now renamed Amnesty and will be for the next twenty years. Even his kids call him Amnesty Dad.

He
explodes ‘Just fuck off you pigs!’ Police are unimpressed and he is thrown in the back of the cop car in handcuffs.

We
can hear him still banging on about his rights, that this is an illegal arrest and bizarrely that he knows his way around The Data Protection Act of 1984. He is having a right old ding dong, yelling at the top of his voice. The dummy has been thrown out of this pushchair for sure.

As
they drive off to chuck Amnesty in to the nearest cell, I find the last card that we all thought was missing in my pocket. It’s only got one stamp on it, so I go back to the guy at the till who then gives me a full refund for the other seven drinks that I’d overpaid.

He
even apologised for the fact that the police had been called and got my mate in trouble. What a top fella. All that grief and aggravation for nothing in the end, apart from a great story and yet another new nick name.

Poor
Old Amnesty’s night does not get any better. On the way to the cop shop, he’s still making a right old noise. He just does not know when to shut up.

The
policeman in the passenger seat has had a gut of it. He turns round and punches Amnesty right between the eyes. He’s got these great big gloves on, like a boxer and it gives old Amnesty a beautiful shiner and a great big lump on his face that he has for the next couple of weeks.

The
cop comes out with a pay-off line worthy of Arnold Schwarzenegger after delivering the blow: ‘You are NOT in England now!’

What
a fantastic line, fair play to the Dutch cop. I’d have whacked him too! Fancy bringing up the boredom of Data Protection, you deserve a knock Amnesty. Although you didn’t need to be Mystic Meg to see that the card system in that club was always going to end in tears.

Amnesty
gets a night in the cells with a free pancake breakfast thrown in. I’m not going to bother booking a hotel room for the next trip, just get arrested and you get free B&B accommodation!

The
rest of us left are flagging as it has gone three a.m. by now. We find one last bar to have ‘one for the road.’ This soon becomes ‘two for the road’ and so on. I sneak off and find a quiet corner and sink down into a comfy chair.

My
eyelids are dropping, time for some kip. Just a quick forty winks and I’ll be as good as gold.

As
I’m starting to drift off, one of the lads slips me a pill and urges me to, ‘get this down your Gregory, it’ll perk you right up. You won’t regret it.’

But
I do. Oh I do.

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 13…..143 TO GO

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 3 PINTS 2 BOTTLES AND A CRÈME DE MENTHE FRAPPE

Chapter
Ten: The Euro Gimp Boy of Amsterdam

Kid D awakes with a start. His head is pounding. He feels all floaty like a cloud in a storm and has the urge to vomit. He has no idea where he is, what day of the week it is or what time. He just is.

He
is having difficulty breathing because there is something round and hard in his mouth, secured there by a tight strap around his head. He slowly opens his eyes. The light is too bright and hurts his eyes, so he closes them again. They start watering and finally he can focus.

As
he reopens his eyes, he sees he is in a large room with mirrors along one wall and another mirror above him in the ceiling. This can’t be good.

He
can see his reflection in the mirrors and it is not a pretty sight. He is lying face-up on a four poster bed, tied to each corner post by what look like silk scarves. One securely knotted around each ankle and the same around his wrists.

He’s
held tight, there’s no escape.

All
he has on are a pair of skimpy tight leather shorts, a leather sleeveless, wife beater style vest with studs all over it and a mask.

Though
this is not a Halloween fun mask, this is black PVC gimp mask with red eye rims and a zip for a mouth. I know I did not pack this get up to wear out of a night, he thinks.

The
zip in the mask is open and he can see the S&M gag ball stuck in his mouth. He is still finding it tough taking a breath and he tries to shout out but it’s just a whimper. No-one’s going to hear that.

Where
in fuck am I? He has no idea. His watch has disappeared. His wife to be bought him it and she is going to have a massive paddy if it’s gone on the missing list. More importantly if he could see the time it might help him to remember.

Through
the fog in his head images start to appear. Are they distant memories or things that happened within the last few hours? He has no clue. Concentrate. He needs to get his head back on straight.

How
did he get here? Wherever or whatever this place actually is.

For
a very bad few minutes Kid D fears he is in the Amsterdam hovel they are staying in, tied up awaiting certain death by butchery in The Hotel Kebab. He does not want to become the next ‘chefs special’ shish kebab served up!

Then
he realises that the room he is in is clean, tidy and has decent furniture in it. The bed is really comfortable and even has satin sheets on it. There’s no danger he’s in that fleapit he reasons quite rightly.

But
where the fuck is he and why? It’s not his stag do. Or is it?

More
wisps of memories start to appear. Arriving at an airport somewhere very early in the morning. Then we are on board a plane. Some beer gets drunk. Some pills get taken. Powder is indulged in. Cigarettes get smoked down to the filter. No they are in Amsterdam.

Definitely,
Maybe. He’s pretty certain of this much at least, but why?

He
tries wriggling about a bit but it’s no good he’s tied up too tight and he’s going nowhere. This is a ‘Cluster Fuck’ or just might become one, he worries.

Kid
D gets all paranoid that he is soon going to be starring in his very own version of ‘Handsome Dog.’

Please
don’t violate my tea towel holder, he prays. I like my ‘balloon knot’ just the way it is currently knotted, thank you very much!

Think!
If he can remember how he ended up here, he may just figure a way out. He has not got a Scooby Doo (clue) what has gone on. He tries to shout again but the ball stops any real volume coming out. He could use one of these at home he thinks.

But
then the penny finally drops. Through his aching head Kid D remembers something and a cold sweat covers his body. He is afraid, very, very afraid.

HE
has suffered the ultimate double bluff. It’s his turn to suffer. This is payback for all the other stags that he’s stitched up over the past few years.

Like
a gang war, it’s escalated from petty and childish levels to what is sure to be a full on nuclear assault. One stag was made to wear a dress all weekend, the next poor sod is stripped naked and tied to an inflatable sheep while being covered in brown sauce.

You
shave off the eyebrow of one stag boy the next one loses his full head of hair. Tattoo one stag and the next has his left ball bag removed with a blunt razor blade while asleep.

As
you get older you are meant to mature, but not on a stag do! It’s all about how much suffering you put the main man through. Escalation is the name of the game. Stagging is great fun it’s just not worth dying for.

So
this is your comeuppance Kid D and he knows it is not going to be fun. For the rest of the herd, but not for him, it will be the highlight of their weekend.

His
stag do is next month in Edinburgh but the lads have decided to get him, right here, right now, when he is least expecting it in Amsterdam. Kid D has to admit it is a work of genius. Stitch up the pretender to the stag throne before his own stag do.

The
old brain finally kicks into another, higher gear and there’s the realisation that Kid D, soon to be rechristened for eternity as ‘Euro Gimp Boy’, is ME!

Yep
that’s right, your hard smoking guide/narrator through these super smoking stag do stories and tall tales of madness. I am Euro.

It’s
my turn to take the heat, all in the name of my impending matrimony next month.

So
what have my so called mates got in store for me here then? All bets are off.

They
may be my lifelong buddies that I can rely on for anything back home. But abroad on ‘the pop’ and ‘the whizz’, I would not trust any of the bastards as far as I could throw them.

Now
I am really nervous thinking I’m going to get ‘Teabagged’ or ‘Donkey Punched’ to death or worse.

Suddenly
a door starts to open. I am bricking myself massively. My arsehole starts pulling shapes, doing that old ‘fifty pence/five pence’ twitching thing. One second my ring piece is little, the next second large. Opening and closing like the gob of a goldfish.

I
have a bad feeling about this. Things are not going to end well.

They
say that as you face death your whole life flashes before your eyes. Well there was no flash this time, which either means I have lived no life worth reliving, up to this point (a distinct possibility) or even better, somehow I’m going to survive.

The
door opens further...light floods the room and finally I remember everything.

Oh
shit. This is going to be trouble, big trouble. Bigger than the biggest trouble, trouble.

Oh
Shit. My memory returns…

CIGARETTES
SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: ZERO…I’VE BEEN SECURELY TIED TO A FUCKING BED…TRY TO KEEP UP!!!....143 TO GO

BOOZE
BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: NOWT BUT WOULD HAVE KILLED FOR A BAILEYS TOP