Stag Do

A brief holiday into my former life

Since becoming a parent my drinking habits have evolved with weekend binges making way for 1-2 glasses of wine after dinner (most nights) as a reward for getting through the day. The French do this, which means it’s fine, right?

There is no point in drinking to excess when you have young children as you can never truly lose yourself. Not really. I’ve found there is now a reverse effect where anything beyond a second drink makes me worry about things more. What if they’re up in the night and I don’t wake up? Will this next sip tip me into hangover territory tomorrow? Am I a terrible parent?

All the good stuff.

In my 20s, I used to excel at living in the moment, no consideration for tomorrow; the type of man who’d take little persuasion to have a third pint, then a fourth, then a taxi to the casino on a Tuesday night. Nowadays, if my pal suggests a pint - ONE PINT - after 5-a-side, I look at my watch, shake my head and make my excuses. I’ve seen that glint in his eye, what if it turns into two? I wouldn’t be home until 10.30 p.m. Who does he think I am? A maniac?

The exception is, of course, the stag do: the opportunity for men in their thirties and forties to take a brief holiday into their former lives. As it was my brother’s, and I was best man, Louise gave me her blessing, although I did notice something of a pattern where, whenever I mentioned anything to do with it, she would go a bit quiet with me for the next hour-or-so.

As much as I adore my family, it turns out that raising young children is relentless, physically and emotionally draining, and considerably harder than you can ever, ever imagine so… I was ready for a short circuit breaker. While you might think I was excited about 48 hours of hedonistic excess, I was mostly just looking forward to sleeping in past sunrise.

I opted for Liverpool after Louise indicated she’d rather we stayed in the UK in case ‘something happens’ and I needed to get back. My argument would be that wherever I am in the world, if I’m drinking from a fishbowl with a curly straw and wearing only one shoe, I am unlikely to be of any use as a father and husband for at least 48 hours.

I am skint, and likely will be for the next 4-5 (18?) years, so opted for accommodation within my modest budget, failing to consider that my brother and a lot of his friends are non-skint solicitors. Therefore, the general response to my hotel choice was comparable to Louise’s reaction when I first mentioned the stag do.

When a man from Liverpool sent a private email informing me the hotel was ‘the absolute pits’ and miles away from anything, something had to give. After some taxing admin (stagmin?), I cancelled and upgraded to a marginally less shit hotel in the city centre before organizing a casual itinerary consisting of entry into Heebie Jeebies nightclub on Friday, followed by football golf and dinner in fake Irish pub on Saturday.

Highbrow stuff.

Photo by Meritt Thomas on Unsplash

As is usually the case on stag dos, the first hour or so, in a generic trendy bar, was civilised enough; handshakes, bar snacks, back-patting and the odd critical comment regarding my original hotel booking. Then, entirely out of context with the conversation and the general mood, a usually quiet, mild-mannered guy said, fairly loud, ‘Paul Hollywood is a C*NT!’ and in that moment I felt as though I’d been transported into a different world, far, far away from nappies, sleepsuits, sterilizers and blackout blinds.

Two hours later, we were in a Bierkeller with my brother on stage, wearing a mankini, while a middle-aged Scouser in Lederhosen poured beer down his throat through a funnel. I glanced at my watch and considered how Louise would be giving the boys their bath around now and felt a touch melancholic. Then, accepted a stein from Paul Hollywood’s detractor and joined in with a German drinking song while my brother was rocked around on a pretend boat, too aggressively, by the Lederhosened man.

Around 10 p.m. we moved on to Heebie Jeebies and, while “Breathe” by Blu Cantrell (feat. Sean Paul) played, a young woman wearing strong perfume ambled towards me.

‘I like your shirt,’ she said. ‘Do you want to dance?’

I looked at my watch, shook my head and made my excuses.

Still, for a man with rapidly greying hair and rings around his eyes, her offer did my ailing self-esteem no harm at all. That she was visibly drunk and kissing a man dressed as Marty McFly before Blu Cantrell’s verse had started is by the by. What I’m taking from our exchange is that I have impeccable dress sense and I’ve still got it. Definitely.

Despite getting back to the hotel in the small hours, the long lie-in I’d been anticipating didn’t happen and, at 6 a.m., on the money, I was up. Throbbing head, bad stomach and jitters, but wide awake. So very wide awake.

I left my brother snoring in his mankini and headed downstairs, with little plan other than imagining my morning would likely involve sitting on a bench with my head in my hands at some point.

In a café across the road, I spotted two men from our group, also dressed and ready for the day. I went to join them and learned that they also had babies and had woken up at 6 a.m.

Will I ever have a lie-in again?

While the three of us were livid about our internal alarms, it turned into one of those spontaneously terrific mornings; we had a full English, strolled around the docks and, by 10 a.m., were sat in The Cavern, drinking bloody Marys while a man with a ponytail played acoustic covers of Beatles songs. When we arrived back at the hotel, my brother was still in bed, and I felt very smug indeed.

‘Morning. What have you been up to?’ I asked, before humming the riff to “Day Tripper.”

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

Footgolf at Aintree was good fun but the early start was taking its toll and, by 4 p.m., as we jostled for space in a crowded sports bar and watched a rugby match I had no interest in, I felt my eyes drooping. It’s okay, I told myself, smashing cold water into my face from a sink while a muscular Australian man said, ‘someone’s had enough,’ to his mate, and they both laughed.

Pull yourself together, Andy! I told myself. This is your brother’s stag do and you are having A GREAT TIME. Besides, only 12-14 hours left. You can do this.

We had dinner in the Irish-themed pub and, gladly, a couple of new arrivals boosted the collective energy. I’d neglected to book anywhere for the second night but, having enjoyed Heebie Jeebies, I suggested we return. I’m sure Liverpool has other nightclubs, and this was not my most imaginative decision. Perhaps I was hoping that another woman would compliment my shirt?

As we weren’t on the guest list, we had to queue up in the drizzle with people conspicuously younger than us for far, far too long and the collective energy was waning. When we finally got to the front, I ensured that everyone in our group got in but, when it came to my turn, stumbled and kicked a step.

‘Not tonight, mate,’ the bouncer said.

‘I’m sorry…’

‘You’ve had enough, mate.’

‘It’s okay, I’m not drunk, I’m just very, very tired. I was up at 6 a.m, you see. I have a baby.’

‘Go home.’

There is no comeback from here, is there? I was incensed. Out of 15 men, why had I been singled out? Sure, I’d kicked a step, but I’d stayed on my feet. Wasn’t that enough? My brother and a couple of others reluctantly left with me and we headed, instead, to a rock and metal club nearby. Being thrown around a mosh pit to Rage Against the Machine, an unsuitable soundtrack to many a family car journey in our teens, felt like a fitting end to the weekend.

Only it wasn’t the end.

Shortly afterwards, I lost everyone I recognized and finally succumbed to sleep in a dark cove at the back of the club where I was awakened by a cleaner gently shaking my shoulder the following morning. I stumbled into blinding daylight, confused, queasy and, if I’m being honest, close to tears. I’m too old for this nonsense, I thought, as I considered whether it was acceptable to be sick in a bin.

I didn’t want to be in Liverpool on a stag do anymore.

I wanted to be at home with Louise and the boys.

That was the only place I wanted to be in the world.

*

---

Thanks for reading this installment of The Flagging Dad! I’d love to hear your own tales of stag/hen dos so please share if you fancy. I will be back next Thursday with the next chapter!

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider becoming a paid subscriber or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!