In Soviet Russia the Hangovers Get You
"Come on now, seriously? The only way this could possibly pose a threat to a flight is if tiny tiny people were on board and I were to cut off their tiny tiny heads"
"I am sorry sir, but this is not allowed."
"But why?"
"Look, sir, see how my finger fits?"
This was me, having my cigar cutter confiscated by the officious little man at the x-ray machine in Stansted airport, London. We were on our way to Alex's stag-do, a friend of mine since the age of fourteen. There were eleven or twelve of us of us in total - it was hard to keep track to be honest - going to Riga, capital of Latvia.
The Foreign Office has recently issued this advice about Riga:
"British men on stag nights in Latvia are being lured into strip bars before being beaten up and forced to hand over cash."
So naturally that’s where we went.
Do you ever feel that everybody seems to be getting married apart from you? That everybody is doing really grown up sensible things like comparing pension plans and mortgages? Right now - I'm getting tickets for misbehaving from Latvian policemen.
Latvia is a strange kind of place: the buildings seem to sag against each other in a very unBritish kind of way. Beside each sagging building is an ultra modern building designed for the tourist. And next to that is a strip bar.
I’m not sure how it is in your country but in ours we like to humiliate our stags, so it was that we staged a kangaroo Court. Alex, dressed stupendously as a cross between Santa’s little helper and a gimp (complete with leather gag), was sat in the middle of the bar surrounded by his peers. In front of him were set twenty shots of liquor.
"Alex," pronounced the judge "you stand accused of heinous crimes against the Welsh people. How do you plead?"
"Sod off."
"Mr Prosecutor, please present your case"
Alex's brother Phil took the floor.
"Mr Welch, according to your wife-to-be Sarah, what is your favourite position?"
"...Ahh, um,” squirmed the stag. “Doggie-style?"
"Doggie-style? In rugby Mr Welch, what is your favourite position to play in rugby?"
"Ah."
That was the first shot. After several more shots the court also tried each member of the stag in turn according to the most convenient charge available. The trial was such a success that another stag party stood watching and eventually asked very shyly if they could put forward their own stag, dressed in spandex and on a leash.
I am ashamed, and relieved, to say that I cannot tell you much more. I apparently went home a little early on the second night after falling asleep at the bar of a strip joint. I do recall however getting lost in a deserted building on my way home; the kind of building that would not be out of place in a story by Kafka. It was black and smelled awfully of urine. I may have simpered for my mummy at some point.
The rest of the weekend was taken up - like so many others - by too much drinking and singing. Somebody spent all their money in the first night and had to bailed out, and somebody else spent all their money on strippers. It was the weekend of legend.
Did I mention the guns? Four of them. We were taken to a bunker on the morning of our trip and shot, in sequence, a Glock, a pump action shotgun, some other kind of massive shoulder shotgun, and a Kalashnikov. Needless to say that when I finally move to the US I will be joining a shooting club. As soon as the drunken sods with digital cameras get back to me I’ll provide you with ‘photos of the carnage.
The Stag, All Gimped-up and Shooting
Geoff. He's a Man!
You Talkin' To me?
"Ladsh, ladsh, 'ere, sssshhhh, no no shhhhh, I've gorra great idea right, we gorr these guns right and, nonononono, c'mon now, ssssshhhhh shhhhh, right - let's all 'ave a..."
"....PILE ON! WOOOOO!"
After the previous two nights of drinking, stripping, and general drunken wandering around the picturesque centre of Riga we found ourselves hung over on a Sunday and looking for somewhere to hide. Thankfully the only four star hotel in Riga provided a safe haven called The Sky Bar, and let me tell you: they serve the best Bloody Mary you have ever tasted.
Shep, best man, has taken great pride in telling everyone he meets about our flight home. If you had been a passenger on Ryanair flight FR2643 you’d have been treated to a half-plane load of drunken Welshmen singing the Welsh national anthem as we landed on home soil. As my old Japanese students would say: “I shed a tear.”
"I am sorry sir, but this is not allowed."
"But why?"
"Look, sir, see how my finger fits?"
This was me, having my cigar cutter confiscated by the officious little man at the x-ray machine in Stansted airport, London. We were on our way to Alex's stag-do, a friend of mine since the age of fourteen. There were eleven or twelve of us of us in total - it was hard to keep track to be honest - going to Riga, capital of Latvia.
The Foreign Office has recently issued this advice about Riga:
"British men on stag nights in Latvia are being lured into strip bars before being beaten up and forced to hand over cash."
So naturally that’s where we went.
Do you ever feel that everybody seems to be getting married apart from you? That everybody is doing really grown up sensible things like comparing pension plans and mortgages? Right now - I'm getting tickets for misbehaving from Latvian policemen.
Latvia is a strange kind of place: the buildings seem to sag against each other in a very unBritish kind of way. Beside each sagging building is an ultra modern building designed for the tourist. And next to that is a strip bar.
I’m not sure how it is in your country but in ours we like to humiliate our stags, so it was that we staged a kangaroo Court. Alex, dressed stupendously as a cross between Santa’s little helper and a gimp (complete with leather gag), was sat in the middle of the bar surrounded by his peers. In front of him were set twenty shots of liquor.
"Alex," pronounced the judge "you stand accused of heinous crimes against the Welsh people. How do you plead?"
"Sod off."
"Mr Prosecutor, please present your case"
Alex's brother Phil took the floor.
"Mr Welch, according to your wife-to-be Sarah, what is your favourite position?"
"...Ahh, um,” squirmed the stag. “Doggie-style?"
"Doggie-style? In rugby Mr Welch, what is your favourite position to play in rugby?"
"Ah."
That was the first shot. After several more shots the court also tried each member of the stag in turn according to the most convenient charge available. The trial was such a success that another stag party stood watching and eventually asked very shyly if they could put forward their own stag, dressed in spandex and on a leash.
I am ashamed, and relieved, to say that I cannot tell you much more. I apparently went home a little early on the second night after falling asleep at the bar of a strip joint. I do recall however getting lost in a deserted building on my way home; the kind of building that would not be out of place in a story by Kafka. It was black and smelled awfully of urine. I may have simpered for my mummy at some point.
The rest of the weekend was taken up - like so many others - by too much drinking and singing. Somebody spent all their money in the first night and had to bailed out, and somebody else spent all their money on strippers. It was the weekend of legend.
Did I mention the guns? Four of them. We were taken to a bunker on the morning of our trip and shot, in sequence, a Glock, a pump action shotgun, some other kind of massive shoulder shotgun, and a Kalashnikov. Needless to say that when I finally move to the US I will be joining a shooting club. As soon as the drunken sods with digital cameras get back to me I’ll provide you with ‘photos of the carnage.
The Stag, All Gimped-up and Shooting
Geoff. He's a Man!
You Talkin' To me?
"Ladsh, ladsh, 'ere, sssshhhh, no no shhhhh, I've gorra great idea right, we gorr these guns right and, nonononono, c'mon now, ssssshhhhh shhhhh, right - let's all 'ave a..."
"....PILE ON! WOOOOO!"
After the previous two nights of drinking, stripping, and general drunken wandering around the picturesque centre of Riga we found ourselves hung over on a Sunday and looking for somewhere to hide. Thankfully the only four star hotel in Riga provided a safe haven called The Sky Bar, and let me tell you: they serve the best Bloody Mary you have ever tasted.
Shep, best man, has taken great pride in telling everyone he meets about our flight home. If you had been a passenger on Ryanair flight FR2643 you’d have been treated to a half-plane load of drunken Welshmen singing the Welsh national anthem as we landed on home soil. As my old Japanese students would say: “I shed a tear.”
posted by Geoff at 3:32 PM
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