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Stag Party in Blackpool
By Johnny Finger

The stag night has evolved in the past 10 years or so into the stag week. Be it Amsterdam or Barcelona , Dublin or Las Vegas , the stag party has reached new realms of excessive debauched behaviour. The last five stag do’s I’ve attended have taken part in Berlin , Prague , Zante, Malaga and Las Vegas . None of the stags have been less than three nights and none have been cheap. With this in mind, my heart sank at the prospect of my young cousins stag, he had popped the question to his much beloved and the date was set.


To my surprise, young Don had opted for a night in Blackpool ! No need for monetary exchanges, no need to take out a bank loan to cover the cost, no need to make the edgy journey Billy Hayes style through over zealous customs both here and abroad. No need to waste time wandering around a strange city just to find a bar stupid enough to accommodate upwards of 20 pissed up revellers within stumbling distance of a strip club or house of ill repute. No sir, we were heading to Blackpool, the city Rab C Nesbitt so eloquently described as Las Vegas for scum’.


We packed a coach load of crazies and headed for the lights. The coach contained a good cross section of society’s doomed idiots. We had young baldy meatheads - hopped up on goofballs and steroids, intent on listening to bad house music at full blast early in the morning and openly snorting cocaine.  Then there was the more discerning over 30’s – smoking fine hash, casual gobbling ecstasy and discussing the latest adidas re-issues. Finally you had the elder statesman, including the father of the bride and groom – camped at the back of coach and immersed in a no holds poker game while they sipped single malt and puffed on premium cigars.


It was exactly the kind of scene I’d been hoping for, stags abroad are all well and good but when you visit a foreign shore, there are too many divisions. But not here, we had about thirty five stone-drunk honkies with cash in their pocket. Enjoyable though the coach journey was, it was a hard scene to cope with for me and few like minded friends. Looking back on it, I suspect that mouldy white powder we’d eaten was probably some kind of animal tranquilizer instead of true MDA. There’s a lot of it on the market these days, and curiously it costs as much as cocaine. In any case, we were twisted and after being driven to the hotel we decided to cool our heels for a few hours before heading for the front.


The first port of call and meeting place was the Aussie theme pub called ‘Walkabout’. It was only 12:30 when we arrived but already some of our party were whooping it up. A character we’d christened ‘Captain Shitface’ because he wore a navy blazer complete with club crest and appeared to have luminous nostrils, was bending over a table trying to suck on the collarbone of some poor girl on a hen party from Telford . She was dressed as Wonder Woman and he was trying to bind her with her rope accessory. We managed to drag him off and the girl staggered off mumbling something about ‘dead meat’ and ‘heavies’. We quaffed a few beers in the Walkabout then set off to our first arranged stint of entertainment.


Strippers on a stag night is such a cliché but it’s as essential as handcuffing the groom to a lamppost naked. The best man had booked a three course dinner complete with strippers. The event was tastefully billed as ‘A hearty meal & girls in school uniform!’ There truly is nothing finer than a busty lass donning a skimpy school uniform – and then having her take it all off! You’ll get to witness a couple of nubile hotties in various states of undress as you enjoy a hearty school-themed meal – just make sure you mind your manners or the saucy headmistress might have to bring out the cane!


You will be served by a couple of naughty girls in school uniform who will be keeping their eyes peeled for any lads who’ve been misbehaving. After you’ve tucked into your 3 course meal the girls will teach you that there’s only one thing better than a sexy girl in a school uniform – and that’s a sexy girl taking off a school uniform!


Well for a start, the majority of the lads had been snaffling class A’s since the coach picked us up at 09:00. Not the best way to build up a hearty appetite. We decided to go along with the charade anyway. Who knows, if we didn’t eat up our food, then maybe these ‘nubile hotties’ would punish us using some sort of bondage and humiliation. The food arrived, carried by what can only be described as ‘Prisoner Cell Block H’ rejects. The food itself looked like low grade dog food. One of the older members of the fraternity complained that his steak still had marks from where the jockey was hitting it!


We soldiered on regardless, maybe they saved their ‘thoroughbreds’ for the floor show. Once the meal had finished and Bea Smith and co. had cleared our plates, the DJ cranked up J Giles Band ‘Angel in the Centerfold’ as two strippers strutted onto the stage carrying tennis rackets and dressed in tight Fred Perry shirts and short skirts. Does she walk? Does she talk? Does she come complete? I wish. Neither could pass themselves off as Anna Kornikova. In fact, the first girl was a doppelganger for Betty Stove, complete with tuba grip sock over her knee, while the other girl did bear a passing resemblance to Chris Evert, if Chris Evert happened to be a gin soaked syphilitic rake. My blood runs cold. Indeed. Thankfully the show didn’t last too long. Our party behaves impeccably, partly because we are dumbstruck by the truly repugnant spectacle on offer.


The tennis routine is followed up by jazzy dance number, this time six anorexic Lina Zavaroni look-a-likes dance around in Barbie t’shirts while they lick lollipops to Shalamar’s ‘I Can Make You Feel Good’. Don, the man of the hour, is wrestled on stage and forced to sit on a stool while the stick insect hounds pulled off his trousers and took turns a piece to, ahem, lick his lollipop. Don doesn’t last very long, ‘…that was fast. It probably helped that I had the hiccups’ he whines. I’m close to tears but luckily I’m not the only one. The call goes up and we leave en masse.


We head for the Golden Mile, our bad experience in the so called ‘Winter Gardens of Sex’ has not damped our spirits. We head into ‘Flares’ one of these lame 70’s syndicated bars than every city has. Along with strippers and the ritual naked humiliation of the groom, another staple of the modern stag is to have a theme. Our theme was the toga, yes I can feel you cringing as you read this. We donned homemade togas complete with laurel crowns and sandals. Along with the comedy outfits, each of us had a hilarious Latin styled nickname. One of the older members of the senate resembled a world famous American Italian actor, his moniker was Emperor DeNiro, one of the grooms mates looked a bit light on the loafers so he was christened Pontius Violet. Because of my stay at her majesties pleasure after being found guilty of siphoning funds from an environmental tax credit scheme for landfill waste, my nickname was Fraudius.


Anyway, Flares was packed to the rafters with hen parties and stag do’s – I was dragged out of a conga line by three girls from Hull dressed as Charlies Angels who were twisting and frugging to best of what the 20th century has to offer. Unconvinced that my display wasn’t influenced by performance enhancing drugs and they wanted in. We snuck into a corner and I passed around a full of magic (powdered MDA). ‘Be careful with that’ I warned ‘many brave men died to bring it here from the Galaxy of Pleasure’.


We danced to kitschy 70’s and 80’s garbage before the call went up that it was time to strip and disgrace the man of the hour. The bouncers didn’t like the idea of us having a good time and decided to step in. One of the party tries to diffuse the situation by making a joke about the head bouncers battered face ‘biting satire is better than physical force’  he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. Next thing, a proper bar room brawl breaks out. It was quite a sight to see members of the senate slugging it out with fervent gorillas. ‘I told you we should have come as centurions’ someone joked as the bouncers laid into us. Lads dressed in Huggy Bear pimp costumes joined to help the Romans out and together we managed to keep off the doormen just long enough to escape their reinforcements.


The groom had lost his toga, along with one of his sandals and his boxer shorts were ripped so they looked like a mini-skirt. He still had his laurels on though and screamed a battle cry as we carried him on our shoulders down the Golden Mile ‘tell me again why are here?’ asked a spaced out Captain Shitface ‘for the glory of Rome sire’ I answered…










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