Oi won’t harve it!

Don't worry readers - I survived the stag weekend. Phew.

The cult of the stag is presumably an invention of the International Drinking Games Association and the Guild of Strippers. Luckily the best man sensibly rejected the lure of the grottier parts of the easyJet empire and booked a house near Exmoor that could sleep 20-odd thirsty men.

My group arrived late on the Friday, having spent a while hopelessly lost in the depths of Devon's windiest lanes. At one point I went to a B&B for directions and had a bellowed conversation with the owners through the glass door. The wife wanted to let me in ("Oh, you poor dear!") but got extremely short thrift from her proto-Tony Martin of a husband ("Absolutely not - oi won’t harve it! Oi don't know 'im, see"). God knows how anyone actually gets a room there.

We made it in the end and had a boys night of booze, crisps and pool. But then Saturday dawned with black clouds and horizontal, thunderous rain. "Shame", I said to one of the stags, just about containing the glee in my voice. "We'll have to not go paintballing or quad biking. I'd been so looking forward to it. Drat!" I then just about contained the panic on my face as he reassured me that both are designed to be enjoyed in Somme-like weather conditions, and that there was no chance at all of a cancellation. "Hooray!" I croaked before going to my room and staring at the pitifully inappropriate selection of clothes I’d packed. I would be fully waterproofed, but only up to my ankles.

Hours later I was standing outside a portacabin in a dismal strip of wood. The other stags milled about adjusting their face masks and overalls, except for the husband-to-be who was dressed in a full-body fox costume. A distinctly feral guide whittled a stick into a spear and bragged about taking down a pheasant that morning with his trusty paint-firing penis extension. We ran around for a bit - well, some people ran. I took the coward’s option whenever possible of defending our flag which, due to the fact that the arena was a three-level crag that a mountain goat would find a bit tricky, was rarely in any danger from the other team.

For the last game I was sent on a diversionary run to draw the other team’s fire. The team captain cut an inspirational figure as he emphasised the critical nature of the mission, before re-adjusting his tail and grimly flipping back his nose and whiskers. This was war. I headed along a steep, densely wooded ridge, stopping only to fall into bushes and trip over roots. I heard a distant round of paintball fire and fired a few rounds in its general direction. After a short pause I was immediately shot at least five times in the chest and started the long stumble back to the portacabin, passing my fellow crack divertee as he howled in pain after a tussle with some nettles. Our captain may have over-estimated our capabilities.

I skipped the quad biking as I was literally 100% sure I would die, and probably take out a few other people, if I went anywhere near it. Then it was back to the ranch for a great night of steady boozing, including a simple drinking game based around rude words that led to a 20 minute argument about whether “hymen” qualified. The final say went to the most passionate objector, who thought that if a word could appear on the 6 O’Clock News it could not be construed as being rude. He then undermined his argument somewhat with the example “Bong! A female celebrity was today involved in a road accident. She may have injured her hymen.” The drinking game dispersed and I moved to the pool room where I was having a grand old time until around 4am when someone described Showgirl by The Auteurs as “boring” and skipped the track, whereupon I went to bed in a huff. I am 28 years old.

It’s the hen night this weekend. Rollerdisco. Girls are too smart for paintball.