The Stag Do

Forgive my cynicism but at what point in the proceedings of a stag do is it deemed appropriate to stand up and, with a solemn face, ask the question Just what the hell are we celebrating here?
For the groom-​to-​be/​hen-​to-​be, it’s the relinquishing of his/​her freedom for a life in captivity and for the rest of us — a bunch of grown men having the excuse to act 11 years old again (our wives/​partners will say we rarely act any different).
Expensive, cheesy, farty and usually ending up in a fight or vacuum packed into a pair of speedos, naked and shrink-​wrapped to a lamppost.
It’s the ultimate con perpetrated on mankind.
It’s the antithesis of manliness — it’s a package holiday of a night out.
Indiana Jones travelled to places off the beaten track, on his own, daring to do what others before him and since wouldn’t. That is manliness.
Not the cattle-​graze of a stag/​hen-​do.
Dildos, L plates, novelty T shirts. consumerism at it’s worst.
And we do it because we are told we must.
Without questioning, following tradition (and what is tradition except a cultural Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?).
Most of us hate the damn things but pretend we don’t for fear of coming across as the party pooper.
No offence to anyone who thinks they’re cool — but James Bond never turned up at a Casino in a Big Bird outfit and placed 500 big ones on black.
I have had the good fortune (tongue-​wedged in cheek) of having organised two stag do’s in my short but spectacular life so far — one local, and one not so local and both involved a lot of headache (and not only of the whiskey-​induced kind).
Itineraries to follow (but we are men, we are supposed to follow nothing except our football team), making sure everyone is where they’re supposed to be; drink, drink, drinking until that washboard stomach is a dune of man-​blubber; you end up feeling like a holiday rep in an 18 – 30 camp.
(incidentally is it just me or is the age-​bracket 18 – 30 slightly disparaging. I’d like to think a man has evolved somewhat from the 18 year old adolescent he was by the time he’s 30).
The stag do originated in ancient Sparta, as a series of festivities for betrothed Spartan warriors — and ever since then, man has felt compelled to humiliate and demean his fellow man by exposing his weaknesses (re: his willy) where he is most vulnerable (re: in the presence of females).
Boys will be boys they say. And men will be idiots.
Personally, I am stating here-​on in that I am officially retiring from stag do’s.
I’m not going to spend £300 plus (minimum) whilst being HERDED around like lobotomised cattle from one event to the next, with no sense of joy, just impending dread, as the minutes tick by, the wallets empty, the mind spins, the tongue loosens, the dignity abandons and we forfeit our right to be taken seriously forevermore.
Which brings me back to the point of What are we celebrating?
Possibly the realisation that it’s our last chance to act the buffoon in the company of other buffoons, knowing full well that the next morning, hungover, with toilet paper stuck to our cheeks, we must arise and become men — with all that comes with it: mortgages, relationship problems (just how long did you think that honeymoon would last for?), children, bills, jobs, and a life filled with occasional hints of brilliance, but more often than not, plain old mediocrity.
I saw a young couple the other day, they have that university freshness, you know the look — that together, with a little luck, they can take on the world and change it for the better (I recommend a walk through uni campuses just to top up on this vibe from time to time).
But that’s a million miles before the crossing line of the stag/​hen-​do and a world far removed from worry, anxiety and fighting over dishes.
I smile to myself; they’ll learn, we all do