Categories: uncategorized
Date: 25 March 2007 21:52:51
[names changed due to privacy and that]
In two weeks' time Housemate #1 is getting married to my good buddy Aaron. To celebrate this fact, Aaron had his stag weekend this weekend, attended by a large contingent of folks he knows from Brum and from growing up in Manchester. While there was none of the cliched "handcuffed naked to a traffic bollard" malarkey, there were enough bizarre and ridiculous moments to make it worth my while telling you about it all. So, here goes...
Since Aaron only lives two doors from me, it made sense for us to both get a lift together, so our mate Jimmy volunteered to drive us. He arrived chez Steve on Friday evening with his car already fairly packed - as well as all the usual stuff required for a weekend's camping, he'd been asked to bring a guitar and amp (for reasons which will become apparent later). Fitting two other people and their stuff (including another guitar) into the car was going to be tricky. Eventually Aaron's guitar was sacrificed (not in the Old Testament sense) and we headed off down the road. On the way Aaron got in touch with two other friends of ours, Frank and Geoff, who'd set off around the same time, and suggested we meet up somewhere on the way to grab some dinner (the journey itself was quite short, only 45 minutes or so, but most of us hadn't eaten, so we thought it would be a good idea).
As we were passing through Alcester in Warwickshire, Geoff called to say that Frank had spotted a pub advertising that "Friday night is free chilli night"; this was quite an impressive spot, given that the writing was only on a small blackboard outside the pub, and that Frank was driving at the time. So we pulled over, walked back to the pub, met up with Frank and Geoff, and went inside to check that we weren't imagining this seemingly too-good-to-be-true offer. It was all true - a free bowl of chilli con carne and rice when you bought a pint. Ten minutes later, the five of us and our pints were tucking into a small but appetising bowl of chilli, and admiring the rustic charm of what seemed to be a very country-style pub in a small town. Then the vibe was shattered as, in the adjoining room, a DJ started soundchecking for his drum and bass set later. The peace and tranquility was destroyed in an instant, although we did have a good chuckle at his mate who was soundchecking the mics by repeating the phrase "how now brown cow" in his plummiest old-school BBC announcer voice. Then he started MCing over the records, but still mostly just using the words "how now brown cow". It was possibly the most bizarre time I have ever spent in a pub.
After a quick trip to the cashpoint and a friendly greeting from a passing driver (I know most people wouldn't class "w*nkers" as a friendly greeting, but I'll take whatever's on offer), we got back on the road and eventually reached our destination around 8:30. We were staying at a little campsite behind a pub in the small hamlet of Bidford, near Stratford-Upon-Avon (I just learned this weekend that, in order to achieve town status, a place must have a church; if it doesn't, then it's a hamlet. Educational, eh?). While the others got on with sticking their tents up, Jimmy and I, who had been planning to share Jimmy's tent for the duration, weighed up our options and decided that heading into the pub and sitting by the fire was preferable to wandering about in the dark trying to force poles and pegs into the ground. So that's what we did.
As the evening progressed and everyone turned up and/or finished pitching their tents, we quickly filled up a little section of the cosy (i.e. small but welcoming) hostelry. And then, with Aaron's big brothers having organised it all with the owners, we unpacked all our musical equipment and set about providing the evening's entertainment. I should point out that most of my group of mates are quite musical, and Aaron and his family are particuarly talented, so there was no shortage of performers. Apart from a couple of numbers from Jimmy and a few arsing-about moments from the Manchester guys, however, it was nearly all down to Aaron on guitar and Little Big Bro on keyboard. A few people played bass, but most times when it was needed Big Big Bro was called on to complete the family band. Having brought my somewhat underused bongo drums, I found myself providing the percussion as and when it was needed. The choice of tunes was somewhat eclectic, but that made it all a bit more fun. I don't know how many people have ever played bongos to Smells Like Teen Spirit, but I can be added to that list now.
However, the high point of the evening's music had no input from any of us. Word came back to us that there was a lady in the pub named Rhona, and she was an amazing singer. After a bit of persuasion, she agreed to sing a traditional Irish song, and as soon as she started the entire pub fell silent. She was fantastic; a soft, beautiful, lilting, folkish voice which complimented the song perfectly. She got a standing ovation when she finished, quite rightly.
By the end of the night it had become clear that, while Aaron is a great musician, he's incapable of remembering more than two or three lines of any given song. And also, that it's a bad idea to ask if anyone has any requests, because you may find yourself performing songs you hate (naming no names, but his initials are James Blunt). Time just ran away with us, and finally, at 2:45 am, we had to pack it in when Dean the landlord warned us the neighbours would soon be complaining. So off we went into the night, where many tents were already up and a few more were being pitched by men whose earlier frantic alcohol consumption was now seeming less of a good idea. Rather than trying to put Jimmy's tent up in the dark, we asked around to see if there was space anywhere overnight. We were in luck; Big Big Bro had brought a four-man tent which was currently only sleeping himself and Aaron, so we nabbed the other two berths and settled in. Of course, being in the same tent as the Stag himself is always potentially hazardous, and alcohol-related high jinx can quickly get out of control, and after the tent had been on the receiving end of several incoming footballs and some light-hearted kleptomania, I uttered my final words of the evening - "Oi, put my f*cking stuff back, you thieving b*stard!", to the aforementioned thief who couldn't distinguish between Aaron's things and anyone else's, and settled myself in for a good night's sleep. Sadly, instead I got insomnia... but I'll come back to that later. That's more than enough for one day.