THE HAYSTAG

And so it has come to pass that the almighty Hayman has joined the Wide-Aisle club and agreed to don the marriage shackles of his beloved Kristeen-A. The old super hero troupe; Crapman, Tedman and myself converged to offer our condolences in the traditional way, by wetting the bridegroom to be in beechwood aged nectar and indulging in copius misogynistic and animalistic debasement. We rediscovered the joys of double entendre, bio-warfare level farting and the giggle-factor of words like “boobies”.

It was tough to keep it all under control. Earlier that day I could feel the bachelor-party boar inside of me, the primal affections slowly awakening. My lady friend Aga and I decided to visit Dublin zoo and I began to identify with the ruthless sexual efficiency of the shameless monkeys. Aga stared in wonder at a Rhino who was trying to have it off with his apathetic partner, when all I really wanted to do was give them a bit of privacy. I felt the bachelorette succubus was welling inside her too, either that or she’s just a bestial pervert.

And yet that feeling grew. Walking through the streets of Dublin on a Saturday night it was almost infectious; Stags and hens where grazing and pecking (respectively) everywhere, terrorising the innocent, arousing the primal urges of others. I saw one devil-horned bunch of hens on the quays and from somewhere inside of me I almost uttered the words “Get your tits out for the lads,” but I managed to stop myself halfway through. Unfortunately halfway through is “get your tits out” so I still got a slap.

And then to the party itself, hoping those primeval aspects would keep in check. What is it about the company of men that can so easily arouse sexual veracity? Is it pack mentality? Is it a deep-rooted desire to ‘kayak down the brown valley’? Thankfully Hayman et al aren’t handsome enough so our passions were quiet un-enflamed in that regard. We conducted ourselves with the best dignity that we could under the influence of don’t-give-a-f*ck juice. Dignity unravelled a bit towards the end, with a plethora of dirty jokes (with rude words such as boobies and worse!) and a traditional game of Bollocks which nearly got us kicked out of Fitzsimons. Not unexpectedly, Hayman won. After that we managed to find our way home despite losing Trev-R the Haybro somewhere in the mix for a while.

The next morning I went through the bachelor do checklist: 1. Hangover? Check. 2.Vomit/ urine/ faeces not deposited on sheets? Check. 3. Actually do I even have sheets? Check. 4. Actually am I actually in a bed? Check. 5. Actually am I in my own bed? Check. 6. Shit am I even indoors? Check. 7. No be-horned Bachelorette hen nowhere in the vicinity? Check. 8. Faint memory of dirty jokes and almost being kicked out by a bouncer? Check. 9. Faint panic at wondering what my OWN bachelor do would be like? CHECK.