You drink your coffee, and I sip my tea, and we’re sitting here, playing so cool, thinking ‘What will be will be’

Mostly my life is surreal. The situations I find myself in can only lead to me wondering what on earth has happened to the world. But then, I reckon, it must happen to everyone else. Like the trainee-lapdancer/stripper chick. But I get ahead of myself.

This weekend I would mostly have been in Nottingham, avoiding drive-bys and other standard jokes. For a stag-do. At this point, all the disclaimers kick in. Yes, I enjoyed myself. Everyone there was a great bloke, there was some great chat (when we could hear each other, more on that once I head in to the next paragraphs) and it was all good fun. But, and there is a but. Here are the thoughts of an old bloke.

Start of the day involved activities. Dirt Buggies and 4×4 shennanigans. The inital bomb round in a dirt buggy was, well, far from enjoyable. Bumpy, uncomfortable and well, boring. The next go round was so much better. Getting air, puddles, varied routes and a lot more fun. Time-trailing was also boring, round a wee oval, no puddles. I didn’t post the fastest time, being of the portly side of the table. Straight after this I got my chance in a Chelsea tractor, doing my bit to improve my carbon debit. Driving at a sixty degree angle and not toppling over is disconcerting, and rather entertaining. Enough of the motorsports-that-weren’t-really-motorsports (more vehicular activities, but enough of that, I say.)

On to the post-lunch fun then, and much more fun it was. More the fun I like. Guns. Moving targets. Competition against nine other fellows. Now, not wishing to play up to stereotypes, who do you think won? Soft English (and a token Scot) types? Or the Irish? Go on, take a guess. If you can’t guess, you can see the results.

Pre-dinner was especially odd. There was a seekrit, and it involved a female removing layers and humiliating the groom-to-be. (She wasn’t a stripper on horseback, although there was a bit of that going on. Too much information being divulged at this point.) Then the was the trainee I mentioned at the start. Observing, learning the tricks of the trade. But is there anything less erotic than a hired stripper? And she didn’t bring a boombox with music, so she asked us to sing. Erm, we did. The first tune that came into our heads. Jingle Bells. So you get a stripper stripping while a cloud of geeks (and me, not being a geek) singing Jingle Bells. This is the life I inhabit. Handcuffs, babyoil, work-shadowing lapdancers and Christmas songs sung out of tune by ten lads, who hadn’t yet had alcohol.

And the thing about cultural references is that there needs to be a shared knowledge in there. Most (and I say most, as some don’t, which leads to me having to explain I wasn’t being rude, that time) get the You are wrong and a grotesquely ugly freak, but there were blank looks when I advised that a lapdance is so much better when the stripper is crying. Ah well.

But at this point, obviously, thoughts turned to food. In a dining establishment not found in Cambridge-Town. WHERE. YOU. HAD. TO. SHOUT. TO. BE. HEARD. To the person sitting directly to you left or right. Multitude of idiot boxen, multiple stag parties (singing very, very loudly over the very, very loud music). Many tight tops and short shorts. And the drinking commenced.

Out from there, and into a deconsecrated Church. (And the first song I heard contained the line which I used for the previous post, fact fans.) Where even a group our size got a table. And served quickly. On a satdeh night. In some East Midlands hellhole. (There is only one team in the East Midlands etcetc.) Out from there, into another place. Each one with an increase in volume, and a veritable Gaussian of erm, chicks to see. All of human life is there. And some that wasn’t. At one point we were in a Wetherspoons (now now) where there was no music. And that seemed wrong. Onwards, then, with the drinks getting more colourful. As long as the drinks were vodka based, I was fine. And I was fine. Although Sambuca in shots gladdens my heart. But then, you know, I just got tired. So retired from the festivities. To a hotel that puts odd plastic bags over the pillows. And had a waitress, at breakfast (yes, I woke up a few hours later and had breakfast. No one else seemed to be there. Odd that. Lightweights.) who was in fishnets. Again, such is the oddness of my existence.

And given the noise of the places we were in, I didn’t have a chance to get into any ranty/angry/philisophik conversations. Which is what I like. (The ranting, not the not-ing.) Cigars, port, debate. Not the merry-go-round of the flesh exchange, the desperation on everyone’s faces, out for whatever they can get, settling for something to try and fill the void.

I am so old. And so middleclass. And, I would hazard a guess, so Cambridge. Damn those Cambridge-Town Platonists!

In other news, we now have an allotment. One hundred and forty square metres of it. I went down to see it yesterday, in the pouring rain. It rocks. And then I fell over. And got clarried. Mucked to the gills. sigh But more on that in another post, when I have before/after pictures.

And I missed the Eurovision Song Contest.

(Not) circle in the sand