Poor Chris of the Brennan. When I left last night he was throwing up into a dustbin. That’s not entirely surprising, of course; it was his ‘not a stag do’, and so as tradition dictates he’d been bought all manner of unsavoury drinks, which combined to form a pretty potent and poisonous mixture.

‘Do you want me to call you a taxi?’ I’d asked as I was leaving.
‘No,’ he said, lifting his head from the table. ‘I want you to get out the way before I throw up all over you.’

For the rest of us, it was a very good evening. Somehow he’d managed to convince himself we’d all hired a stripper, and every time we looked at the clock, the paranoia grew, as he thought we were waiting for her to burst in at the most inopportune moment.

Of course, we hadn’t, but Aston had been to M&S and bought the biggest pair of pink pants he could find, which he threw at him from behind, while Keith played stripper music on his iPod and speakers. The woman in M&S had looked at him strangely when he’d queued up to buy them.

‘It’s OK,’ he explained. ‘A guy at work is doing a speech and I want to throw them at him.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘You know, it’s strange how many men we get in here buying womens’ underwear…’

And as Chris remembers it:

I survived my stag do with skill and aplomb. At no point was I throwing up in to a bin half way up Great Portland Street and neither did I wrestle both Julian and Linda to the floor. I was not completely off my face.

Hmmm…

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   ...