Something to declare

They are like orcs in The Lord of the Rings, a marauding force bent on destruction

THIS IS A BIG MONTH FOR ME. I’M GETTING married. Yes, sorry ladies, this stud is going out of circulation, the love tiger is being chained, the stallion is finally in his stable – alright, I’ll stop. Anyway, this momentous event means one thing: I’m going to have to have a stag night.

Stag night, bachelor party, whatever you call it, this is the unwritten law: no man can get married unless a large group of his male friends first join together to make sure he drinks himself senseless, loses his clothes and, if things go really well, ends up in hospital missing the wedding.

This life-endangering “last night of freedom” used to take place in your home town, but now you’re nobody unless you have a stag trip abroad. Paris, Dublin, Prague, Barcelona, Riga – I even went on a stag trip to Finland once. We went paintballing in the snow. I will never forget the sight of the bloke who was getting married running around in a Spiderman costume in -30ºC as we tried to shoot him in the bottom.

Nowhere is safe. In much the same way as the Vikings once ran amok throughout Europe, large groups of men can now be seen in cities across the Continent exhorting each other to “down it in one”. The “it” in question being a large glass filled with every available spirit at the bar, plus a raw egg for good measure.

Individually, all the men on that trip are probably decent, honest, law-abiding citizens. Together, they are like orcs in The Lord of the Rings, a marauding force bent on destruction. You must have seen them. It’s one of the pitfalls of modern travel – like sunburn, pickpockets or lengthy queues at baggage reclaim. “Oh darling, I’m so glad we came on this lovely city break, the architecture is exquisite, look how the sun sets behind the cathedral and – oh, is that a half-naked drunk man being sick in a fountain?”

As a regular traveller and a stag-to-be, I feel a dilemma. In the words of the lovely Natalie Imbruglia, I am torn. Part of me is totally on the side of those of you who tut disapprovingly at the sight of 20 men with stolen traffic cones on their heads. The other part of me, my inner Viking, acknowledges this is one rite of passage I have to embrace. I will join with my brothers, I will run with the wolves, I will annoy fellow travellers by being excessively raucous and downing pints of sambuca. You’d just better hope I’m not on your flight.