On Friday evening I pitch up to the Cottages about 10ish to find that I’m the last to arrive and the party is already in full swing. Most people are relaxing by the wood burning stove, keeping warm and sucking on a beer or glass of wine - in many cases, one of each.
Great to see some faces I haven’t seen in a while - Ali, Matt, Pete and of course the Gurney boys are here - along with Carl, who I haven’t met, but can immediately tell is a sound bloke.
Following my nose, a quick stop by the kitchen confirms that drink has been flowing for at least a few hours as I’m confronted by worktop covered in empties and a pair of pished Glaswegians arguing over who’s ear could have who’s in a fight. Rich, Stu, Al, Tom, Joey and his hat are all here and it’s good to see all of them except Joe, who tells me I’m getting fat.
Rogue’s Gallery:
Stu, Mat, Pete
Del, Carl, Rich
Dave, Al, Joe
Ali, Warren, Steve
Tom, Sam, Dafydd
Rich shows me upstairs to bag (half) a bed and I’m soon back downstairs, beer in hand and ready to start playing some serious catch-up. Big Stu’s kindly and deliciously made pizza gives me a plesant insight into what the boys have been enjoying earlier in the evening, and it’s beginning to start hitting the spot when it’s rudely wrestled from my clucthes by a lairy, drunken goon with a Scottish accent and distinct lack of manners.
It’s not pizza I need anyway, I tell myself - it’s beer. Luckily we’re in no danger of running out of this most vital of food groups, and I take up position next to the kitchen door for easy access to the stack of cans and bottles - and for a breath of fresh air. I get into a conversation about Partick Thisle with one of the Glaswegians (the one who’s ear would have easily won the fight). He’s getting stuck into the buckfast in a big way and is called Warren. We’re joined soon after by brother of the bride Derrick, fresh from gorging himself on my pizza (mental note to fleece him at poker later) and within minutes we’re over our rocky start and I realise I quite like these guys.
A quick round of catch-up conversations with the LB massive later and people are beginning to crash. It’s not all that late, but they’re all making the same excuse about an early start as they mumble their way upstairs or next door with suspicious regularity.
There’s enough of us left for a quick game of poker - which would have been quicker if anyone apart from Sam knew the rules. It doesn’t really matter anyway as it becomes all too aparrent that no-one’s folding, and The Cash flows swiftly with the run of cards - first to Derek, then Sam, and finally to me and it’s all over. Derek’s calling me “dave the Bastard” but with his money in my pocket I don’t care. Bed time.
About 3 hours later and the alarm’s going off. An hour too early. Bollocks. Al and Tom are not impressed. Downstairs there are already people up and sorting things out. Think it’s Rich and Stu - but who can tell first thing in the morning? Whoever it is has done a great job and the kitchen’s clean, tidy and ready for use. I line up some mugs for tea and spend the next hour or so standing by the fusebox flipping the trip-switch every 5 seconds as the rest of our crew gradually surface. Rich, Stu and Carl are on bacon duty and the early-to-bed boys Mat, Ali, Peter and Rich do a reasonably good job of concealing their smugness as ther rest of us rub our eyes wearily.
Then our Stag appears.
Isn’t She Loveley…
We’ve heard that Rich sorted out a costume and that it would be funny. Nothing prepared us for the pink spandex monster now making me feel sick with laughter. This is just what was called for to liven the mood and there’s a flurry of photos and piss-taking out in the garden. Today is going to be good.
It’s nearly time to go and Stu bravely wakes the sleeping scots with tea and bacon rolls and returns to recount some choice words of “thanks”. Towels in bags, we’re in the cars and thankfully I’m not required to drive. I’m in Carl’s car with Warren and Al. It’s a quiet journey as we nurse our hangovers and worry about rafting in the rain later in the day. Soon enough, we’re at the clay shoot, in the shadow of a nuclear power station overlooking a valley. It’s absolutely pissing it down. We’re all cold. Especially Steven. 
Cold and wet, but ready to kill some clay
A quick safety briefing in the tiny, knackered, mouse-infested hut consists basically of “do what we say and try not to shoot each other”. The first group take to the range. It’s raining hard and bloody cold, but some of them are hitting the odd “bird”, which gives the rest of us confidence. Peter and Alex look particularly convincing holding their rifles and we all consider them perfect for a post office robbery and subsequent appearance on Crime Watch.
Put the money in the bag!
Group two are up and they are the unlucky ones. The rain is driven horizontally into their faces by the now howling wind and it’s really cold now as the rest of us huddle in the ridiculous tinpot shed to keep dry. Joey’s looking sharp with more hits than misses, but soon the rain steps up yet another gear and everyone apart from Steven runs for cover. Stevens legs turn the colour of his costume and he’s so numb he doesn’t even notice as he gets lightly touched up by one of the shooting instructors, but eventually even he has to run for cover (and a pair of trousers).
Whoever made the flapjack that we ate that morning is responsible for saving 14 lives. Never has any oat-based snack tasted so sweet.
By the time group 3 get out for their practice, the rain’s stopped and the sun’s come out. Competition time. 15 birds each becomes 10 due to time contraints and there are no real early pace setters in group one. Group two proves more interesting with Rich and Stu scoring six each, with Steve on five and the much-backed Joey losing the plot and letting himself down - which the instructor seemed to take quite personally.
“What the f*ck was that, Joe?”
“I missed.”
There’s some gag about Pete’s “confident cock” to be inserted here, but I can’t remember the details - need help from Warren or anyone else who was in earshot for that one.
Some strong sun (and in my case, a proper bottle-job) puts pay to group 3’s challenge, leaving Rich and Stu tied for the lead (with Steve in 3rd) - the winner to be decided by sudden death shoot out. Rich will probably blame the sun for missing his first bird, but it seemed close as the clay made a sharp up-turn in mid flight… close, but no cigar. Stu looks cool and confident as he raises his rifle, calls for the pull and smashes the clay out of the sky. 7 out of 11 birds - he deserves his 50 notes for first prize.
Freezing cold and not exactly relishing the opportunity to throw ourselves down a river on an oversized lilo in the pissing rain, it’s another quiet journey, but we all get chatty again once we arrive and have a round of “that beautiful, life-giving, magic soup from the kitchen of angels”. Warm and wet, it’s even better than the flapjack of hours before and as we watch a few rafts come bubbling down the river, a nervous but excited tension begins to build.
Suited and booted, my boat (Warren, Stu, Carl and me) is first up, best dressed and after immediately lathing the chance to wait for everyone else we’re on the bus on the way to start the first of our 5 (count ‘em) runs. Run 1 is pretty much a gentle inroduction to the river as our instructor points out the river’s various features (while making sure we all get a bit wet). By the end of run 2 we’re all soaked but buzzing hard from the excitement. Bollocks to the rain - it makes no difference and we wonder why we worried about it all morning. We’re ready for some advanced trick-surfing on run 3.
It’s during one of these advanced trick surfing manouvres that I have my little swim. I feel like I told the story a hundred times throughout the evening, so I wont do it again here. I would, however, like to thank everyone for keeping the stick to a minimum and concentrating on humiliating Steve, which was clearly the order of the day.
Here’s what the other two crews were up to…
Helmets in Wetsuits
Penny for your thoughts Del…
Yeah!
Whoo!
The final run is lots of fun for everyone, with lots of opportunity to splash each other and also to laugh at Steve getting a good surf-soaking at the front of the raft. I can’t tell who’s sat next to him as we all look the same in wetsuits and helmets (or should that be: we all look like helmets in wetsuits?) but whoever it is - thanks for “taking one for the team” there. Good job.
Also “Biggup” Tom P for bringing the tray of teas into the locker room. Good shout that one. Sorry you had to miss out on the rafting - but at least you’ve done it before.
Once the excitement dies away everyone starts to notice that they are completely knackered. Another quiet car journey. Back at the ranch, Mat does a top job of getting the fire going in no time flat. Good skills. No-one’s exactly full of beans, but as the booze consumption rate (bcr) picks up, so do our spirits. Now we were all VERY HUNGRY.
Joey and Al chop and scrape that veg like men posessed and we’ve learned from breakfast that we’re better off using the kitchen next door for cooking. Not sure exactly who was involved in the early stages on that side of the wall, but well done for getting the ball rolling. By the time I’ve warmed up enough to be of any use it’s Pete and Sam in the driving seats, with some serious stew-stirring, pastry-cutting and pea frying (!) action going on.
The best man’s toast
Ali lays a mean table and dinner is a suprisingly civilised affair considering we could all have eaten the furniture we are so hungry. Steve’s stew doesn’t just hit the spot - it smashes it out of sight and now we’re ready for a night on the town - or at least down the local boozer in Corwen.
The taxi arrives and is the perfect size for us all to fit in. While we’re waiting, Pete tells me about how he caught Steven on the phone to Lynne and was forced to confiscate his phone. Fair enough, I s’pose - but he’s up to some kind of mischief there which I never quite get to the bottom of…
On arrival at the pub Steve (who was a fantastic sport all day, until now) flat refuses to go in on his own to order a bacardi and diet coke - poof. We relent and settle on a compromise where he waits a couple of minutes and still enters on his own, but once we’re there to protect him. Shame there was no back door for us to all slip out of.
Anyway, it turns out the barman’s a good sport and the locals tolerate us graciously. And we can hardly contain our excitement at the 20p a game pool table. I think it’s fair to say that no-one particularly stands out as king of the pool table, but Steven/ Dafydd is certainly the queen, as it becomes obvious he’s more than comfortable in his new favourite outfit. There follows a good few hours of drunken hilarity, pool playing, stogie smoking and general piss-taking. Everything you could hope for from a night in a pub. Derek blathers on about how he hates “the english”, but assures us that we’re all ok. Um… thanks Del.
Steve gives his best man some pulling tips
The same ones he gave Ali last week
Joey the hat takes a bow - shame it wasn’t his shot
An image I’ll always remember
And one I would like to forget
The taxi drive back is fairly uneventful and we decide not to “drop the stag off” on the way. I wonder if Steve realises how lucky he is to be arriving back at the cottages with the rest of us. There’s still a huge pile of booze to drink, and we all get stuck in.
To be honest the next few hours are a bit of a blur, but I do remember standing in the porch a lot and listening to Sam claiming he’s going to drink Warren under the table; and Warren responding with various derogatory comments all ending in “wee man”. This particular exchange has me in stitches for a good hour if not more and I notice the stag fears slightly for his best man (or at least doesn’t want him too messy for the drive back to civilisation in the morning). He tells me to stop laughing, but I can’t and I eventually have to call it a night - leaving Al, Steve, Derek and Joey to referee the rest of the battle. I half expect to come downstairs in the morning and find Sam and Warren glaring at each other across the table, each refusing to be the first to look away, with nothing but an empty bottle of whiskey rolling backwards and forwards between them. “Good luck Sam”, I mumble at the wardrobe as I crash into bed and slip away from conciousness.
It’s Sunday. No alarm. No idea what time. Feeling surprisingly ok, I head downstairs to find that Tom and Stu have pretty much sorted the kitchen - and there’s tea. I join Al in tidying the lounge and dining room that were hosting quite a party only a few hours previously. Al points out what a bunch of animals we are as we fill a bin liner or two with empty cans and bottles - and I can’t help but agree as I wipe beer, wine and custard (?) stains from the dining room table. There’s further activity in the kitchen as Ali arrives to empty the fridge of food and head back next door to the working kitchen. I know what that means, and follow closely behind.
There are a few people up and chilling in the kitchen and I grab the last of the early-riser’s bacon from Tom’s plate while he looks for the brown sauce. Sorry mate. Law of the jungle at this time of the morning - and you wont have long to wait for round 2. As the smell of breakfast and sound of the fire alarm waft/ pierce their way through the air, more and more of the grizly, unshaven beasts which vaguely resemble members of our party sit round the table, hover round the stove and lean against walls for support.
Steven rolls in to gentle applause. He did well to remain standing last night, and has done well again to make breakfast. Sam also makes breakfast, while there’s no sign of our Scottish chums - Sam claims that as a victory. I’m not so sure he’s heard the last of it.
Breakfast is very welcome and again, surprisingly civilised. Carl’s on a mission with the coffee - which is keeping my brain ticking over nicely - thanks Carl. Al’s bubble and squeak gets the nod of approval, but there is increasing suspicion regarding Steve’s eggs, which I elect not to partake in as I sneak off to pack. I’m thinking about a quick get-away as my hangover starts to kick in, and after a quick round of good-bye’s I’m dust. Glad I left when I did as the scenery on the drive back is superb (always better in daylight). North Wales and Shropshire look splendid in the wintery sunshine, and later as I stop for a coffee and some neurofen on the A50, nearly home, I reflect on what has been an all round top stag do. Thanks to everyone for making it what it was. I’m sure we gave Steve a good “send off” and that he’ll look back fondly on the whole weekend in years to come.
Let’s make this page something he can remember it by.
Let me know about any funny moments and conversations I missed by replying to this post. Tom’s already alluded to some kind of hot “Gurney on Castle action” which I either missed or have immediately purged from my memory - anyone care to elaborate on that one? Make sure you email all your photos to my gmail account as soon as you can, so we can all have a good laugh at them here.
And if you’re looking for the planning discussion that used to be on this page, it’s here.
Until Feb…
