Stag do preparations get everyone’s antlers in knot
The halls of stately Page Manor have been full of excitement this week with the news one of our brood is getting married. Number One Son, the eldest of the crop, proposed to his lovely lady fairly recently atop a mountain on the East Coast and she accepted. The wedding is planned for early in 2026.
The delay is down to the fact that Number One Son and Bride-To-Be will depart soon for a year-long adventure in England where he will be studying some advanced surgical techniques in his field.
It goes without saying all involved are delighted with the news and we have already checked out a venue or two with the happy couple.
At one such viewing, it emerged plans are also already under way for the traditional hen’s night and stag do.
The girls are apparently heading to a location surrounded by vineyards, so one would expect there will be a fair bit of wine tasting going on.
Just what the lads end up doing is unclear as yet and this has led to a little concern in our place from Mrs P, albeit the better part of two years from the big day.
The “motherly worry” (an ideal name for a syndrome now I think about it) arose after No.1 Son casually dropped into conversation the fact one of his main groomsmen had been chief organiser for a previous stag do which has since achieved legendary status.
I’ll fill you in on the details of that particular event shortly but it’s safe to say while I thought it was hilarious and showed a real flair for innovation, Mrs P definitely did not.
I think “horrified” most succinctly captured her view of the event. Either way, hearing about what happened to the groom on that particular occasion has already heightened her state of jitteriness and concern for her little boy. He’s also very nervous about what will happen to him.
Mrs P is now seriously wondering, essentially because the groomsmen are all known, shall we say, “characters”, whether her little baby will make it to the altar and is advising him to make sure his stag do is weeks, if not months, before the big day.
This is presumably so she has time to arrange transport for him back from Peru or Timbuktu where she is convinced he will end up . . . possibly tied up naked in a mail sack or something similar.
So, as I say, there we were the other day, having finished the visit to the rather posh location, when the question of the hen’s night and stag do came up.
After hearing the relatively sedate plans of the girls, No.1 Son, appearing a little nervous, revealed one of his chief organisers was involved in the aforementioned legendary stag do which took the wedding party to Taupō .
Now, if you’ve been to Taupō you will know that along the lakefront there is a floating island with a flag on it.
This flag is a golf hole and participants onshore some 70-odd metres away are invited to hit golf balls towards it. Hit the island, you get a free golf ball to hit again. Get it in the hole (which is virtually impossible, I can tell you) you win $1 million or something like that. I was, er, “well hydrated” last time I was there so my recollection is a bit hazy. It may only be $100 that you win. Regardless, it’s a bit of a hoot. It’s even more of a hoot when the groom at a now-famous stag do is required to wear a crash helmet and swim out to the island while all his mates onshore - and I’m sure a few onlookers who couldn’t resist the temptation - hit golf balls in his direction. Or rather, the direction of the island.
I’m guessing the entire activity took place with a fair amount of booze on board each participant too.
Now, part of me thought this was all very foolish. Having been hit several times by a golf ball dropping from the sky, I can attest to the fact it bloody hurts.
However, the remaining part of me thought the whole episode was very funny, if not genius. At least the crash helmet would have protected his head.
Anyway, as I say, Mrs P is not happy and my efforts to explain to her boys will be boys, it’s all harmless fun etc and that she shouldn’t get involved have not gone down too well.
It seems I should not be offering any advice on how to behave at a stag do.
She is referring to my own nuptials many years ago when the traditional ball and chain was applied to my ankle as the lads and I set about drinking at a bar. As you do.
The events of the next 24 hours are somewhat hazy but I can tell you, I did make it to the church on time - even though I took a train, a quad bike and a bus to get there.
Well, actually, when I say get there, I mean get back to the town where I started from.
You see, my mates applied the ball and chain with the same vigour with which they applied all manner of alcohol to my drinks for the next few hours and then they threw me in a train wagon which disappeared off up into the mountains between the West Coast and Christchurch.
Thankfully, I awoke and managed to get off at a stop which wouldn’t have even qualified as a one-horse town, still with the ball and chain attached to my leg.
Miraculously, a farmer of the high country variety came past on his quad bike and gave me a ride from the rail track in the back of beyond to the main road where I managed to get the bus home.
So that’s my stag do story.
I’m sure many of you have seen the odd inebriated bridegroom dressed in female clothing being led around town by his mates. And there may even be those among you who have taken part in the old tradition of “nuggetting”.
For the uninitiated among you, this involves numerous attendees at the stag do applying black boot polish – or nugget - to a sensitive area of the bridegroom. I’ll leave the rest of the explanation to your imagination.
As far as I’m aware, all of the bridegrooms have made it to their weddings on time. But Mrs P is making noises about having a word with the organiser of her little boy’s stag do.
I am personally not sure she should do that.
After all, No.1 Son is in his mid30s now and the days of student living in Dunedin, with all its behavioural eccentricities, are well and truly behind him and his mates now. Aren’t they?
My beloved is of the opinion that when one or two of them get together - and there were seven of them in one particular flat one year - they tend to regress and relive those days which, from what I recall, were one hilarious occasion after another. Obviously, she sees it a little differently.
Regardless, I’m going to have a chat with her to see if I can stop her issuing a warning and embarrassing the boy/man. I’m pretty sure they are all grown up now and there won’t be anything stupid happening.
Besides, there will be some older, cooler heads like me around to make sure things don’t get out of hand.
But before I do that, I’m going to have to go and re-hide the crash helmet I got out just in case anyone fancies a game of golf and a swim in Taupō .