Nice Bristol(s) - the abridged highlights

So, we survived. The stag weekend was excellent, a great bunch of people having a great time with the minimum of fuss. As for the city of my alma mater, well it has changed a great deal - albeit with all the attention seemingly on the area around the docks.

We arrived, checked in (eventually - having negotiated the world's slowest check-in process) and settled down to a few pints at the hotel bar. Then it was in a cab for about 20 minutes to head the 15 minute walk to the curry house, where it became apparent that our costumes were drawing attention. Full up with spicy food, we headed to Park Street which, contrary to other parts of Bristol hasn't changed a bit since 1999.

Then came the schoolboy error - we had decided to head to The Hatchet, a small 17th century pub specialising in music of the rock variety. Only we were 9 lads, bedecked in silly bald wigs, and the bouncers weren't having it. So instead, after a trip to a tiny little pub, we headed to the Bierkeller, reknowned in my day for being the venue du jour for all the metal bands and their followers. Ideal, then, and great value (vodka & Red Bull for £2.50? Yes please!).

The stag party. L-R: Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, Duncan.

Now, bearing in mind the average patron of the Bierkeller is someone with bright green hair and 6 nose rings, the attention we got for basically being a "bunch of freaks" beggared belief. However, we lapped up the attention and found ourselves being photographed by many. Anyway, mucho booze, mucho "moshing" (so I believe is the correct term for dancing to this genre of music) and mucho attention from assorted weirdos later, we headed back ready to hit the hay in good time for Saturday's festivities. Well, just in time anyway.

It was with some trepidation that 8 hungover blokes and Tim (abstaining from the boozing as he's a finely tuned athlete and running 26 miles this coming weekend) piled into a minibus bound for Caerdydd at the ungodly hour of 9:45am on Saturday. It was with even more trepidation that we were introduced to Wyn, our sadistic instructor for the day. The trepidation reached fever pitch when attempting to negotiate the wetsuits. And guess whose upper body was so "ripped" that he managed to break the zip on his life jacket? Wyn was diplomatic in telling me "I bet you ain't seen your cock in a while!" Yeah, cheers boyo.

Anyway, this was the sight that greeted us:

Eek.

However, we took to it like ducks to very choppy water. And boy, what an experience it was too. I managed to fall in (Wyn later admitting he had deliberately done something to the raft guaranteed to make someone fall out - cheers again boyo), although Antonio's fall proved altogether more spectacular. Wyn was moved enough by our ability to reckon we should take it up competitively as we possessed excellent upper body strength. Yeah, right.

Anyway, 9 knackered blokes headed back to Bristol, where we sat down to an expensive but sumptuous Thai feast, before answering the call of stag heaven - the strip club. Oh yes. But, as I love my wife dearly, I kept my eyes closed throughout. Ahem.

Being the grandad of the group, I was bushed when we left so, rather than heading to The Hatchet I departed for the hotel.

So, a good time had by all. Duncan is blessed to have a great bunch of mates, and I was delighted to have tagged along. Best Man Mike did a great job organising the whole shebang, which will go down in the annals of history as one of the great send-offs.