You know it's a good stag when even the groom's leg gets plastered. But exactly when do we tell the poor goy the truth?, asks Ross O'Carroll-Kelly.
I was never a major fan of stag nights. For me they're as working class as owning your own snooker cue or naming your kids after dead IRA men.
Still, you know you've been on a good one when you're looking at the groom the next morning with his leg in plaster and no memory of how it got that way.
It was one of those nights - know the one that's one too many and make it a double.
"Doreen's going to go mad as a meataxe," Oisinn goes.
If only she was as good-looking as one. Doreen's the girl who he's marrying. I hate saying anyone's ugly but she wouldn't have looked out of place in Kilkenny with us. She's the original bucket of armpits. A real mess.
But that's love for you - makes Andrea Bocellis of us all.
Fionn comes back from the buffet with a bowl of muesli. Focking gerbil bedding. It's supposed to be traditional Irish heart-stoppers all round.
I'm tempted to say something - as in, you should have gone on the spa weekend with the girls - but in the end I don't.
"How long am I going to have to wear this thing?" Oisinn goes.
Fionn, JP and One F all look at me. "Doctor said eight weeks." He's like, "Eight weeks? Dude, the wedding's in, like, four." I shrug, as if to say, it's not my actual fault.
"You'll just have to get married on crutches." He puts his head in his hands. "I'll be wearing a cast in the photographs," he goes.
At least it'll draw attention away from the bride's face. That was one of those lines I meant to say in my head but it actually comes out.
Oisinn doesn't seem to care, though. He's like, "Yeah, I suppose. Just tell me again - what happened?" The last thing he remembers is sitting in Holland's telling me the stories I could and couldn't tell in my best man speech. Suddenly, that turned into a big nostalgia thing, where we're all telling our favourite Oisinn stories, like the time we were picked to represent Iran at the Model UN and he had the idea of taking the American (Alexandra College) delegation hostage in his room in Fitzpatrick's.
Downstairs, the delegates all agreed that the captives should be freed but spent seven hours debating the wording of the motion, while me, Oisinn, JP and the three birds made light work of the mini bor and generally portied until a big bog Gord arrived and put a George Webb through the door.
Great days.
"So what happened after Holland's?" Oisinn goes.
JP's there, "We took it on to that new lappy . . ." We certainly did, JP. Hard to believe that twelve months ago you were shaping up for a career in the priesthood.
Oisinn shakes his head. He has no memory of it.
Does he not remember the protesters outside? I ask him. That old dude who turned around to him and went, "They're demeaning women in there!" Oisinn thought he was actually promoting the place. He was like, "Excellent. And the first drink's free, is it?" He rubs his head. I'd say he's in a jocker this morning. "I don't remember," he goes. "That bit's all a blank."
"What a weird place," One F suddenly pipes up. "Women stripping for money is wrong but men playing hurling is alright." Everyone agrees he has a point.
"So," Oisinn goes, "what happened then?" I'm like, "It's the old familiar story. A stage with a pole on it. A man so mashed he thinks he can climb. Two Czech girls with slipped discs and trauma. We've all heard it a million times before." "Shit the bed," he goes. "So how did I get to the hospital?" "An ambulance. For a minute we thought they were going to need a fire crew to cut you out of those two dancers. It was like something from a cartoon - big cloud of smoke with, like, orms and legs sticking out of it. Anyway, turns out you had, like, a straight break across the, er . . ."
"Tibia," Fionn goes, the only one of us to pass the Leaving.
Tibia, yeah.
Suddenly, roysh, the fries arrive but before Oisinn has a chance to touch his, his phone rings and he doesn't need to look at caller ID to know who it is. All we can hear is his side of the conversation, of course.
He's like, "Now, I know you're going to laugh at this, Doreen, but it looks like I'm going to be on Storskey and Hutches for the big day. Woke up this morning with a broken leg . . ." The next thing, roysh, I don't know what she says but Oisinn's suddenly going, "Hey, don't blame Ross . . . You're bang out of order . . . He happens to be my best friend," and I'm thinking, what is it about me that makes birds hate my actual guts - well, the ones who don't want to sleep with me? But Oisinn's one of the most loyal guys I know. He's sticking up for me in a major way. "If it hadn't been for him," he's going, "it could have been a lot worse. So instead of using the W word, you should be actually thanking him . . . Hello? Hello?" She's hung up.
He sticks his fork in his sausage and swallows it in one mouthful. Then he looks at me. "Sorry you had to hear that," he goes.
I'm there, "Dude - it's no Hoff." Then I tell him I'm going up to the buffet to grab some orange juice.
While I'm pouring it, JP appears on my shoulder. "When are you going to tell him?" he goes.
I'm like, "Tell him what?" "Tell him that that was all a pack of lies. That there's fock-all wrong with his leg. That he passed out five minutes after we walked through the door of Whispers and you got that nurse you scored to put his leg in plaster while he was unconscious . . ." "Oh that," I go. "I thought I'd keep it going until after the wedding. It'll be a hell of a way to finish the best man speech." He's there, "Ross, take it from someone who spent two years in Maynooth - you're an evil person." I'm there, "What's a best man for?"
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