That was the start of the planning, preparation and subsequent piss poor performance.
Naturally, the first and most important job for the groom is the arrangement, or have arranged for him, the smoker. Or if you are from anywhere but Scotland (where ironically there are more male deer than anywhere else) the stag.
Nominations were sought, votes cast and Steve's smoker was to be inflicted on Wales. The country, not the marine mammal - although in Dundee the pronunciation is generally the same.
Roll forward a few months and my alarm sounds at 05:00. Time to rise (it'll take a few more hours to shine, that's for sure), don the kilt and grab my small pre-packed holdall for the weekend in Caaaadif - as they say.
A lift to Camperdown park in time to see the last of the doggers heading home and I arrive at the pick-up point about 10 seconds before another suited and booted kilted eedjit whom I'd never met in my puff, but who would become a best friend (for the weekend). By the time we had introduced ourselves, several more attendees turned up and soon we were all happy with each others company and the weapons had been put away. I'm only joking...... We held onto them for a while longer.
Reaching into my holdall, I "found" a bottle of whisky, some plastic cups, and a small bottle of water. With practiced ceremony the bottle top was removed and discarded, accompanied by the words "well we'll not be needing that."
Suffice to say the ice was well and truly broken by the time the bus arrived.
It had started its journey at Steve's house and picked up a few waifs and strays on the way. When the doors opened, we realised there was a typical Scottish smoker underway. Suitcases and overnight bags were moved to reveal an assortment of beverages ranging from crates of tinned beer, vodka, whisky, water, after eights and ........ Yes after eights. I know it was barely 5:30, and I have to agree, eating after eights at that time of the day just isn't cricket. It's not rugby or football either. No, it's eating after bloody eights. Now don't get me wrong, I like after eights. I can even cope with them within an hour of breakfast, but the indigestion caused by that Listerine taste at 05:30 mixed with cooking whisky isn't curable with "Zantac". The box, crate and bottles were finished by the first toilet stop at Longforgan (I jest.....It was actually Inchture), and we made it to Edinburgh airport with plenty time to avail ourselves of the bar area.
Such was the hospitality and company that we didn't hear the first call for the flight and had to make a swift run to the security area with the pre-printed boarding passes. Now if any of you have passed through a security screening whilst wearing a kilt, you know how long it takes. Boots off. Belt off. Disentangle sporran straps from belt loops and try to undo the kilt pin. Putting everything back on is an even longer process. Well imagine our consternation when the first boarding card check announced that Steve's use of Tesco Value ink cartridges had failed to produce a readable bar code and we would all have to go downstairs to the check in desk and get proper boarding passes. This from a guy who previously missed a boys weekend away by virtue of forgetting his passport!!!!!!
Running like the very wind from which we were suffering, we made it onto the plane. Just. It turns out we were scattered around the plane. I wondered if it was a deliberate airline ploy to keep a potential rowdy and drunken group from causing bother. It actually served to spoil the trip, not for us, but for everyone that we were seated beside.
Caaaardif airport came all too soon and the bus was waiting to take us to our hotel......" A stones throw from the city centre " they said. Yeah, you could tell that cos all the windows were broken!
"Stevie's smoker - the introduction to Wales" follows soon...............................
After the intermission..............................
When I can be bothered.
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