Steve's smoker. Part 2

Arriving at the hotel, it was shut!!! Well, when I say shut, I mean not open to us - at least not yet. Some lazy sods hadn't evacuated their ...... rooms so we had no rooms to occupy. Didn't they know we were coming? Didn't they know who we were? The answer to both is yes. We had booked and (very wisely on their part) had also pre-paid. Yes, they also knew who we were, and (again quite wisely) didn't give a stuff. They weren't interested in our frivolity, just line up, check-in and we might consider allocating a broom cupboard for you to store your bags. Thankfully, either common sense, or more likely the draw of the bar - which was also shut, but due to open fairly soon, we waited, used the cupboard to dump our bags and in some cases change. After a few beers we were able to take our bags to our own rooms before heading into town. What was wise about that I imagine you are all thinking. .... Picture the scene. The time is 04:30 the following morning and 16 drunken, kebab laden, kilt wearing buffoons descended on the night porter demanding their rooms and stored bags!!! It would be bound to end in tears. After sorting out the rooms, it was back to the bar and after a few more beers someone had the great idea of some food. What? Food? On a smoker? Yip, the perfect and probably the last chance for everyone to sit down together at a meal. The normal fayre of these establishments is pretty good, but after an early rise, a skinful of beer and whisky, I doubt there was a man there who would have settled for anything less than an elephant between two mattresses. Or a giraffe's neck. What we wanted was red meat and plenty of it. You can keep the green things, but bring more meat. "How would you like your steak." the young waitress asked. "Just cut off its horns and hooves and wipe its arse" was the reply. Steve nearly died. The waitress nearly died. Hell, I nearly died until they brought some food. By the time we had finished eating, I could have happily lain on my front and rocked myself to sleep. Thank you to the kilt maker who added adjustable buckles. The walk into town, wearing kilts, drew a lot of wolf whistles. Unfortunately, they were not from the local ladies, but from the prisoners leaning out of the windows at the local prison.

 First stop was a miserable pub with a dart board and a clientele whose could be described as welcoming, but not rowing with all their oars in the water. After another few, and the most bizarre game of darts ever, we hit the town and probably every pub in the centre of Caaaadif. Not least of the disclosable evens included the constant availability (though no-one knows how) of after eight mints, literally clearing a pub by the horrific dulcet tones of the entire group attempting to sing something entirely unmemorable and then being asked to leave, almost clearing another pub by virtue of combined flatulent effect of the ensemble and the threatened closure of a nightclub due to the manic dance steps of the groom to be who was by that time suffering from bottle fatigue.

For some unexplainable reason, the evening entertainment didn't involve strippers and casinos, but a trip to a drag bar. Thanks Dan. Like most of the guys, I have to admit being a little reluctant at first, but it turned out to be one of the funniest nights of my life. The bouncer on the door was built like the proverbial brick shithouse,......... but wearing a sequinned dress. He was about 6' 4" tall in his bare feet, so you can image he was very visible in his 6" stiletto heels. He was sweating so much I swear his tattoos  were sliding down his arms.  Inside the club there were an assortment of misfits, vagabonds, whores and comic singers. This seemed to be THE place to have a stag or hen night. The place was jumping, the comic was one of the funniest ever. Clearly not a graduate of the diversity university! I have no idea how he got away with some of the things he said. Oh, and the music was just awesome. A great end to a great night, well at least for me and some of the other geriatrics there. By that time my scratcher was beckoning and my ageing bones could hear its call, so it was hotel bound for me.  For others it was more "dancing" at "Walkabout" where they tripped the light fantastic until 04:00, when the last of a very battle weary motley crew slowly made their way back to the hotel in dribs and drabs. The late finish wouldn't prevent an early start the next day..

Whilst I felt like death warmed up the next morning, (you could say that liquor mortise had set in), some of the guys looked like they'd been eaten by a monster who was now wearing their skin. 

It's well documented that the proverbial "hair of the dog" is the best cure for a hangover, but some found that one of the most difficult beers they've ever chewed.

Did Malcolm and I (two of the more mature "smokers") sit there and suffer like the youngsters. No, we went to church. I kid you not.