I have returned from a weekend in a field with 20 other men, all good and strong. You guessed it, two days of unwashed, testosterone fuelled manliness with guns thrown into the mix.
I get ahead of myself though, let me add some context.
I have been selected as the man that is above all other men; the ideal that lesser mortals aspire to; the Best Man. Over the months since Phil has graciously offered this role, I have pondered the reasoning for this choice and I have it distilled to three potential reasons:
So before I get into the meat of the "Harm On The Farm" Stag Weekend, I would like to thank Phil for the free meal he'll be providing, the opportunity to insult him in front of his family and friends and wish him all types of fabulousness for his impending nuptials.
So I digress, time for the main event. We begin at the beginning on the day of June the 27th in the year of our Lord 2008. Our location is a field in the vicinity of Oxford. I was one of the last to arrive, my means of conveyance, the joyous camper van of death. An orange and white beast of a vehicle that threatens obliteration with every corner and almost every application of the breaks. Due to the confines of my job I had to depart after work and was therefore the last to arrive on that perky Friday.
I must digress another time to give very honourable mention to my blonde, top 1000 buddy John for assisting in the acquisition of the camper van, driving duties and also supply of the most manly gazebo in the existence of garden accessories. John, I salute you!
On my arrival, I was met with a sight that filled me with erotic dread. A field of tents, a line of cars, a medium sized fire, and men that had been drinking since 3pm. Truly if there ever was a more volatile combination, it would have to include cheese of ancient evil (Available from a curio shop that exists on Muswell Hill, in this dimension).
The Friday evening was a most pleasant affair consisting of acquainting myself with new friends and catching up with old friends. Much booze was imbibed, stories told and an not insignificant amount of wood burned... only wood for this evening.
Hiring a field is a gentlemanly affair. No fascist camp site rules, no health and safety and only one or two downsides. Showering was an impossibility due to the water supply consisting of a tap, and the bathroom facilities were a tad basic, and by basic I mean akin to a scene from Deliverance.
As men do round a fire, songs were sung, guitars played and stories told. As the Friday turned into Saturday, the darkness descended, which coupled with the brisk country air and numerous bottles of spirits encouraged a more primeval part in all of us to awaken. We did not plumb the depths of naked tribal dancing, but fire walking was on the cards. Striking a pose while perched precariously on a piece of burning wood is now the benchmark for dapper behaviour.
The Saturday began full of promise... which starts this paragraph more ominously than it needs to be. I will give away the ending to this tale by saying that nothing untoward happened and as I understand it, an excellent time had by all. Sorry for the spoiler but back to Saturday morning nonetheless.
Bacon was cooking, tea was brewing and the gallant drinkers emerged from their bulbous body odour inflated tents a little meeker than the night previous. We dined heartily under the blazing sunshine that all of us had fervently prayed for the preceding weeks with only one insignificant mishap consisting of the stag, a bale of hay, and a startle. A story I may be persuaded to tell at another time.
The plan for the day was to take in some country scenery from the safety of our field, locate another field where the shooting of the clay was to take place and then back to the original field for the cooking of meats and the drinking of ales. This was indeed a field oriented expedition.
The first part of our mission was to find the clay killing fields. This sounds mundane and unworthy of my literary retelling, but the instructions provided to us were cryptic at best. Any driving instructions that navigate by car showrooms and descriptions of hairpin bends should be referred to as a scavenger hunt rather than anything more useful. The convoy of city interlopers travelled through the winding country lanes carving out only minor mayhem when the lead car decided that all native drivers of this area had been sedated, probably by invading aliens, and were required to be run off the road.
Needless to say, we found the place and had arrived a good half hour early. This was an event populated by men... tardiness is not in our nature. On arrival, the shooting instruction was top notch, and the trucker hat safety gear set the tone. As well as the usual warnings of the propensity for maiming and death if guns were improperly handled, we were all provided with some anti-clay propaganda to steel our collective nerve against the enemy of the day. You'll all be glad to hear that the earth was again saved from clay pigeon subjugation by a merry band of reprobates and scallywags. I will accept payment for your freedoms in buxom wenches.
I am sorry to say that my performance at the three shooting challenges laid before us was uninspiring. My good lady will be unhappy to hear that in a zombie barricade situation, we would most likely be overrun unless her Northern Irish heritage provided an innate shotgun wielding skill. The stag put in a mightily mediocre performance with 50% of targets hit. A score, he informs me, he's "alright about". If the chillies' side effects are anything to go by, he's a lover not a fighter. Of course, when I write "lover" I actually misspell "drunk chimp" (Just killing Phil, I'm only practising for the speech).
This is the part in the tale where I'd like to taper off. As is tradition with the celebration of the stag, the lore is enhanced by rumour and speculation; the motto for the weekend being "What happened on the farm, stays on the farm". Worry not though, the Phil has been returned in one piece, if a little bruised and in need of a good wash.
I will fuel the scandalous chatter with a few of my personal highlights:
I get ahead of myself though, let me add some context.
I have been selected as the man that is above all other men; the ideal that lesser mortals aspire to; the Best Man. Over the months since Phil has graciously offered this role, I have pondered the reasoning for this choice and I have it distilled to three potential reasons:
- Wanton Omar-Love - I am pretty damn snuggly after all
- Temporary/Permanent Insanity - Phil does love the chillies and I think I know why
- A Trap - There is no wedding. This is all a ruse designed to capture me and test out the latest in Omar-flinging devices
So before I get into the meat of the "Harm On The Farm" Stag Weekend, I would like to thank Phil for the free meal he'll be providing, the opportunity to insult him in front of his family and friends and wish him all types of fabulousness for his impending nuptials.
So I digress, time for the main event. We begin at the beginning on the day of June the 27th in the year of our Lord 2008. Our location is a field in the vicinity of Oxford. I was one of the last to arrive, my means of conveyance, the joyous camper van of death. An orange and white beast of a vehicle that threatens obliteration with every corner and almost every application of the breaks. Due to the confines of my job I had to depart after work and was therefore the last to arrive on that perky Friday.
I must digress another time to give very honourable mention to my blonde, top 1000 buddy John for assisting in the acquisition of the camper van, driving duties and also supply of the most manly gazebo in the existence of garden accessories. John, I salute you!
On my arrival, I was met with a sight that filled me with erotic dread. A field of tents, a line of cars, a medium sized fire, and men that had been drinking since 3pm. Truly if there ever was a more volatile combination, it would have to include cheese of ancient evil (Available from a curio shop that exists on Muswell Hill, in this dimension).
The Friday evening was a most pleasant affair consisting of acquainting myself with new friends and catching up with old friends. Much booze was imbibed, stories told and an not insignificant amount of wood burned... only wood for this evening.
Hiring a field is a gentlemanly affair. No fascist camp site rules, no health and safety and only one or two downsides. Showering was an impossibility due to the water supply consisting of a tap, and the bathroom facilities were a tad basic, and by basic I mean akin to a scene from Deliverance.
As men do round a fire, songs were sung, guitars played and stories told. As the Friday turned into Saturday, the darkness descended, which coupled with the brisk country air and numerous bottles of spirits encouraged a more primeval part in all of us to awaken. We did not plumb the depths of naked tribal dancing, but fire walking was on the cards. Striking a pose while perched precariously on a piece of burning wood is now the benchmark for dapper behaviour.
The Saturday began full of promise... which starts this paragraph more ominously than it needs to be. I will give away the ending to this tale by saying that nothing untoward happened and as I understand it, an excellent time had by all. Sorry for the spoiler but back to Saturday morning nonetheless.
Bacon was cooking, tea was brewing and the gallant drinkers emerged from their bulbous body odour inflated tents a little meeker than the night previous. We dined heartily under the blazing sunshine that all of us had fervently prayed for the preceding weeks with only one insignificant mishap consisting of the stag, a bale of hay, and a startle. A story I may be persuaded to tell at another time.
The plan for the day was to take in some country scenery from the safety of our field, locate another field where the shooting of the clay was to take place and then back to the original field for the cooking of meats and the drinking of ales. This was indeed a field oriented expedition.
The first part of our mission was to find the clay killing fields. This sounds mundane and unworthy of my literary retelling, but the instructions provided to us were cryptic at best. Any driving instructions that navigate by car showrooms and descriptions of hairpin bends should be referred to as a scavenger hunt rather than anything more useful. The convoy of city interlopers travelled through the winding country lanes carving out only minor mayhem when the lead car decided that all native drivers of this area had been sedated, probably by invading aliens, and were required to be run off the road.
Needless to say, we found the place and had arrived a good half hour early. This was an event populated by men... tardiness is not in our nature. On arrival, the shooting instruction was top notch, and the trucker hat safety gear set the tone. As well as the usual warnings of the propensity for maiming and death if guns were improperly handled, we were all provided with some anti-clay propaganda to steel our collective nerve against the enemy of the day. You'll all be glad to hear that the earth was again saved from clay pigeon subjugation by a merry band of reprobates and scallywags. I will accept payment for your freedoms in buxom wenches.
I am sorry to say that my performance at the three shooting challenges laid before us was uninspiring. My good lady will be unhappy to hear that in a zombie barricade situation, we would most likely be overrun unless her Northern Irish heritage provided an innate shotgun wielding skill. The stag put in a mightily mediocre performance with 50% of targets hit. A score, he informs me, he's "alright about". If the chillies' side effects are anything to go by, he's a lover not a fighter. Of course, when I write "lover" I actually misspell "drunk chimp" (Just killing Phil, I'm only practising for the speech).
This is the part in the tale where I'd like to taper off. As is tradition with the celebration of the stag, the lore is enhanced by rumour and speculation; the motto for the weekend being "What happened on the farm, stays on the farm". Worry not though, the Phil has been returned in one piece, if a little bruised and in need of a good wash.
I will fuel the scandalous chatter with a few of my personal highlights:
- Hay burns well... very well
- Car suspensions are hardier than I first thought
- A bi-hourly head-soaking fends off the demons of drunk
- The simple telling of a story beats any contact sport... if uninterrupted
1 comment:
Its a good thing I am a good shot... :)
Post a Comment