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There are some stag nights that are remembered long after those who actually created the tale are alive; these are the historic yarns fondly passed down from father to son.
Taking myself as an example, there are many stag nights that I’d love to remember but that bloody beer monkey paid me a visit, equipped with an eraser belt and went hell-for-leather wiping away those lovely, character building memories. Stag nights are just the tip of the iceberg – I don’t remember anything after about 10 pints.
I digress - back to the purpose of my stag do ramblings. I was thinking, one seven seconds, about a memorable experience in a certain Brighton nightclub and thought I’d share with you one evening I actually do remember.
Nightclubs are the after hour mecca for pissed up stag parties wanting to chase the beer buzz. You’ve got a belly full of beer, a mind full of strippers and you’re King of the Disco World – nothing will prevent you cutting shapes on that dance floor. And this is where my stag do tale begins.
Picture this, a heaving club with the funkiest tracks thumping against my inner lobes. There were a lot of sweaty people moving like a well oiled John Travolta engine and in the midst of this, is yours truly and my mate. I have no idea where the rest of the stag party had gone but it didn’t really matter.
We had caught the stag do wave and were tweaking every move we could possible make. We had the circle of ladies, we had a seemingly endless supply of beer, we had the tunes and then just when it couldn’t get any better – you’re not going to believe me – our very own mini member of Take That, Mr Mark Owen, pops up next to us wearing a funny little trilby. Bear in mind this is when they had all disbanded and his solo career was non existent – a mere civilian.
Seeing this as an opportunity not to be missed, my mate pounced on the poor Owen and, towering above this little fellow began shouting about how worried he was for Gary Barlow. ‘The Barlow’ as he was referred to, had ‘apparently’ been constantly turning up at my mates flat at all hours, generally with booze in hand; wanting to get pissed, watch TV, cook, write songs…basically hang out.
At this point the Owen is looking really confused as am I, but the difference is I’m loving the awkwardness. My mate continues by saying that at first it was rather a novelty but ‘The Barlow’ had become desperate and wouldn’t take piss off for an answer.
By this point the Owen is cornered like a rabbit caught in lyrical headlights, twitching to escape the ramblings of this clearly insane tall man. I’m pissing myself laughing which makes the Owen more on edge and finally like ‘the one that got away’ he jumps the net and dives back into the John Travolta engine.
We never saw him again but it was bizarre and very funny indeed.
Upon reading this stag night tale above, it accounts for probably two minutes of the entire evening - but for the life of me I can’t remember the rest, which isn’t a surprise.
God bless Mark Owen.