Stag Touble

With the rise of budget airlines the infamous rite of passage, known amongst other things as The Stag Do, has seeped beyond the British border, oozing its way into a variety of European host cities. Some unsuspecting locals might well be shocked by the eager city complicity in this growing industry. Take Barcelona as an example:

Stag advertising for the city uses words like physical, sensual, exotic and hedonistic.
Enthralled by such riotous promises, one swarm of happy Stagites jostle for seats close together on the 18.36 Bristol-Barcelona Easyjet (delayed) flight. The delay is as good an excuse as any to competitively consume overpriced alcohol in the departure lounge. The rabble's volume control is stuck on maximum and somebody announced that the first person in the group to be caught not making any sound would be denied entrance into the strip club later. The noise drowns out the automated Spanish security instructions, and the one with Dudu emblazoned on his matching uniform shouts, “ we can't effing understand you. Nobody can effing understand what you're effing saying.”

Now it's the English language safety instructions turn and the air hostess called Laura edges away nervously into the whirlwind of bowler hats that are being tossed to and fro, hoping to reach the safety of the eye of the storm. No luck there... the chorus breaks out:

Laura, can't you give me some time?
I've got to give myself one more chance
To be the man that i know i am
To be the man that i know i am
... I'm gonna need your love...

Relentless.

Battling against the seeming inevitability of the situation, the staff stoically begin on the snack trolley tour of the cabin. A rather frail looking lady in one of the last rows whispers, “a beer please.” “I'm afraid we've sold out ma'am,” responds Laura's co-worker Julie with the pleading smile.

As the unspeakable pleasures of Barcelona get ever nearer, the hysteria continues to escalate. At one point Stag himself stumbles down the passage way towards the back end toilet. Pausing for a moment to regain his balance he grinned slyly at a young child, pointing proudly to a graphic biro-pen illustration protruding out of his cut-off jeans.

As the plane finally sailed down the runway it's hard to know who cheered louder: us or them.
Clambering onto the bus that is waiting to take us to the terminal building, I see the stag party not so nimbly pinching bottoms- whoever pinches the least must buy all the drinks that night.
I'm lucky to find a small safe corner which is populated by an astounded group of Catalans, talking over the phenomenon in a schizophrenic jumble of Spanish and Catalan:

“They don't appear to have any self-control or dignity”

“Yes, yes. I wonder if they are all okay in the head”

“I think it must be something to do with the problems that they have with English girls”

“Quite right. I hear English girls are very frigid”

“Do you think they realise how stupid they look all dressed the same?”

“Of course Catalan men are much more handsome”

“Perhaps that's one wearing a pink shirt is gay”

“Probably”

“He has a very large nose”

“His knees are bony”

“Why don't they wait till later to molest the ladies ... in the club”

“English men are repressed you know”

......

The next morning I woke to the sound of a thunderstorm, and as I looked out the window at the pouring rain I allowed myself a moment of smug satisfaction in knowing that at least the party’s wild plans to pass the day at “the million beach chiringuitos (curingeyetoes)” might literally be washed away.