I’ll apologise in advance for the blatant omission of gaming information in this post. To an extent that one could interpret this as containing no gaming countenance at all, which is true. Sorry. But let me ask you this; where in this glorious world we call “Earth” could seven guys, celebrating the nuptials of one of its individuals through moderated inebriation and potentially slurring derogation of said grooms impending marriage, and figurative removal of his scrotal area by his wife to be (dictated by legally binding behest of British matrimony) go to attain such indulgence? Somewhere a jaded extrovert can obtain ratification for his endeavours? Perhaps a regional locale such as Bristol, London or Edinburgh would be an appropriate setting? How about Dublin? Oh, how about travelling a little bit further to maybe Barcelona, Prague or Amsterdam? No, Okay how about…….Riga? Yes this weekend I have been invited on a brief excursion to the wonderfully parochial city of Riga, Latvia. Witness the idyllic splendour of the strip clubs, the safety of the hotel bar, the squalled debris of the quaint cobbled streets, the “2” taxi companies you can actually trust, the inviting hospitality of the locals, the recently mobilised American military stationed their to insure Russian forces don’t invade, the brisk chill and the Russian Mafia! All orchestrated by a man-child that booked this perfunctory vacation based on guidance submitted by a guy selling him the holiday!
A prior meeting organised to determine a suitable destination had adjourned with everyone openly agreeing that Amsterdam would be the perfect location for a Stag weekend. It wasn’t until later in the week that we received texts from the best man informing us of the alteration to our gregarious weekend. Since then costs have escalated, research has been made regarding previous municipal residents from all over the UK having tarnished our British heritage in their country, with many extorted for their money by young beautiful woman akin to mermaids ensnaring lonely sailors with their siren songs. We have all been inertly duped out of remission by the elaborately ardent, ebulliently lauded best man. A man of impeccable intelligence and enviable adolescent fervour. A man who organises parties the way a dyslexic arranges the letters in “dyslexic” and of such juvenile naivety he would probably exhibit all of his most valuable possessions in his home to an intruder! So we again convened for emergency discussions, commissioned by us anxious delegates attending this weekends jamboree, which was held in accordance to reduce the volatile accusations of sabotage by certain individuals less than thrilled by our destination. As well as discuss our concerns regarding the visitation of a country in the midst of precarious democratic stability, with the Russian intervention in Ukraine being a surprisingly prudent conversational starter. I’ve never had so many political conversations in my life, let alone one involving where we intend to get drunk!
Negotiations inevitably concluded with punitive transitions, by which I mean nothing has changed. Yielding little reprieve other than an admission of formative ignorance by the best man. None of our concerns resonated with any penetrating resolve. He is oblivious to the reputation instigated by precipitating Brits that have come before and the now customary suspicion provoked by local residents of many English-speaking foreigners. That our beverages (though unlikely) could systematically be laced with fatiguing narcotics to dim our already diminished senses. And that now, on a Stag, deliberately numbing your sensory acuity with the implicit aid of alcoholic drinks (if they haven’t been spiked!) in a country belligerent to western culture, defeats the purpose of a no holds barred Stag weekend if you’re having be to extra vigilant! Oh and that “seven” is now six, with the only person I knew well on this trip relinquishing his position, hobbled by a rather gruesome work related incident. Not to mention numerous friends softened intonations whenever they enquire into my holiday, with almost every word they speak ending in a question mark. “Latvia? Where? Why?” Hopefully my predisposed assumptions will be absolved by my experience, where my predilections for overly dramatic evaluations will be negligent suppositions that almost prevented me from enjoying a innocuously vibrant city, with as much crime and statistical infamy as any other city in the world. (I’m hardly likely to meet Niko Bellic am I!) I’m just not sure about the company? I wonder if I can get my PS4 through customs?
What’s your worst holiday experience? Let me know. Cheers.