Whilst being incredibly excited about my forthcoming nuptials, I am only too aware that I am slightly older than the average prospective groom and can’t help feeling a bit silly about some of the rituals that go with the occasion.
Stag nights have been around for many centuries and are traditionally a celebration of a young man’s last night of youthful freedom and irresponsibility before taking on the more serious mantle of husband and provider, and father and role-model. Although I still feel young, I have to accept that most people would look at me and know that my days of ‘youthful freedom’ ran out many a long year ago.
I duly informed everyone that a stag-do was superfluous to requirements and that a quiet half down the local before an hour in front of the fire with my carpet slippers and cocoa would be more than sufficient by way of celebration.
My best man, David Frost, had other ideas though: it was inconceivable that any groom in his care would arrive at the altar without first having made a complete fool of themselves partaking in macho activities such as drinking too much and falling over.
I was able to convince him that a very small amount of macho-ness would be all I could muster at my age and that doing things which kept us gently occupied and reduced the time available for excessive consumption of falling down juice would be my preferred option.
“Very well,” said he, “I shall arrange some quiet diversions for a convivial day with one or two chums.”
Several weeks later, and after many telephone conversations and hundreds of emails back and forth, I found myself heading north on the A1 with Andrew Steward looking forward to a beer and curry filled evening with Dave Lonsbrough to set us up for a day of buggy racing, harness-zorbing and air-rifle shooting.
A pleasant hour or two was spent in the Black Bull, followed by an exceedingly tasty curry at the Shahi Raj. As befitted our ages, we were back at Dave’s, falling asleep in front of the telly by 2300!
The three of us met the rest of the group – David Haynes, David Frost and Mike Cleavin, in the car-park of ‘Live for Today’ near Harrogate at 0930 the next morning and thanked Mr Frost heartilyfor his decision to include the harness-zorbing in the itinerary!
First up was the buggy racing. After a few instructions we were set loose on a muddy field with tyres placed at intervals to map out a course. As there were only two buggies allowed out at once, we had to compete in time trials rather than an out and out track race. 
Good fun was had by all and the only complaint was that we could have done with a bit longer on the track. Being all very manly, by the time we finished we felt we were all in a position to challenge Colin McRae for his position as ‘Number One Brit’, had he only survived long enough to accept our challenge. As it was, we had to make-do with a small intra-group race which Andrew Steward, the lightest (or should I say, least fat) of us won. 
At this point Mike had to dash off to answer a call-out. I’m not cynical and therefore I don’t think that this had anything to do with the next event!
After a quick (and cold) mug of instant coffee, we were warned to prepare ourselves for the zorbing which was, as far as I could determine, an updated version of a 15th Century East-European torture method. The skills required to be a successful zorber are: the ability to climb into a tiny, claustrophobic space and be chained to the wall; well trained vocal chords to cope with the Tourets that inevitably sets in; the ability to perform a passable imitation of washing in the spin-dryer; a strong sense of camaraderie – it’s the only thing that stops you parting with your stomach contents all over the friend that you’re strapped in with!
Dave Lonsbrough turned out to be too big to be safely housed in the hamster-ball and spent his time watching and pretending that he’d have loved to try it really. The rest of us joined in with a will and thoroughly enjoyed the whole experience. We didn’t really, but it sounds a bit unmanly to say we all felt scared at the start, sick at the finish and a tad sore and uncomfortable at all times in between. The good news was that we were all far too disorientated to track down and kill Mr Frost for sneaking the event into our programme!
Next came the air-rifle shooting which proved to be a gentle way to calm down after the rolling downhill thing. As I was lucky enough to get the gun with the properly set-up sights, I won the target shooting round and, with my very last shot, managed to knock the plastic bottle of the post at the very end of the range.
A quick pint at The Kestrel, and fish and chips at Drakes in Knaresborough soon erased the memory of the zorbing for all but Dave H who suffered with a headache and dizziness for the rest of the day, poor lamb.
As we tucked away our lunch, we discussed the possible diversions that we might be tempted to sample in York as we whiled away the afternoon. It was a stag-do after all, and nobody need ever find out what debauchery we’d engaged in. Having weighed up all the alternatives (pubs, strip clubs etc) we decided upon ….The Railway Museum! 
Andrew S had never been to York and, it turned out, was a closet anorak. The rest of us, knowing we had to keep ourselves going until at least 2300, thought it might be wise to save our remaining stamina for the evening’s high-jinks.
I won’t describe in detail the delights the museum had to offer, suffice to say there were a lot of trains!
We found and booked into the B&B – Blakeney House somewhere out past Heworth Green – excellent rooms and service! – and set about preparing ourselves for a riotous night in the hostelries of York City Centre.
We tried a swift half in the first pub we got to, and then dashed down to Pizza Express and had pizzas for dinner.
The undoubted highlight of the early evening was being refused entry to The King’s Arms. The doorman said it was because they were full, but we all knew it was really because he was scared we’d start some trouble!
Having bought tickets to The Psychedelic Warlords playing Space Ritual live at Fibbers, we thought we ought to give it a go. It wasn’t going to be to everyone’s taste, but the only other music that night was an all-seated Amy McDonald gig at the Barbican which was probably not appropriate for half-a-dozen drunk 50 year-olds.
In my estimation, the band were really good and I was happy to spend a couple of hours tapping my toes amongst the grey-ponytailed, rather sad-looking moshers. Dave H on the other hand, decided that the combination of his still-zorbed-out head, some rather loud and tuneless music and being surrounded by a hundred die-hard seventies rockers was all too much and called his missus to rescue him.
The band didn’t notice his departure though and played on, allowing Andrew S and I to recapture some of our long-lost youth, enveloped in the warm and hazy, Hawkwind-inspired sonic onslaught.
More beer and a rather splendid roast beef sandwich set us up nicely for the mile-and-a-half walk back to the B&B. Toileting was only necessary once on the journey, and the council had obligingly provide a park with a high hedge for this purpose.
Thanks and congratulations must go to Mr F for arranging the weekend – I know it wasn’t easy to try and cater for the desires of such an opiniated group as us. Thanks also to the gang for turning out and making it a great weekend – especially Andrew S, without whom we’d probably never even have thought of visiting the Railway Museum!
