Mad Dogs and Englishmen - and Welshmen

What is it about the occasion of one man's impending nuptials that can induce him and thirteen other ordinarily rational and responsible men into a state of collective testosterone-heightened hysteria in which they become hell-bent on plumbing the depths of depravity?

Even with the best man being an employee of West Midlands CID, and a paramedic also among our number, the weekend in Krakow just gone can only answer to the description of complete carnage. Personally, I blame it on the Mad Dogs - generous shots comprised of raspberry liqueur on the bottom, vodka on the top and a layer of tabasco in between that varied in quantity from too much to far, far too much.

While I did at some point on Friday night lose my watch, at least I didn't ever lose my dignity - unlike the stag. Or the party member who fell through a chair in the Polish equivalent of Hooters. Or the party member who staggered off on his own, got lost, slept in a park for two hours and resorted to texting his mum for help at 4am.
All I can do is apologise profusely to the people of Krakow for our having ticked very nearly every single box on the list of stereotypically bad British stag party behaviour.

All we saw of the city, really, were the arching brick ceilings of countless cosy, smoke-filled cellar bars, and those only through the bottom of a glass. One day, perhaps, I'll be back in more civilised circumstances - after all, anywhere where you can go to a solarium called Expander, watch sport at English Football Club and Irish Pub, drink in a perspex lean-to that passes for a conservatory, go clubbing at Prozak and stay at Hostel Flamingo - which advertises itself with the slogan "Run by flamingos, for flamingos..." - must be worth visiting again. Not so sure about the fruit pizza or tripe soup, though...