It was John’s brother’s stag night, so of course we were duty-bound to paint Ruthin red. We did the traditional pub crawl, one slow pint at a time, before staggering into the Seven Club. Inside, the night took a surreal turn: I bumped into Lindi Punk, who hadn’t seen me in years, greeted me like a long-lost lover, and promptly kissed me. Not long after, I spotted Maria—who, astonishingly, still looked exactly the same as she had eight years earlier. It was as if Ruthin preserved people in formaldehyde.
While I was chatting with some strangers outside, John suddenly strolled past with a girl in tow. He gave me a cheeky wave and called out, “See you later, Neil!” as if he was off to the shops, not sneaking away from his own stag party arrangements. I stood there stunned, muttering something along the lines of, Well, that’s a family drama I didn’t sign up for.
With nowhere else to go, I headed back to his brother’s house, which hadn’t changed one bit since the last time I’d been there. The same faces were slumped around the room, smoking the same spliffs, producing the same silence that passed for conversation. I was offered a drag but declined—too much beer had already turned my stomach into a washing machine. I lasted all of ten minutes before deciding I needed to escape.
So I hit the Denbigh Road, weaving along like a man trying to remember which way gravity worked. I flagged down London-style black cab, it stopped some 20 metres past me. Unfortunately, my coordination was about as reliable as my dignity by that point. I broke into a heroic sprint… only to misjudge the distance entirely and headbutt the back of the taxi.
The next thing I knew, I was flat on the tarmac, dazed and seeing stars, while the taxi driver hauled me up by the arm like a parent dealing with a wayward toddler. I explained, in the slurred tones of a man who thought he was speaking Queen’s English, that I only had a fiver. Generously, he took me as far as Trefnant.
Stranded, bruised, and slightly less sober than I thought I was, I phoned John's soon to be sister-in-law. She was shocked to hear from me—especially at that hour—but still kind enough to drive all the way from Llandudno to rescue me. I told her I’d “lost John outside the club” and “couldn’t find the house,” carefully omitting the part where I’d assaulted a stationary taxi and the bit about her brother in law.
And that’s how John’s brother’s stag night ended: with John disappearing, his brother’s house frozen in a haze of smoke, me concussed on Denbigh Road.
