The Casual Father: Stag woe leads to rethink on weekends

Casual Father

Casual Father - Credit: Archant

I’m thinking of reporting my weekends under the Trade Descriptions Act.

The two days at the end of the week that once brought relaxation, football, and the pub, now bring childcare, chores, with the occasional hour of a box-set thrown in if I’m lucky.

I don’t know about you, but they seem a bit more like workends to me.

So imagine how pleased I was to be invited on a stag do last Saturday, with the chance to relive the times when weekends did exactly what they said on the tin, to quote a well-known wood stain manufacturer.

To say I was excited by the prospect of taking absolutely no responsibility for my actions and making bad life choices under the influence of alcohol is something of an understatement.

But receiving the plans for the day beforehand, it all seems worryingly civil. A train journey to Norwich, some go-karting, a meal in a restaurant, all ending with VIP entry to a nightclub.

Concerned that this itinerary might not lead to the sort of debauchery I feel I rightly deserve, I make some calls to try to clarify the situation.

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Assured by the best man that he has a “few tricks up his sleeve”, I leave it at that and arrive in Norwich with the look of an expectant little boy on his birthday.

The main “trick” up the sleeve of the best man turns out to be forgetting to book the go-karting track and buying three bottles of spirits for us to consume during a sozzled game of seven-a-side football.

Determined to reclaim the weekend as my own, I continue to press ahead with the drinks and good company on offer during the meal. But soon it starts to become clear that I am not the stag party goer I was ten years ago.

If the moment of realisation didn’t come when I somehow managed to eject myself from the VIP area of the nightclub, it certainly did when I was curled up on the doorstep of friend Sam’s house for two hours, waiting for him to come home.

It’s official: The weekends as I once knew them are over, and I’m actually fine with it.

I arrived home hungover to a surprisingly sympathetic wife, who had already mowed the lawn, and a happy baby, who was waving at me.

“How was it?” asks the wife.

“Messy.” I reply with a smile, “Shall we put Game of Thrones on?”

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