You can’t tell me the stag-do is an ancient tradition.
There’s no way in hell ancient Druids went into Bethnal Green on a Saturday night in two cars, in pressed jeans, to score cocaine.
It seems the modern New Zealand stag do as a rite of passage is fresh as a daisy and as I speak, out at Westgate, a band of New Zealand’s finest men are piling themselves into a Fun Bus wearing chaps without real trousers on.
Where will they go?
It doesn’t matter if you’re a drain layer, an investment banker or customer services rep for Z Energy, for some reason, you’ll end up at The White House on Queen Street, it’s always Queen Street, as if there is simply nowhere else to go in this god-forsaken world.
But first: a meal. What about a steakhouse? Yes let’s! Let us fill our boots with meat sacrifice smothered in Diane sauce, and please bring trays of beers to the table, chain restaurant wenchling servant! Oh and how about a few selfies with us? Go on, you want to.
And they’re off, to Britomart, up and down Fort Street, aimlessly wandering in a pack of check shirts, bold yellowy chinos and Vans, desperately tying not to look 33.
Some carry beers, but they’re stopped at the bars and at least one will slip in with a behind-the- back, half-warm Heineken and it’s so worth the huge warm, flat slug of free beer with a cigarette butt in the bottom and the drinker feels smug and as if he’s won a great victory against the major brewing companies.
Over on the dance floor, a pocket of revelers dance to Sandstorm ironically, while one lucky punter has scored a girlfriend for the night.
It’s time to move on, but not before a burger from The White Lady, wolfed down, white paper bag and all, and then it’s off to…The White House, an easy transition and not hard to remember.
Frighteningly, the most reserved and married of the party seems to know all about this place and manages to get everyone in despite their varied states of bedragglement, and then drops the clanger:
The girls are really nice at this place
and luckily everyone is so super-polaxed that they barely notice this interesting development and just stumble to the bar then to the stage and poles and literally just start yelling things into the air as if letting off an AK-47 of shitty sex-thoughts at the horrifically young and lovely dancer.
But soon, an exodus of sorts must take place since Russell (Rusty) is getting married in the morning and the matron of honour said she’d kill the best man if Rusty isn’t returned to his motel in Greenlane on time.
There’s still time for one more feed, this time it’s Queen Street McDonald’s, the floor slightly bruised with muddy water and the mezzanine floor filled with eager students, fulfilling their Bachelor of Commerce dreams.
Mac Attacks are ordered; there must be 10 trays set up on the counter top, and the boys then carry their trays like sex tourists into the dark recesses of the establishment. A cab is later hailed and duly drops each disheveled man-boy to either his house or his parents’.
Finally, Russell lands safely at his motel. He slips out of his town clobber and decides that frying eggs and loud rap music are a great idea. He’s asleep before he can even pass the first mouthful of food to his lips.
He has completed the ultimate rite of passage, apart from buying an Auckland house.