"Vegas?" my friend Liz was open-mouthed. "I can't believe you're letting him go. It will be like something out of 'The Hangover'." I had to confess, chilled-out as I was, visions of a dazed, desperate and sweaty Bradley Cooper, Zach Galifianakis and co hopelessly stumbling around Vegas had swum through my mind as I heard Brendan - on possibly the 89th official-stag-planning-phone-call - discussing the merits of booking rooms at Caesar's Palace.
Yes, my fiance was planning a stag do in Las Vegas - Sin City, the ultimate den of iniquity, the home of the biggest bachelor party on earth and all that. Years before talk of an engagement had crossed our minds - let alone lips - Brendan had waxed lyrical about the wonders of a stag do in the legendary party town.
I had thought nothing of it at the time. You see, Brendan often talks about things he'd like to do - actually doing them is another matter. However, when he popped the question and announced the news of our engagement to his friends that he was "sacrificing his wild, carefree existence for the old pipe and slippers," it was like a call to arms had sounded. Despite being 33 at the time, Brendan was the first of his friendship group to get engaged, and his mobile was instantly abuzz with a deluge of text messages, most of which simply stated 'STAG!'
It was a rallying cry that saw an army of 30-something men rise from their X-Boxes and the slog of the 9-5 for a big, juicy bite of that hedonistic life they had savoured for so long; a chance to revisit those wild nights where craziness is king, where who can drink the most Stella Artois is lauded and who can party the hardest and longest is revered. Pub golf? Awesome! Five-day hangover? Hilarious! So helplessly drunk you lose control of all bodily functions? Amazeballs!
Talk of Vegas gradually overtook talk of the wedding. But I still didn't think the trip would actually happen until Brendan's brilliantly organised best man took the reins and steered the group of hopelessly disorganised men with an inability to agree on anything right into - you got it - Caesar's Palace. It was no mean feat organising the logistics of a long haul trip, flights, accommodation and the like - especially when the lynchpin of the operation was living in Australia and only contactable sporadically via Skype. But happen it did.
They left in a whirlwind of excitable chatter about what a crazy time they were going to have. They were going to play big stakes poker and party all night every night. They were going to dress Brendan in a pair of chaps and handcuff him to pretty much every living being and object imaginable. They were going to shoot crazy big guns in the desert and drive super fast cars down the desert highway.
And, while a few people thought I was crazy letting my fiance go wild in Vegas three weeks before our wedding, I didn't think too much about it. And I was right not to because - as it turned out - Vegas wasn't exactly the endless party they thought it would be. The combination of jetlag, an over-eager boozing session on the first night - and their newfound fondness for comfy beds and a good night's sleep - meant that most days were spent snoozing by the pool and, bar one blowout pub golf session, wandering around and enjoying a few drinks in the casinos.
"So? Come on! Dish out the crazy stories!" I asked expectantly on his return, anticipating a torrent of toxic tales of debauchery, nudity and extreme inebriation akin to 'The Hangover.'
"There's really not much to tell," he replied, melting into the sofa - looking blissfully happy to be returning to his 'pipe and slippers' lifestyle. Was it a case of 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas'? Or were they past their party-loving prime? "If it had been ten years ago, it would have been carnage," he added, sleepily, as if reading my mind. As I closed the door, I relived some of the craziest moments of my hen do, and smiled to myself in satisfaction.
words Rebecca Matthews
Copyright Wed magazine 2013
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