When this post goes live I’ll be somewhere in the vague and misty reaches of northern England, on a train returning from a weekend of gross and improbable mischief. This is of course assuming that I am, in fact, still alive. This is not something I can at the present moment guarantee since I am intending upon approaching this weekend with reckless abandon, fully intending on giving the coroner no choice but to return a verdict of death by misadventure. The source of this noble quest of self-destruction? A stag-do in Edinburgh. I have to date only been on one other stag-do and it was not what most people would categorise as a stag-do. For most people the prenuptial send off is all about wild, unrestrained and highly irresponsible debauching. The stag-do I went to involved us all traipsing round to by friends house, getting roaringly drunk and playing boardgames. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing of course. The lucky gentlemen who is to be the focus of the festivities in my good friend JP.