You have 48 hoursAhh, the stag night. I haven't actually been on a traditional stag night - my own was undermined by my (successful) attempts at avoiding some of the usual humiliating rituals - so on this Saturday night, with a dozen other lads out to celebrate a good mate's impending nuptials, I was technically a stag-night virgin, and, as a result, vaguely nervous at what the night held in store ("four venues! four activities!" announced the night's organiser).

Things started out innocently enought - an hour or so of shooting pool while watching the Crusaders/Highlanders game at the Ballroom on Courtenay Place. I'd arrived first after dropping my wife off at the equivalent 'hen's night' up the road, so had some time to practise while waiting for the other boys to arrive. I just about cleared the table off the break in my first solo game, was shooting like a total gun for the next half or so, and then the other lads arrived and my game went to custard. Typical.

The evening's organiser introduced us to 'Suzy' - the disembodied head of a mannequin to whom we were entrusted with looking after for the evening. There was, in fact, a polaroid at hand, and a small book entitled 'How to Treat a Lady' into which snapshots of us showing Suzy a good time were to be entered into, to be ultimately handed over to the soon-to-be bride, to show that, yes, her man (and his male friends) did know how to show a lady a good time.

Venue #1 (the pool room was merely a rallying point) was the Courtenay Place TAB. What's a more manly pursuit, after all, than hanging around a TAB, flitting your dosh away on the nags? I daringly put $5 on a 40-1 outsider to place in the first race I could find, and nearly had a stroke of beginners luck when my horse (Bella Starr) led the field from the start, only getting pipped in the last 50 metres, when, it must be said, the entire rest of the field swooped past her. Must have hit her wall, or something. The group decided we should move to venue #2 - the Cambridge Hotel - for a couple of manly jugs and to watch the rest of the races that the boys had bets on.

The group stopped in at one of the lad's offices to drop off bags, jackets and whatnot, and to take the chance to have an evening-enhancing smoke in a private environment. Some laughing gas was produced and partaken. We were well set for the evening, and all I needed to set myself right was a quick toilet break before heading off to the pub (which would no have one of those doubt terrifying communal piss-walls, where stage-fright is forever an impediment to a good whizz). And this, as they say, is when it all went horribly wrong...

As I stood there in the toilet, I found myself looking at a sticker stuck to the wall above the toilet tank. "You have 48 hours," it said. Do I? I thought. I wonder what for? I finished up, zipped up and washed up, then walked out into the central corridor that connected the various offices in the building together. It was pitch black. Everyone had left. I dashed to the door that led downstairs, found the lock, opened it, tried to snib it so it would lock behind me on the way out, and then saw that the last person out was locking up the downstairs door at the bottom of the long and dark stairwell that connected the office complex to the street below. It was just like a film, and I'd swear I shouted in slo-mo: "Nooooooo!" I knew the bottom door was a deadbolt, but I dashed down anyway, hoping my memory was flawed on this fact. It wasn't. And then, faaaark! Had I just snibbed the upstairs door as well? Was I to be trapped in this dark stairwell until someone realised I was missing? Thankfully, no - the upstairs door was a deadbolt as well, so I at least had access to, well, what? A dark upstairs office complex, the doors to the various offices all appearing to be locked. My first thought was: fire escape - there must be a way out onto the street somewhere via a window and ladder or something. I stumbled around in the dark, found my way back to the toilet where there was a small window. I could have struggled out with some keen twising and contorting, but only if I'd wanted to plunge six metres straight down into the alley below. So, more exploring. There was a kitchen area that wasn't locked, but offered about the same option as the toilet, and around the corner from that, a dis-used junk room where some previous incarceree seemed to have reached the same sort of dead-end as me, and had punched out the centre of a large locked window, scattering broken glass onto a small ledge below, (from which it still would have been a one-storey jump into the alley below). Whoever had broken the glass had either given up on the idea, or cut themselves to shreds getting out, as most of the glass was still hanging in the window, and I was loath to go through all the smashing and associated noise in order to get myself to a point where I might or might not risk a broken bone by leaping for freedom. No fire escape.

At this point I really wish I had a mobile phone. You have 48 hours, I thought. I was to be stuck in here all weekend? And Monday? At least I'd have a fullproof excuse to give my wife about not attending the inevitable strip club. "I didn't go! I was locked in an office!"

Slight paranoia was starting to creep in now, so I tried to distract my mind by looking for another means of escape. I tried all the doors leading off the corridor, and, finally (thankgod thankgod thankgod), a door swung open. I could see the blinking lights of computers in the dark of the room. Yes! Computers are my friends. Surely there was a phone in here somewhere. I felt saved. It was still pitch black though, despite the odd blinking LED, and I really needed some illumination to find out what use any of this technology was. Buggered if I could find a light-switch, despite scrabbling around on the wall all around the door frame. I got to my knees and found one of the PC towers. I turned it on. Voila! The happy cathode-tube glow of the monitor sparking to life gave me enough light to see that there was a table-lamp on the corner of one of the desks. I turned this on. Brilliant. Underneath the lamp was a phone and the white pages. I knew at least three of the guys on the stag night had mobiles, so it was only a matter of getting their numbers, and giving them a call. None of them were in the phonebook. I rang home and got the number of the groom-to-be and bride-to-be from our babysitter. I rang them both, and got answer messages. I left messages: "Ahhh, yeah, hi, it's James. I'm locked in [----]'s office downtown. Can you get someone to save me? Thanks." I figured that, since I had time on my side, I may as well try and get hold of the other lads there, and proceeded to track down another couple of potentially useful numbers by ringing the home phone of another husband/wife team who were on the simultaneous stag/hen nights. I knew their cell-phone numbers were stored on their answer message, so just needed it to ring through to get them...

"Hello?" says a pleasant sounding voice with an English twang.
Ah, hadn't been expecting this. Ummm...
"Ah, hi. Um, my name's James, and I'm out on a stag night with [-----], and I've got myself locked into a building in town somewhere. You don't happen to have his mobile number on you, do you?"
"Ah, hell, no! I do have his wife's though."
"That would be great, I can call her and get her to ring him."
"Great, here it is."
I got it. I now knew that the chances were that she'd be on answer-phone as well (the ladies were partaking in belly-dancing lessons we'd been told, so may not have been checking their mobiles as regularly as I would have liked), so I thought I may as well get [-----]'s number while I was at it...
"That's great, thanks. Hey, I'm just going to ring back - can you let it ring on to the answerphone, the other number I need is on their answer message."
"Oh, ok, and good luck with getting out!"
"Cheers, yes."
I rang back. The phone got picked up.
"Hello?"
"It's me."
"Oh, hell, sorry..."
I rang again. This time I just got a quick click. Nearly there...
Third time lucky, but, again, both the numbers I had got me straight through to answer messages. I left my plaintive call for help on those phones, and started to work on my next ploy.

The pub! Of course! Just ring the pub, I knew where the lads were, after all. Ring the Cambridge and get them to pass me onto the guy in the bar carrying around the mannequin's head. How could I have been so stupid? (Yes, yes, smoke, nitrous, etc.) I got the number from the white pages, rang it, and got into their automated phone system, from which I eventually got onto the bar's line, which went straight onto hold. I held for about 5 minutes, during which time the tiny phone speaker blared out some pretty stonking hip-hop beats - just the sort of thing I imagine the Cambridge clientele are really into, but didn't inspire me into thinking anyone at the bar was going to answer it in a hurry. I was in a pro-active mood by now, so did another ring around of the mobile numbers I had - still no joy. I was wondering if I could get an internet connection on one of the three or four computers that were scattered around the office, and get one of my online buddies to send a messenger around to the Cambridge, when I heard the downstairs door rattle. I was saved!

Yes, much hilarity at my expense on rejoining my companions at the pub - but, already it was a night to remember. The big bottles (no jugs, mores the pity) were coming out thick and fast, as a couple of the boys had had good wins on the fillies, and we tanked up in preparation venue #3, where we were booked in for a couple of games of...

LaserForce. Running around with laser guns and targets, shooting each other - very manly. I was a dab hand in my younger days, playing every friday night with some friends, so I rather rated myself tonight. The suits you wear are all have name-plates on them. I was Radar - this seemed fitting, somehow. Having suited up and been given a quick rundown on the rules, the two teams entered the arena ... and everything went hazy green. At first I thought there was lots of dry ice and weird green lighting, but I quickly figured out that my glasses have some sort of coating on them that react to the UV-light that makes its glow like crazy in the same way it does to your teeth and finger nails. So I was essentially looking through this glowing green haze for the entire time. We had two games, a team v. team effort, then ten minutes of every-man-for-himself mayhem, and I was waaayyyy down the bottom of the stats for both.

We had a group breather at that point - the strip club was next, and I think we needed to get some mental resolve issues sorted out before heading that way. Some lads went for kai, and the rest of us stayed in the Laserforce foyer playing some spacies. I finally got the gumption up to give the Dance Dance Revolution (or whatever flavour it was) game a go, which also gave me my opportunity for my photo-op with Suzy - after all, what better way to treat a lady than to take her dancing? Unless it's dancing with me, of course. "You are Loser!" the game informed me after my first spastic effort. It wasn't until about a third of the way into my second game that I figured out I shouldn't just be standing there stabbing my feet at the appropriate footpad when told to, but actually bouncing around a bit in time to the music (aha! yes, dancing I think they call it), so you just need to realign your stance to hit the targets at the appropriate time. Duh. Even with that revelation, it was still: "You are Loser!" I figure what I need is an equivalent game where you could stand there, motionless, a beer in one hand, and have well-timed head nod score you points.

So yes, first time DDR player, and now, as the lads walked into the often seen, but (for me, can't vouch for the others) never crossed threshold of Santa Fe, first time strip-club goer. $15 to get in, and, out of $20 I got some funny money for change. There's an 'official Santa Fe' currency, wouldn't you know? Same thing happened when I went to buy a drink (I noticed that all the drinks were cunningly priced at whatever dollars and fifty cents, forcing you to break bigger notes, and get their own currency as change). Our group probably doubled the total audience size, and we crowded around a couple of tables to watch the entertainment. Now, well, yes, um, it was quite entertaining. We caught the end of one girl's show, and while another blond started the slow removal of her relatively skimpy costume, the first one sidled down into the audience to earn a few tips. I quickly sussed the routine. She'd come up, you held out some of the funny money, and you got a routine that was in accordance with your tip. I imagine a bit of a lap-dance cost you $10 or $20 or something, but I wasn't to find out, as I took the married man's route out with the $2 'please-go-away' tip. It worked a treat. In fact, I suspect just about all the married men (and most of the single lads) took that route out with either a $2 or $5 tip, meaning, for the effort of walking around a table with her breats out, this young woman had just earned an extra $30-$50 or so. I had to laugh when I heard a guy at another table say "No, not tonight," and she replied, loud enough (but not too loud) for everyone else to hear: "Having a cheap night out are we dear?" Brilliant. Notes of every denomination appeared in hands around the room in an instant.

Nothing much else to report on that front. Our group, to a man, were extremely well behaved. Once the initial repressed-white-boy-embarassment had worn off, it was even a bit boring, and I found myself eyeing up the pool table, wondering if I could get someone to play. Talk was made of moving off to meet up with the hen night girls, who were at a bar across town, so we got our last drinks down, and looked to spend the last of our funny money. There was a small asian girl doing here thing around the poles at the time, so I joined the other lads with cash-to-burn on one of the side-stage tippers' stools, and waved my last $10 at her. She eventually caught sight of it, and came over in front to give me the $10 routine. It was pretty good. There are some steel pole beams that go across the roof above the stage, and she leapt up, did an upside-down splits that evoked cheers and applause from those assmbled. She was, I would like to point out, still wearing her entire costume at this point (red and black - very good - lacy knickers and bra), so there were no eye-watering views of anatomy that one doesn't normally see during gymnastic routines anyway. She then leapt down and stood directly in front of me. Crikey, I though, this is trouble. And it was. She put one foot on one shoulder, dropped backwards so her hands were on the ground, and lifted her other foot onto my other shoulder. I was staring up her legs, thinking about that woman in the 007 film who broke mens' necks with her thighs, wondering if my wonky glasses were going to stay on, and trying to think of what I should say to her should she really start to get jiggy with it. As my mind was racing with all this, she just stayed in that intial position, wriggling in a totally non-erotic manner, obviously trying to find her balance. She then pulled her feet off my shoulders, went into a squat in front of me, lent forward, and whispered into my ear...
"You are too tall."
"Eh?"
"You are too tall, I cannot do it properly. If you would just bend down..."
Saved! Again! From whatever 'it' was.
"Ahaha, no, that's fine, thanks very much."
"Thank you, " she said, as I nimbly tucked the $10 funny money into her bra, "have a nice night."
"No, thank you, " I said.

And that was it. I left the boys behind when I realised the time was "two fucking thirty. No way!" and jumped in a cab home.
"Good night?" asked the driver.
"Yeah, except for getting locked in an office for half an hour."
He hesitated, perhaps not sure if I was taking the piss or not, so I took the inititiative and asked him if he knew the final score in the cricket for the day, which totally put him at ease and opened him up like a can of beans. We quickly got onto chatting about his efforts in club cricket that day, and when lightly pressed, his cricket career in general. His top club score was 73, and he'd scored 50+ three times. He'd scored a couple of centuries at school ("Happy memories") but was disappointed not to have done the same at club level. We then moved onto global politics (by way of the recent India/Pakistan one-day seres, which seems to have done more to ease tensions in the region than years worth of diplomacy), but had barely touched on the Afghanistan situation when he dropped me home in Island Bay. Cricket, though, how good a conversation starter is it?
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