You call it “Marriage” but I call it “Slasher Horror Killfest”

I’ve been watching horror films ever since I was a kid. I used to love mindless slasher flicks. You know the ones. A beautiful group of late-teens embark on an adventure of fun and frivolity. They laugh, they cry, they screw, before they are massacred by a really angry man, one-by-one, until the pretty one remains, who manages to kill the sociopath in a disappointing and unrealistic manner before he opens his eyes dramatically after the credits. 

Yeah, that’s the one.

My love for these horror flicks is waning. Maybe it’s because every year I transcend further into a age group that can’t relate to teenagers who seem to wander into increasingly dangerous and torturous situations, just wearing sexy underwear. Maybe it’s those new skin-tight boxer shorts that all the hunks are wearing these days that are pushing me away. I gave them a go, but they just aren’t practical. White and skin-tight is a combination that can only cause distress to womenfolk.

However, I do remember a time when I used to run free, embarking on adventures of fun and frivolity with my teenage friends. It must be said, that we never had the money that most youngsters seem to have in the Hollywood blockbusters, so our adventures consisted of getting smashed down the park on cheap cider and hoping someone had left a few pages of a dirty magazine in a hedge somewhere. Also, my buddies and I probably couldn’t stand up to the  Beverly Hills’ hearthrobs that seem to conregate in groups like suicidal lemmings, who, instead of throwing themselves off cliffs, throw themselves into dark caves, cellars, torture chambers, etc, etc. Nope, me and my mates have been beaten so hard with the ‘ugly stick’ that it broke and forced God to go back to his workshop to forge himself something so brutal, that it has caused females of all species to run at the mere mention of our names. Luckily for us, he also invented Malibu and coke.

In retrospect, I don’t think I was ever in a position to relate to the kids in the slasher flicks, but still, as youngsters, we had fun. And, somehow, with our neanderthal looks, our socially retarded mannerisms, our poor personal hygiene and our not so whiter-than-white boxer shorts, we all managed to find ourselves lady friends. Real ones, too.

So why have I given this blog the title of “”Marriage” or “Slasher Horror Killfest”?” and gone on a rant about my inability to wear hunk underwear (or hunkawear)?  Well, I once considered marriage to be like a horror film. When I was younger, I sat back whilst, slowly, my friends were picked off, one by one…until I feared that only I’d remain.

 “I’m off on holiday, lads,” said Danny.

“Yes!” said I, “Where’re we going? Boys’ weekend in Prague would be class.”

I knew something was amiss as Danny awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m going to Paris with Sophie.”

“What?” say I, with the venom of ten thousand vipers.

“Weekend away. You know…with the missus?”

“I don’t bloody know, at all. Anyway, you can’t go. We play snooker on Fridays,” say I, cheated, neglected, wronged.

“I’m going to propose.”

“       “ say I.

“Sorry?” said Danny, confused as to why George Lucas had destroyed the very essence of the greatest fictional villain in history.

“You bloody will be. You can’t get married. You’ll be first, then Gary, then George,” say I, in desperation. ”Then it’ll just be me and Terry, and that means I’ll be in for it next because Terry is never going to get a woman, unless he gets back with Three-Tits-Tracey, which is unlikely ‘ cos now she is shacked up with that bloke who used to wheel out the star prize on Bullseye.” 

“I’ve got no idea what you are talking about?”

“DON’T LEAVE ME!”

Things change…

That was the young me. I’ve grown older and wiser. Do you know what? I’ve matured (hahahaha-no I haven’t-I still laugh when anyone says “come”).

This year, I’ve been on five stag dos and I’ve attended four weddings. I’ve been all across Europe. I’ve travelled from Lisbon to Latvia and from the Pyrenees to mighty Great Yarmouth. Through this, I have had my savings ripped from me, which means that I have never been further from the dizzying heights of billionairedom, as mentioned in my last blog:  ”If I Were a Rich Man.” I wouldn’t have it any other way. The chance to spend the last days of freedom with my mates and then celebrate their marriage to some absolute sweethearts (not to mention, absolute stunners) is something that i wouldn’t swap for the world.

There were the stag dos…

I’ve partied with Oompa Loompas, WWE wrestlers, transvestite school girls, Latvian hookers (in McDonalds), inbred villagers from Norfolk, several blow-up dolls, lifetime friends and new drinking companions, alike. I’ve drunk cider, bitter, lager, vodka, whisky, jagermeister, brandy, red wine, rose wine, white wine, champagne and something that had a bull on it. I’ve been ill. I’ve been very ill. I’ve had fun. I’ve had a lot of fun.

Then there were the weddings…

Four beautiful princesses and four dashing princes declaring their love for each other before throwing a massive party with their friends and family. It’s been so much fun and I have been honoured to be there and to be part of their special days. This blog is dedicated to all of my friends whose weddings/stags I’ve been to. I love you all immensely.

As a man grows older, he realises that he can’t continue the life of a lone wolf, a lone stallion, or even a lone tapeworm. Men are bad for each other. Real bad. Stag dos are testament to that. When we are left together we spend hundreds of pounds a day on alcohol and dancing girls; we stop eating actual food; we start to smell and are convinced that a quick spray of deodorant masks our putrid pheromones, whilst emitting the ones which will make dancing girls love us, and not just the money we are waving at them; we become even more arrogant and ignorant because there is no one to tell us that we are twats; we swear more; we balloon in weight; we flirt with girls nearly half and over twice our ages; we don’t change our jeans for months; we convince ourselves that Xbox is a sport; we subscribe to the Playboy Channel; we turn to shit.

Without women that is what we become.* Maybe you disagree. I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter.

“When is it your turn, Jacko?” you ask. I know you do. I’ve been with my beautiful lady for over six years and I must have been asked that question hundreds of times this year.

All I’ll say is that I’ll probably get married before that guy. Poor bastard.

 * Disclaimer: We also turn into this after five years of marriage, and then we assume that it is the woman who has let herself go. This is genetic. Do not mess with Mother Nature.