On Monday of this week, I picked up a message on Facebook from my hairy friend, who – since we last saw him – has taken part in such activities as “get a hot girlfriend”, “marry her”, “move to America” and “fatherhood”. He was apologetic for not being able to come to my wedding this summer, and even more so for not being able to attend my stag.
While I was able to understand the first bit, the second was a little more mystifying. As far as I’m aware, I don’t even have a stag planned.
And then I got the message from 47.
All set for Saturday?
Next Saturday, sure. We’re going up to Manchester to see James – that’s been planned for months. Unless, of course, I have that wrong and it’s this Saturday.
Not talking about James.
And now I’m confused.
So I hit up my groomsmen group chat on WhatsApp (yes, I have WhatsApp; yes, I use group chats; yes, I have groomsmen. I am painfully middle-class and aware of it, thank you.) and asked if there is, indeed, something happening this weekend, as I’d been getting hints but nothing concrete.
My answer came from Mane Jr.
Who let slip about the concrete?
Which didn’t really tell me much.
I got back to 47 and was reminded to keep Saturday free and also have a clear sofa tomorrow night (I mean, I don’t, but I can arrange one). But there was still something
relatively unexplained. In the end – and I should have done this earlier – I decided to ask Robinson, who a few months ago I asked to arrange a stag. I wasn’t even sure if he was doing so.
Instructions to follow.
And I’ve had nothing from him in the three days since.
So here I am.