Stag

Someone asked me a damn good question this weekend whilst I was up in Manchester - why are stag do's called stag do's exactly?

Sadly I failed to answer the question for two very good reasons. One, I don't actually know the answer, which proved a bit of a problem (though as certain friends of mine will know, I can generally bullshit an answer with the best of them - PR career anyone?).

And two, I was a little (for which read exceedingly, utterly and completely) drunk at the time and had more important things to focus on - like where the next round was coming from, which hideous-tasting shot it was going to consist of, and whether it was time to whip out trusty 'Mr Maestro' to pay for it again.

Even after extensive research (well, Google and Wikipedia at least) I still don't know the answer, but rest assured the quest will continue.

On the plus side, the event was brilliant, fantastic and utterly worth the trip. It might be immature (and frankly a bit strange) to say, but there really are few better feelings than waking up the morning after a huge night out with good friends, with a shocking headache, an overbearing thirst for any kind of liquid and the prayer that you avoid natural light of any kind for at least another hour.

I've always been a great believer in the hangover, because it effectively forces you indoors and onto the sofa with fellow sufferers for several hours at a time. And in that time, you tend, though feeling overwhelmingly crap, to have a genuinely brilliant time chatting, laughing, watching crap TV and eating plastic food.

So it's with a fantastic sense of anticipation that I look forward to this Saturday which will feature two birthdays, a housewarming and an engagement party all rolled into one night with my closest friends in my favourite city.

All I can say is, bring on Sunday!