Bremen was a riotous stag weekend. Sun, a surfeit of piña coladas, excessive tobacco
ingestion, an inordinate volume of Game of Thrones chat, and awkward encounters in a hotel with vaguely recognisable faces from back home in Edinburgh (Ryanair brings us plebs together).
Nine lads on a rampage, we did some silly things. We did some daft things. But the … thing I’m most proud of is the thing we didn’t do, and that’s visit the Beck’s Brewery. It would have taken four hours out of the itinerary, a needless sacrifice of pub crawling. One doesn’t need to know how these ethanol goodies are cobbled together; playing the consumer shall suffice.
I lost my phone, lost my shoes, lost my marbles (a few may be scattered by the River Weser), lost my footing several times on a stairwell, and found myself sat on my hotel balcony at 7:00 a.m. on the Monday morning reading Simon Sebag Montefiore’s biography of Joseph Stalin with a bottle of cheap-and-perfunctory Grappa and a curious squirrel anticipating each turn of the page. I also watched the Champions League final but I can’t remember anything from it. Some other stuff happened but it was mostly restricted to liquor libations. An enchanting trip.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 