Stag Weekend: The Rules

Stag Weekends need rules. An order, to enhance the experience for all as they celebrate the significant ending of their friend's single life and the beginning of true manhood. Rules which unite all men in equality. Apart from The Stag, who needs to suffer for putting some girl before the rest of his lads. The fool.

The Rules
1. The groom-to-be is to be referred to for the duration of the night/weekend/week as 'The Stag' at all times. 'The Stag' variants are also permissible (e.g. Stagger, Stagatron, Bambi). A forfeit is required for anyone who calls The Stag by their real name.

2. Each of the non-stags is allowed to create their own title, which The Stag must then use for the duration of the night/weekend/week. Since The Stag gets his own pretentious title, so should everyone else. A forfeit is required if The Stag calls a non-stag by their real name.

3. From 7pm (or your own designated hour) until the following sunrise, The Stag is not allowed to choose their own drink. If he requires a drink, a non-stag must select one for him. Anything fluid enough to be swallowed is deemed a drink.

4. If The Stag requires the toilet, he must request the permission of a non-stag. The non-stag must flip a coin; if The Stag guesses the side of the flipped coin correctly, he can use the facilities. If he guesses incorrectly, he must wait another 10 minutes before he can ask again. If he is caught relieving himself without permission, a forfeit is required.

5. At any point during the night/weekend/week, a non-stag can declare 'Waterhole'. When 'Waterhole' is declared, The Stag must consume the nearest drink, even if it isn't his. This may result in having to mine-sweep, or drink washing up liquid. It is non-negotiable.

6. The Stag must turn over his phone at the start of the night/week/weekend. He is not allowed any contact with the outside world. Non-stags can use his phone as they see fit.

7. It is the duty of the best man to send a message to the fiancé along the lines of "Ignore that last txt, he's ok now", or "Just out of A&E and it's been reattached".

8. Non-stags can add new rules at any point during the night/week/weekend. If The Stag challenges the new rule, he must receive a forfeit.

So long as the Stag isn't injured or receives any damage which will effect the wedding photos, anything goes. Eyebrows take a month to grow back.

Alternative Drinking Game
Everyone knows Ring of Fire, Kings and Boat Races. They succeed in lubricating an evening, yet they are quite unimaginative in their scope. For a drinking game with a difference, attempt to play The Box Game.

• Find a cardboard box. An empty beer box is ideal, one end open, the other closed. Place the box on the floor, with the open end pointing to the ceiling (room for maneuvering around the box is essential). 
• Each player must take it in turns to pick up the box using their teeth, and their teeth alone. Only their feet are allowed to make contact with the floor; use of elbows, knees, or forehead/nose is not allowed. You can balance yourself by gripping your own ankles/legs. You must bend, lean and stretch in order to pick up the box. 
• Each player is allowed three attempts to pick up the box. If the player fails to pick up the box, they must see off a pint. If the player succeeds, the go through to the next round. 
• Before the next round commences, each of the successful players must drink a shot of a chosen beverage. The top inch of the box is then ripped off; the players must thus stoop lower in order to pick up the box. This process then continues, seeing the successful players finding it harder to pick up the box due to the box becoming smaller with each round, and more alcohol entering their system with each round. 
• If the players are talented at this game, you will see the box reduced to a single sheet of cardboard with no edges at all. At this point, the remaining players must attempt to pick up the cardboard at the same time. They cannot use their hands to unbalance each other, but headbutting is allowed. The winner is the one who successfully manages to 'suck up' the piece of cardboard. 

It should be noted that trousers are at risk of being ripped, whilst others may face-plant the floor. Happy Boxing. 

Aged Cat

The family cat, Tipsy, is 11 this year. She is slowly falling apart, but she's still awesome. Here's to her. 

Click to enlarge. Stroke to cause purr that moves cushions and shatters sleep.  

Can I help?

I've been working in a 'trendy' high street shop in Oxford for three weeks now. I must insist that the following views in no way reflect the thoughts of this shop, and shouldn't be used in a way that might get me into trouble or cause me to lose my job. Please. Thanks.

I like to think I suit retail work. I'm anal (grow up) about neatness, and thus continuously tidying isn't too much of a chore. I like smiling, I like clothes, but most of all, I like helping people. These traits are also beneficial if you're a stripper, but I don't have the body. Or the bottle.

In these three short weeks of tidying and being as helpful as possible, I have managed to make a continuous tit of myself. My good intentions have often resulted in either myself, or my customer, becoming sweaty, embarrassed,  and wishing they'd never come into the shop.

A common frustration with working in Oxford is down to the vast number of tourists the city attracts. This isn't about to become an "I'm not racist, but..." blog. They bring in a vast amount of money, and recognise the beauty of the city which many of its locals seem to ignore. But... The vast majority of customers that will come into our shop are excitable Spanish girls, wanting nothing more from their trip to foggy little England than a pen. With a Union Jack on it, if possible. Maybe a hoodie, at a push. They arrive in groups of 8, shuffling around the shop, looking quite confused and a little scared. I, being a helpful tit, usually wonder over with a broad grin and ask in the most polite, middle class way possible, "Hey there guys, how can I help? Are you looking for anything in particular?"

This results in one of two responses. Many choose to completely ignore me. They smile, put down whatever they were looking at, and quite literally run to the other side of the shop. Once, a girl screamed. Another time I was given a look which might suggest that "Can I help?" translates into the worst "Your mama" Spanish joke ever uttered. The other reaction is even less productive. Almost all of the Spanish, Italian, French and German tourists who wonder into our shop have far better linguistic skills than I could ever possibly hope to boast, but for many of them, the term "Can I help?" is one of mystery. I know the feeling. Despite getting an A in GCSE Spanish, all I could talk about was my holiday, tell you why I took my cat to the vet, and talk about the weather. If someone were to ask me if they could "help me" in an unfamiliar language, my response would probably be the same as theirs. They visibly die of awkwardness and fear. Two or three of their friends will walk over, wide eyed, fearing that they might have just been asked to leave. If I repeat, "Is everything ok there?", confused looks are usually exchanged, before one of them offers up a tentative "No thank you!"

When I'm not scaring tourists, I'm usually insulting paying customers. Unwittingly, I assure you. I am yet to learn how to deliver the line "I'm sorry, but we don't accept American Express", without causing the paying individual to react in a way which might suggest that I've just spat in their eye and cursed their children. "You don't accept American Express?", they ask you. If you repeat it, it only makes it worse, so you grovel and explain that it's the store policy - I myself, as an individual working at the store, haven't decided that I personally don't like American Express and will thus be refusing it - as though the next day I won't be taking any MasterCards. I haven't yet mastered the art of letting the AmEx payer down gently. I might buy a small pot of lollipops to put behind the counter, Dentist style; should they appear a touch enraged (trust me, it's definitely rage that flashes in their eyes upon receiving the rejection), out comes the lolly and all is well again.

My other cock-ups can all be put down to over-enthusiasm. One girl couldn't find a flipflop she wanted, and was asking the manager, who also seemed a touch stumped. I bounced in, asking what the problem was. "She's looking for a size 41", the European sizing. "Oh, that's a size 8!" Girl goes red, manager attempts not to giggle. "She knows that... I just didn't know if we had any." Oh... so I've now told the whole shop that this girl has feet the size of a boat, and she didn't want them to know? I'll go and tidy something sharp and pointy...

Another time, a woman was unsure if she liked the dress she was trying on, and asked that I might "rate her out of ten". I panicked. "Eight, I'd say". "Really? I don't know, I don't think I'm wearing the right underwear..." Erm... does this require a response as well? I felt it best not to offer my thoughts as to the customer's underwear, and went to find something that might need folding. I once started a friendly conversation with a fairly pretty woman who was browsing the jeans, only to regret having ever approached her as her 6-foot-massive muscle bound boyfriend lurched across the shop, in a vest, to make sure that everything was "Alriiite mate?" It was, so long as I could keep my teeth.

The other problem I encounter, which is by no volition of my own, results from the lack of privacy near the changing rooms. Many mums come in with their daughters, wanting to find them something pretty for the summer. Mums seem impervious to embarrassment if they are shopping for their child, and so don't EVER bother to ask them if they've finished changing before they fling the curtain open judge them, as though revealing a prize at a the world's most unsuitable summer fete. "MUM! CLOSE IT NOW!" "Oh shush darling, no one can see." We can see, but trust us, we wish we couldn't. A queue of shoppers and myself now stare awkwardly at their shoes, their clothes, the ceiling, anywhere that won't embarrass the teenage girl now whispering threats at their blissfully unaware mother.

I shall continue to be keen and helpful in the hope of providing good service to my customers. I just need to get better at not terrifying tourists, insulting AmEx owners or apparently underrating women in dresses. So long as I just keep smiling, and always make sure the customer is right, I can't go wrong. I'll let you know when I get fired...

Sales

Shopping as a man sucks. I don't mean to imply that I dress as a woman whenever I hit the high streets (each to their own), but rather that whenever I shop for a girl, or with a girl, I do so with far more success.

My earliest memories of shopping are of the 'back to school' variety. As August begins to tail away into September, mothers of the country are united in a wave of anxiety as the look upon their darling little ones and realise the blessed poppets have decided to grow a few inches - everywhere. Their feet, their legs, their arms - without even considering to ask if they were allowed to do so. So it's into the car and off to the nearest town centre big enough to play host to a Clarks and a BHS.

From my very introduction to the sport, shopping as a man has disappointed. I would accompany my mum and both my sisters in search of new, bigger school uniforms. Were we to spend 30 minutes in a shop, 5 minutes would be spent finding out how long my legs, arms and feet had become, hopefully finding something that would cover me up for another 6 months. Once I was newly clothed, it was on with the shopping for the girls. They always took longer. Girls, even when deciding on something as bland as a school uniform, have more options than men. There are skirts, and tights, and leggings, and trousers, and blouses, and shoes, and a new coat, and a new bag. The most exciting variables I encountered were whether I wanted my shoes to have laces or velcro.

For 25 minutes my mum would have to turn her attentions to my sisters, and I was left to wonder around the shop. Except that at the age of 6, when you can't pronounce pedophile and have no concept of kidnapping, getting lost in a shop is probably the greatest fear you have in life, and thus I never really wondered around. Which meant I had to face up to the second greatest fear in my young life. Women's underwear.

Most shop floor layouts will see women's underwear situated next to the female-only changing rooms. This might be because women don't like it if strange men can see them picking up their secret frilly things, and so hide underwear deep into the female-only territory. This results in many young school boys waiting by the changing rooms for their sisters to try on what seems like every single skirt in the shop, surrounded by boob-shaped clothes. There is no comfortable direction in which to look for a boy in this situation. White, black and pink lacy things scream at you from every surface. From the dull to the racey, everything is insanely foreign, wrong, and sexy. Attractive teenagers are pick things up, clearly thinking of buying them, and wearing them. Guilt, fear and excitement flood your prepubescent mind. And all you've got to take your mind away from the breast-fest is your drab new school shoes. Have you ever counted how many tiny hooks there are on pair of velcro shoes? I have...

And the experience never really improves for men. Walk into a shop, and the first thing you will see is women's clothes (unless it's a men's only shop (not a porn shop), in which case it probably only sell suits - and unless you work in 'The City', chances are you will only ever own 2 suits, which is a shame). A woman will never, ever have to look for her clothing section upon entering a shop. It will be thrown at her, both visually and sometimes even physically (some shop assistants are just too keen). Sale items this way, current season that way, underwear at the back near the changing rooms. When a man enters a shop, he must do so with enthusiasm, a conviction, that he will find something worth buying. He must first track down the men's section, which is almost always upstairs or at the back of the store (via the underwear). Upon finding it, he must then attempt to look for something which a) isn't what everyone else is wearing and b) isn't what he's already wearing. Far too often, a perusal of the t-shirts will turn up a few weird logos (skulls, faded fake oil/racing brands and a variation on "Summer of 1978 Tennessee Fest-off" are usually the main offerings), a rummage through the shirts will turn out nothing but lumber-jack-checked horror shows, and the jeans are either skinny or baggy. You could buy a pair of chinos, but you don't really know what they're for. Are they smart? Not really. Are they casual? Not really. What shoes do I wear with them? Boat shoes. I don't own a boat...

Some stores also sacrifice an appealing men's range by squeezing in a homeware area in the gap at the back of the shop - the sort of thing you don't go shopping for, but find when you least expect it. "Cushions," you think to yourself, "I could do with a few more cushions. And a pot plant. Intelligent people have cushions and pot plants. I shall buy some, for I am intelligent also." Homeware is a term that only exists thanks to consumerism. A more accurate label might be 'stuff' - I don't have a house full of homeware, I have a house full of stuff. Somewhere between the shop, the boot of your car and your living room, all those cushions and pot plants ceased to be homeware and became stuff. It's a magical process.

Confusingly though, I enjoy shopping. I just can't do it that well for me. I understand the pleasure a girl takes in shopping - when you pick up a nice top, the first thought is not "What do I have that goes with this?", but rather "What have they got that goes with this...". I know the difference between a Maxi and an A-Line dress, but I also know the offside rule, and I'm still nervous if I get too close to the women's underwear section on my own. And yet there's an odd pleasure in finding a pencil skirt to match the new blouse, like a warped treasure hunt. Then there's the handbag and shoe combination to think about. Maybe a waist belt too...

I just wish men had as many options for shopping as women get. Next time you're wondering through a sale, compare the range of discounts offered to each gender. Men's will normally always be half the size. "But women do more shopping than men, of course they get more choice!" - I agree. But the population of the earth is a nice even 50-50 split, and the last time I went out, all men wore clothes, so clearly they all shop as well. We just shop in boring, out of the way sections of the shop, where very little thought has been put into presentation and variation. When the most exciting event to have occurred in men's clothing in the last decade was the revival of the cardigan, you know things are dull.

If I had my way, men would get the same choice we had in the Victorian period. Waistcoats, pocket watches, ties, bow ties, suits, morning suits, lounge suits, hunting jackets, top hats, canes, coats and braces. Men had fun deciding what they got to wear (so long a you owned a factory run by orphans), just like women do now. I could still dress like I'm part of the gentry, but I'm 22 and don't own a country house and a town house, so I don't really get to. So maybe I should just try a cardigan. With some chinos. And some boat shoes. Just like my granddad.

Maps

I love a good map me. Were I ever to wonder as to why I'm a single 22 year old with a part time job who still lives with his parents, my search would begin and end quite abruptly with this single admission (that and my one time affection for the Young Ornithologists Club. Interests: Birds and Maps. Says a lot). But maps are cool. Really cool.

A map does far more than tell you where you are, although geography is clearly a central facet of cartography. If you've got a map, you've got a tool, a little window of understanding, an insight into far more than knowing which hill goes where. Honest.

The power a map can have over us (if ever there were an opener to a sentence that resulted in readers hitting the 'Close Window' button, I'd say "The power a map can have over us..." would be a pretty nifty contender - but I hope I'm wrong) is very easily demonstrated:

This map looks... odd. Not wrong, just odd. If you or I were to be asked to draw a rough impression of where the world's continents were situated, I'd bet my house (ok, I'd bet my parent's house) that you wouldn't draw a map like that, because north is up. But it isn't. South is just as up as north - a magnetized needle will indicate in which directions the Earth's magnetic poles are, and thus find you the direction of both north and south. The priority that north has is, to an extent, subjective. It helps us to describe our world with a united understanding, north = up and south = down.

I would suggest that an upside down map like the one above serves only one useful purpose. It's a pedantic tool for referencing where things are, it's a snide challenge of 'norms', a map that no one would use, but probably hangs on the wall of the offices of Political Correctness (you'll also notice that Europe isn't at the centre of the above map either). The useful purpose of an upside down map is simply in breaking the symbolic power of a 'normal' map, or rather, to call into question what we want a map to show us. We have faith in a map that we know, in the same way that we have faith in a symbol. The above map is just as 'correct' a description as a normal map, but it would struggle to catch on. It can't overpower the symbol we have already enshrined, with Africa and Europe in the middle, the American Continents dominating the left and the rest of Asia sloping off somewhere to the right. None of them have a fixed position, so to speak, and yet we have a very fixed location for them in the 'mind's eye'.

The power of this process - messing with a normal map's description of the world - is behind the thinking of a website which got me wanting to write a blog about maps in the first place. Worldmapper is a collection of world maps in which different subject of interests become the central descriptive variable -  or more simply, each map represents different statistics. Like this one:

The USA and Europe appear bloated, whilst Japan dominates the east. The South American and African continents barely register. It's a map which displays an aspect of wealth, although not in 'dollar-a-day' form. This map shows the distribution of patents granted in 2002 - that piece of paper which makes your special invention yours. If anyone copies it, you get to sue them. You get to charge other people for using your patented idea, licencing it to people, allowing you to generate money from your idea. Japan got a third of them. The USA got just under a third of them. The rest were split between Europe and China. If I were to see this information written down on a piece of paper, I'd flick my eyes over it and think "Yeah, that make's sense - ideas and big industry in the advance countries. What of it?". Those countries of the South American and African continents don't get a slice of the money making action. If knowledge is power, then only three groups really have any. 

This one, again from 2002 (they need a bit of an update) is a bit more lighthearted. India and the USA are the fatties. Is it fat people? No. Is it city populations? No. It's the number of films watched in the year. Almost 3 billion viewings occurred in India alone. Suddenly I understand why Bollywood is important...

So there you go. Maps are cool. Maps can show you a lot more than how to find a postcode. Go and have a look at Worldmapper. Go and find some weird maps that challenge you as to what you think a map should show you. Or don't. Go and live a normal life free from the pleasures of maps. Your call.