Rob’s father will be fifty-four in two weeks and will think there’s something significant about the fact, about being twice the age of his son. He’ll take a swig of his can, and look to Rob’s father. He’ll just be glad to get out of Caerphilly for the weekend he’s been waiting months for this, has imagined how it all might go. Gareth will nod and Gareth will sympathise. ‘It’s covered in notes for this fuckin stag. ‘You should see my desk in work,’ Big Mike will say. He’ll spend the journey to the airport telling Gareth, and anyone who listens, that Rob had better never marry again, that he couldn’t handle the stress of organising another one of these. It will be crumpled and creased from the constant hand-scrunching and metronome swatting against his suitcase – the only check-in bag on the entire trip. The plastic polypocket will be wedged thick with flight tickets and hostel reservations. And Big Mike, the best man, will spend the first twenty minutes reading and rereading the A4 itinerary he typed up on MS Word. The five travelling from Caerphilly will drink on the minibus. He’ll tell them to bring euros and don’t bother packing shorts. The best man won’t tell them it’s Dublin until they get to Bristol Airport.
