DAVES STAG DO 1974 AND ALL THAT

Another page from Dave's autobigraphy

1974 June 27th Stetford, Manchester aged 22

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Working on the gas conversion project from the Stretford works we had a regular lunchtime spot, a late Victorian red brick pub in Stretford The Gorse Hill, not far from United’s football stadium and the Old Trafford cricket pitch. Another pub which comes to mind The Quandrant was near my first crash pad in Manchester with Charles and Ruth Gilman, this had something of a shrine to the Busby Babes killed in the infamous plane crash, the pub was more memorable to me for retaining its piano and regular sing a long nights. Anyway back to the Gorse Hill which was the obvious choice for the stag do, no trips to Blackpool or Prague in those days, no cash either but a lunch time piss up the day before the wedding.

My best pal on the gas was Stan who had the rather dubious distinction of having been the youngest ever inmate at Manchesters notorious Strangeways prison, with a cauliflower ear and bent nose, thinning straggly hair Stan wasn’t the epitomy of style. All I asked was that I stuck to Gin and Orange, whatever the quantity I didn’t mind but don’t mix the drinks. Doubles became Quads etc, all the lads piled in and presents were received and yet more drinks lined up. By early afternoon I was seeing double, thoroughly drunk and absolutely incapable. Most people had already drifted back to work there was just a handful left with me including Stan also well oiled. As we left one of the others grabbed the presents for safe keeping as we spilled out onto the pavement. An unlucky passer by asked Stan if he’d got the time, Stan for no reason bopped him on the nose and floored him, the dazed and stunned man tried to get up, ‘I only asked the time’ he pleaded as Stan who then popped him again. This I decided was the time to get away and head for the safety of the gas works. Meanwhile a trail of events had already started to unfold there.

Amongst the returning drunken workforce were those with scores to settle freed by alcohol from inhibition. Our transport manager wasn’t the most popular person and the lad in the yard who drove the forklift poured vodka all over his office and set light to it. This lad was engaged to a westernised Pakistani girl called something like Dibble, he got the sack straight away and she broke off their engagement, we were still in the pub at that time. Arriving back we no longer had a fork lift truck driver, the conversion kits were piling up and help was required. I immediately volunteered, grabbed the fork lift truck, raised a pallet up on the forks to its highest level, unfortunately it happened to be the one which the yard sweeper had chained his bike to. I then careered around in circles still seeing double until someone managed to get me off and into a van back to Brundetts Rd.

I remember laying on the couch and a bucket under my head, at least they hadn’t mixed the drinks and I think these days it would have just equalled an average nights binge drinking but boy did I feel rough. Sick and sleep are quite good cures for the worst effects of drink and a spliff or two settled things down. I know we had hired a mini for our weekend honeymoon at Red Wharf Bay on Anglesey perhaps we used this to get up to Granby Row. Mandy used to work from an office above the registrar, this came to haunt her as the janitor thrust a broom in her direction when the confetti landed.

Our witnesses were Mandy’s cousin Trish plus Mary from Brundetts Rd. Although reconciled with Marion it was all too much of a rush for her to come up from Eastbourne, Mandy’s parents were there, friends and relations but not a big ‘do’, certainly no money left for a reception, we’d just ?5 left in our pockets. No video then just a few photos, some of which in black and white were taken by Mark Ashmore. I still carry one of these in my briefcase which causes endless amusement at work at the sight of my long hair, beard and dark glasses. I had a pair of jeans and bought a denim jacket to match, Mandy bought a denim skirt and had a white blouse, no expense spared I hear you think. A sign of the times I’m having a joint in the photos, both leaving Brundetts Rd and at the registry office, perhaps the last I ever had. The hotel at Red Wharf Bay had we discovered some 30 years later long since vanished, the site is now an old people’s home. When we stayed it was the annual Welsh ladies licensed victuallers do and we heard them singing well into the night.