I got that e-mail today. The circular from friend X which goes: "... and Y is finally making an honest woman of his fiancee...". Good on you guy, about time, right thing to do.

Then, further down, buried in the text is this bloodcurdler, the words to dread: " ...and he's asked me to organise a stag weekend for him ". What...but...but...but... how did this get through my spam filter! Y is a great guy, utter respect, but this....and being organised by X as well ! Might as well be triple XXX - he's a notorious beer hound. Getting the chest pains.

Calm down, draw breath, check it's meant for me, never know, might be a rogue mail meant for someone else...no... no... no...it is...they want me !

Believe me, no man, apart from maybe a few recidivist hardcore party or die types, stands with open arms and a warm smile, waiting for this particular e-mail to drop in to the in-box. It's the moment when the heart sinks, the shoulders slump, the stomach churns, and the self-recriminations flare up like measles: "But I told myself after the last, never, ever again...! Don't you remember the constant low level bitching, don't you ever learn? Well, don't you!"

This is the modern day draft paper, it really is, in fact I'd rather be conscripted. A stag weekend in Germany. Imagine ten Brits abroad in the land of Beer, nine drinkers, and then me. Already having the sleepless nights just thinking about it. It's not like being British is a passport to being popular overseas either.

I've walked the long road that a stag weekend really is many, many times; invariably uphill, long, drawn out, painful and bone weary. Arguments, bickering, squabbling, enforced bonhomie. Calvary. And this if it goes well too...

Only ever enjoyed a handful: one, a relative's, the others, those of two close friends.

Don't doubt, that today's Margaret Mead White, or any anthropologist come to that with penchant for group dynamics, would rub their hands with glee at the prospect of charting this fetish, because that's what it is, fetishistic, ritualised behaviour. But actually being in one....now, different experience. Really. Even from far away I hear the tumbrils...

What do I do if X the organiser hands out team T-shirts before we board the plane? I've seen that. Groups of pasty faced Brits skulking in low corners with shirts printed with the groom's name, some half-baked slogan and the date. What do I do if that happens? Tell him, I'm allergic to all fibres, manmade and organic? Or a club, they might decide to go to a club, a club...Oh God...

Should I stay or should I go?