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laugh. ‘You really can’t say that word, can you, mate?’
    ‘I have no wish or no need to,’says Craig calmly. Then he asks, ‘Don’t you like Jenny?’
    ‘She’s a fair enough bird. Seems to have her head screwed on. Maybe a bit bossy.’I grimace when I think of the numerous occasions she’s given me earache because Tom has come home paralytic after a night out with the boys. Like that’s my fault? ‘Nice pair of legs and all that but, he’s
marrying
her. I just don’t see the point in going the whole nine yards.’
    ‘I don’t suppose you do,’says Craig. I don’t really like his tone; it’s almost pitying. Twat. Mate. But a twat. Craig goes on, ‘Anyway, he’s marrying her in ten weeks’time so can we stop with the theatrical surprise and the public grieving and can we turn our attention to the stag night? That is why we are here, after all.’
    ‘Suppose,’I agree. ‘Soon as I get another pint in. You’ll have one this time, won’t you buddy?’
    When I return from the bar Craig has converted the pub into something that looks a lot like a war room, one of those you see on old black and white movies. He has produced a spreadsheet list of invitees, including postal addresses, e-mail addresses and their most recent contact numbers (mobile, work, home). He’s drawn up a list to suggest possible venues for the stag and another list where he’s ‘brainstormed’ideas for entertainment. I notice that many of the venues have already been scored out. In angry red letters he’s written ‘TOO LATE’. The words seem to take on a life of their own and are screaming accusingly at me. The big red letters shout panic as they become larger and areaccompanied by an increasing number of exclamation marks as you move further down the list. I know this is why Craig has been brought on board.
    Tom got engaged six months ago and asked me to be Best Man on the spot. Obviously, I said yes; doesn’t being Best Man guarantee that I get to sleep with a bridesmaid, maybe two? But other than picking out some cool cufflinks for me to wear on the day I haven’t done a huge amount of prep. Jenny got a bit arsy with me. Said I was in denial. Not true, just idle. Look, I get paid to organize all day, draw up charts, weigh up risks, make tough decisions, etc. I don’t enjoy doing it in my free time. So Jenny insisted that Craig should become Co-Best Man. His talents for organization and his particular line in sobriety and reliability offered a yin to my yang. Fine by me. The more the merrier. As I say, petty jealousy and a world full of imagined slights are exclusively girlie domain.
    ‘The way I see it, mate, the split of duties should go something like this. You find the venue, I’ll supply the booze. You draw up a list of blokes you think we should invite and I’ll call them up.’
    Craig looks relieved and pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘That sounds fine. What do you think we should do on the Saturday afternoon? Archery?’
    ‘Paintballing.’
    ‘Should we stay at a country hotel?’
    ‘B and B – more cash for booze.’
    ‘Absolutely no strippers. Jenny has made that clear. She’d never forgive me.’
    ‘Course not, Craig, mate,’I say reassuringly and make a mental note to sort out the stripper. Tom would never forgive me if I didn’t.
    We wade through the detail of the stag weekend, agreeing on a venue, menu, guest list and entertainment. We settle on paintballing during the day and wine-tasting in the evening – clearly that’s Craig’s suggestion. Wine-tasting sounds a bit up itself but might be a laugh, and anyway I conceded because he agreed to go to a tacky nightclub afterwards. After an hour or so we pretty much knock the event into shape. I type a list of to-dos into my BlackBerry, dictated by Craig, and I relax back on the bar stool. Mentally I sigh with relief. I feel smug. I don’t think Tom will be disappointed in any way.
    ‘Good work, Craig, mate. Couldn’t have done it without