I climbed Ben Nevis, supped my recommended weekly intake of booze each night (an easier task than the mountain, I promise you) and most strenuous of all, went go-karting.

This is my second go-karting excursion. Last time – another stag party – I had yet to pass my driving test, and came last.

This time, having passed my driving test six months ago, I came last.

Oh well. I've decided that go-karting is a bad thing to be good at.
It's basically a legitimised way of driving like a man insane.

Maybe I'm such a good driver that I'm incapable of driving insanely. Yeah, that must be it.
Anyway, it was exciting enough for me to be speeding around the track without a seatbelt or much in the way of a safety briefing, without bothering to get competitive about it.

At this point, a rather unflattering image of me might be developing in the reader's mind. Perhaps you see me, timidly pootling, arms aquake with girlish nerves, teeth gritted in a rictus of pale dread.

But it wasn't like that. No, sir. I stepped on it. I burned rubber. I crashed.
I blame the Scottish accent, which rendered the instructions indecipherable to me.

Not that there was much by way of instruction.
When I went go-karting in Leeds, there was a long safety briefing, checks that everyone was sober, instructions about what to do in the event of an emergency, overalls and protective gloves. And seatbelts.
Maybe life is cheaper in Scotland.

After a few practice runs, it was time for the big race.
The owner mumbled something in Scottish, then waved a flag. Off I shot. I was going fast, or "quick" as genuine petrol-heads always seem to put it.

So imagine my cry of dismay when, upon completing my first lap, I saw all the other vehicles in a stationary row parked across my path.

I braked, but too late. I smashed into the other cars, incurring outraged shouts and a rebuke from the owner: "Do you not know where the brakes are, aye?"
(They say "aye" after everything up there.)

By then, I had worked out where the brakes were, but had obviously misunderstood the Scottish instructions.
I wore the humiliation of defeat lightly. Partly because it was nothing compared to what the stag himself had endured the previous night.

The poor sod was made to go out for a meal and a pub crawl in the nearby town, dressed in the kind of outfit that can't be described in a family newspaper.
It wasn't my idea, and I'm still puzzling over this tendency men have, when left to their own devices, to contrive ever more puerile ways of humiliating each other.

I'm also still blistered and bruised from the mountain climb and being smashed about in that go-kart.
But now, at home with wife and daughter, or in the office, where I'm the only bloke, those testoserone-fuelled adventures seem very far away.

It's my brother's stag do next. We're staying in a dodgy hostel in a seedy part of Amsterdam. That's just asking for trouble, which I suppose is the point.

awolstenholme@ywng.co.uk