Let's face it, most of us were hit pretty hard by the news that one of the last great bachelor hold-outs of the Tonsley family, Martin Telemachus ("Taily") Twist, was to draw a line under his life of unremitting sleaze and marry a beautiful and accomplished American. For years those who had already bought-in to the perceived attractions of marital monogamy had lived our lives vicariously through Taily's exploits. We marvelled at his global wanderings, jealous of his boast that he knew every quality strip club between Prague and Key West. We were dubious but not entirely dismissive of his claim that he has, in his own words, "had dealings" with many of the strippers…

Well, that's all over now. The wedding took place in early June, in Richmond, Virginia and with Joe as best man, it was a given that the Tonsley Tourists would be decamping for the American South. Hot dang diggety, y'all.

Your Correspondent, Tonsley Ambassador to the USA

With big all-day Stag/Hen Parties planned for the next day, most, including the Tonsley tourists went to bed at a reasonable hour. Those who chose to honour the impending nuptials in a way best described as Pre-Melissa Taily-Style, quickly succumbed to the temptations of a new city, freedom from family responsibilities and all of the licentiousness permitted by American law. Your correspondent partied into the early hours with devastating biological consequences the following morning. I will draw a much needed veil over this. You need know no more.

Martin's stag party began at 11 am with drinks in the bar of the amazing Jefferson Hotel, at which the Tonsley Tourists were resident. In his capacity as best man, Joe had sent the stag instructions as to what he should bring with him. Stupid stuff, like a Stetson, a shiny trombone, some Swarfega. Stuff that no stag would ever bring, really. Nevertheless, on the dot of 11 am Tails turned up in his Stetson, carrying his trombone. Apparently, he had spent much of the four weeks prior to the day scouring craigslist and ebay searching for every item on the list. Woolfy opined that this kind of behaviour indicated borderline Aspergers.

Fuzzy Lip!

The rafting was fun, but nobody spotted any white water. Our main concern was the submerged automobiles that could cause nasty injuries if you fell into the water on top of one; that and the alligators of course. We've all see the Spy Who Loved Me. We know what the fauna of the American South comprises, just as we know that the sheriffs are all fat and racist. The boat containing the Tonsley tourists had two River Guides: One, a chap, who did all the work; and the other, a comely frippet, who helped out when necessary. The guy, though nice, was hopelessly incompetent, stranding us on rocks time after time and then talking an age to get us back in the flow again. Naturally we mocked him in an increasingly vicious manner with Floody in particular calling him out for his utterly pathetic skills and his lack of professional know-how. "Complete spacker!" was the descriptor of choice. Our guide took it very well, it has to be said, but we probably would have been a little less harsh had we known at the time what we later found out - that the other guide was in fact his boss, and he was being tested with a view to getting a full time position with the company. Ten out of ten for dealing well with client abuse, however. I understand he now works at a Mega K-Mart in Tuscaloosa.

The evening debauch began in semi-civilized manner in a bar with attached restaurant, nightclub and seedy dance floor megaplex that America does so well. The Virginia Tobacco Company treated us mighty fine (see what I did there?) and we sat down to dinner, eagerly awaiting the challenges of Joe's Favourite Drinking Games. There was food, apparently, but your correspondent missed it in a haze of good will and wooziness that, I am told, is similar to the life-destroying high favoured by addicts of Crystal Methamphetamine. As the games were about to begin, I realized that I had a brief window in which to take action that would impact Martin's levels of enjoyment (in a stag-night negative way). I produced my bag of tricks and, to mildly worrying leers of encouragement from certain loafer-wearing American guests, took Tails into the men's lavatories…

One day, I shall write a definitive treatise on stag-night costuming. I think the key is originality. Not for Martin the time-worn "Shackled Prisoner", "Telly Tubby" or "Bare Breasted Nun". No, for him only one costume was appropriate. Martin would dress as a member of the US Gold Medal Winning All-Female Synchronized Swimming team of the 1926 Olympics.

Never in the history of drinking games has so much vitriol been directed by so many at so few. After 40 minutes of rules-explaining, dry-runs, Q&A sessions and heavy doses of Ritalin to keep their attention, the game was abandoned. The mood was ugly. It was time for dancing.

Amazingly, I don't think I have danced alongside Martin for twenty years. He has some Schweet Skills, ruined only by his "look" - leotard, Stetson, trombone, half-hairy. The Royal Marines all have dance-trance set-pieces, much like Hot Chocolate or Legs Eleven. Or Pan's People, now I think of it. I stuck to the "runaway lawnmower" (a crowd pleaser - every time a coconut). Joe and I also spent some time working on a new dance "the Sexy Typewriter" which by the time you read this will be mainstream, I am sure.