YES

Marking Pickering is not looking forward to another invite

Some phrases fill me with utter dread: ‘dentist check-up’, ‘Abba musical’… but there’s one phrase, that’s more repugnant than all the others put together: ‘stag do’. Gone are the days when a stag do meant getting the groom ruined the night before his wedding and then Super-glueing him to a bus stop. These days, stag dos have to be even bigger than the one before. They have to be abroad or – even worse – in Newcastle, they have to involve the most masculine activity known to man (which is now probably wearing saucepans for helmets and head-butting each other over a ravine) and must include rank drinks, a fight, a dwarf on a lead, non-stop arse-flashing and, more often than not, paying 20 quid for a hard-on in a transsexual strip club.

There is, however, one stag night inevitability that outweighs them all – coming across a hen do. It’s like smashing yourself in the face with a fire extinguisher – the final torment in an already hellish night out. Last year I was accosted by an obese bride-to-be with a chain of sweets wedged in her cleavage. ‘Pick a sweet with your mouth,’ shrieked the vacuous div next to her, dunking my head into the sugary crevice. ‘I’m slurping jelly babies from a fat girl’s tits,’ I thought, ashamed, only to see the rest of my stag party queuing behind me waiting for their turn. Idiots.

For my stag do, I’m going to sit in a puddle and smear my face in poo. It won’t cost me £500, and it’ll leave me feeling relatively clean in comparison. Who’s in?

YES

Stuart Messham can't believe there's apoint to argue

This is simple: any man who considers a stag weekend a chore shouldn’t be on the trip in the first place. For fear of his tedium tarnishing a good weekend, this inconvenienced little whinge should inform the Best Man of his lack of maleness immediately and be scratched from the list post-haste. You can just see the twerp rolling his eyes when his round comes up at the first boozer – his girlfriend has convinced him he resides in domestic bliss and that all his friends are ‘infantile’ and ‘annoying’ and the silly fucker is starting to believe her.

Stag dos are a proper man’s domain. Go back 2,500 years to ancient Sparta and you’d see dead-hard warriors toasting each other the night before their comrade’s wedding. Just because we’ve now got electricity and Facebook doesn’t mean we shouldn’t carry it on. If my dad found out I’d spurned a mate’s stag do in favour of a cosy love-in with the missus in Tuscany, he’d hit me with a stick and run me out of town. It’s a man’s duty.

I’m not saying that you have to guzzle premium lager out of a prostitute’s rectum and then soil your hotel suite. What’s important is to mark the occasion. Your mere presence can do it. Your shit gags can do it. That Sinatra track you do on Karaoke can do it. But marking your mate’s occasion is what it’s all about.

And let’s not forget the other reason why this shouldn’t even be a debate: it’s like being in the pub. But for a weekend. Abroad. With all your best pals. What’s not to like? Case closed.