"Come to Edinburgh for my stag night," said Alex. This was an invitation from an old chum who'd finally, after much searching and lack of luck, found the love of his life. How could I say no?

It all seemed so civilised in the afternoon, a dozen of us chaps driving up country for a couple of hours shooting clays. Granted, it was nothing I'd done before but, after overcoming initial nerves and a bad start, I managed to hit slightly fewer than half the targets. Not championship quality, but not too embarrassing either. And despite not being your regular shootin' type, I got something of a kick from the whole event.

Suddenly I saw the allure of the shotgun. Upon leaving the site, everything - moving or stationary - became a target, or could have done had I still been in possession of a gun. And far from softening my stance on gun control, it's probably strengthened it. Live ammunition is intoxicating, and that's as strong an argument for cracking down on gun ownership as I've heard. But by gum, that buzz...

Naturally, having not been allowed to be under the influence while using weaponry, upon our return to Leith we felt we had some catching up to do. After several beers and double Aftershocks (my goodness, what were we thinking? That drink surely has to be the most foul, evil concoction ever devised), we headed off to the esteemed Scotch Malt Whisky Society for a tasting and dinner. This was the top of a very slippery slope.

The poor lady who took the tasting in our private room should have sensed something bad in the air as she battled the heckling and questions in her effort to teach us about several fine whiskies. Despite the fact that a few including myself were eager to learn, the majority - shamefully - had no taste and no time for the water of life. And when Suzie finally reached the end of her presentation and left us alone, all hope was lost.

The groom could not remember anything after the first bite of his starter, including giving his pudding a rather unpalatable side order. The stripper, unsurprisingly, was not allowed into the society's rooms, collecting her fee in the car park without having to work for it, presumably having grounds to accuse the Best Man of breach of contract. The bar stopped serving us well before we'd drunk our allotted amount of booze.

And most fortunately and unfortunately by turn, the bills were thankfully paid before someone, either by mistake or by design, removed a holding clip or two from the table's underside, causing half of it to collapse, sending heaven knows how much glass and crockery smashing to the ground, and strewing bottles of red wine across the plush carpet. With the society having shown extreme restraint and good nature in allowing us to stay after the groom's unorthodox reaction to the chocolate pudding, our desecration of their tasting room was too much to take, and we quickly understood that our presence was no longer required.

And there I must draw a veil across the rest of the evening, for your own protection as much as that of some of those present...

I've not been on too many stag nights in my time, but I like to think that they've all been memorable, if not unique. For instance, there was Joseph's, which started with pitched warfare and ended up with me and the groom feeling the love (it was a harmless kiss as a favour for a very old friend). Then came Dunc's, which maybe he didn't enjoy so much, but there's no doubt about how good a time his bride had.

Excellent, unforgettable nights both but they do, I confess, feel somewhat muted when compared with the carnage of last weekend in Edinburgh.

But golly, we had fun.

Epilogue: Within 48 hours, the Best Man had had his membership of the Whisky Society revoked. I don't believe he'll be appealing this decision.