2003-06-05 - 6:17 p.m.

So tomorrow I take a �stag� party on a liver-threatening trip to Brussels for the weekend. I�m sure I�m meant to have prepared suitable activities for the group, but I�m trusting that Belgian beer, which could floor a concrete rhino from thirty paces, will take care of things for me. My favourite is Kwak, which comes in a pint-sized test-tube held in place by a wooden stand. I order it for its aesthetics, I re-order it for its ability to put me on my back after about three rounds.

I�ve made it clear that although I�m nominally the group leader, in no way am I a roving employee of the British consulate, and people will have to negotiate their own way out of police cells, malodorous municipal canals, crack deals that suddenly turn into violent muggings, etc. Apart form the groom, of course. His fianc�e will chop my knackers off if anything happens to him, so I have to show some interest in his general welfare.

Some of the party have already expressed an interest in locating the red light district � given Brussels� role as the administrative capital of Europe, I imagine there are some pretty sleazy places where you can have scantily-clad ladies read seductively from briefs on German equal pay rights or arable farming quotas in Luxembourg. You can�t go far wrong with x-rated intra-continental legislation.

More Sunday, sssuming we make it back, and don�t get, I don�t know, crushed by an out-of-control giant sprout.