Dan Morris: Time for the 'send-off'

The above is an immortal line from treasured 90s sitcom Men Behaving Badly, and is one that, come the fateful evening, I have always sworn to live by.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, the time is finally here.

In looking at the calendar earlier this week, I realised that the next time yours truly's musings fill this column slot, I will indeed have been on (and hopefully survived) my stag do.

I thought it wise in this case to say a couple of things while still of sound mind and body. Firstly, it's been a privilege. Secondly, thank you for letting me do the best job in the world. Thirdly, if I make it back, please speak softly.

Yes indeed, with my pending nuptials this summer, the month of April seemed the time for my 'send-off' to be arranged. Gone of course are the days when a 'last night of freedom' would be enjoyed literally the evening before the big day. Quite wisely, the way of the modern world is to allow enough time for any broken bones to heal and hair to grow back so as to preserve the angelic elegance of the wedding photos.

A wise plan, and one that I'm pleased my best man has stuck to.

I've been on quite a few stag parties in my life – most of them very much of the clichéd 'L-Plate' variety. Every single one of them has been brilliant – cheeky rather than truly debauched – and enjoyed with the energy and spirit that one possesses in their 20s.

Yet my 20s are now five years in the dust, and a lot can change for a man during that crucial window. As such, my stag do – as far as I'm aware, anyway – will have a bit of a different flavour. Rather than three back-to-back dusk 'til dawn nightclub sessions the likes of which my 23-year-old self lived for, allegedly what I've got to look forward to is more of the 'BBQ on the terrace' variety. And you know what? That'll suit me down to the ground.

I could hardly be considered an old man, yet I'm not exactly wet behind the ears anymore either. I've always believed – rightly or wrongly – that there's a time and a place for everything, and you can usually judge that from what your body tells you.

At my 19th birthday party I was able to down five straight sambucas without breaking a sweat. Now, at 35, even reading that sentence back makes me want to bolt to the water closet. Don't get me wrong, I still enjoy a few brewskis and a good time, but there's no way I could keep up with my younger self – and I'm proud of both him and me for that.

There aren't many things I regret in life, and having a good time as a youngster is definitely not one of them. And I look forward to growing older somewhat disgracefully, yet not beyond my limits.

As the fateful stag do approaches, what I'm most excited about is simply being able to say cheers to the chaps that have been with me through thick and thin, and will – I hope – be by my side for all of the exciting stuff life's great tapestry has yet to weave. I've known some of the not-so-learned pals that will be joining me for over three decades, and when you are only 35, that really is a wonderful thing to be able to say.

My boys have seen the best of me, and God knows they've seen the worst. So rather than this being about me ending up tied to a lamppost dressed as a Womble, I'm looking forward to it being a proper chance to breathe out and say thanks. Thanks for sticking with me. Thanks for lifting me up when needs be. And, thanks for helping steer me towards where I am now.

As ever, I feel like the luckiest bloke in the world, and that is only because of the other people around me.

But now that we've got the sentimental stuff out of the way gentlemen, I believe it's time for one of you to get the first round in. This is my stag night – and, nightclub or terrace, 23 or 35, I shall still be acting like a stag.

We didn't get dressed up for nothing – where's that sambuca?