Do you know what the most dangerous creature on earth is? It’s not the great white shark or a she-tiger defending its young. It’s not grizzly bear or a penguin with a switchblade and a crack habit. The most dangerous creature on earth is the married man at a bachelor party.

I’m recently back from a weekend in some Eastern European capital city to bid adieu to another SPURMO destined for the eternal pleasures of marital bliss. For the single men in the group, it was another fun weekend of excess. It is what we do most weekends only more intense and more expensive. For the married men in the group, however, it was a one-off opportunity to do a year’s worth of dangerous drinking and anonymous skirt chasing in three days. The married men were pent up balls of testosterone. It was as if their wives had opened the safe in which they keep their husbands’ testicles and handed them back to their husbands (on loan, mind you) just for this one weekend.

They could not get enough of anything. At the strip club, if a single guys had one lap dancer, the married guys had five. At the gun range, if the single guys shot a hand gun, the married guys wanted sawn off shotguns. At the bar, if the single guys had one shot, the married guys had doubles. Flaming. And so on and so forth.

When we all said goodbye upon arrival back at our home airport, the married men had a forlorn, sad, puppy dog look in their eyes. This was it for them. The testicles were going back in the box locked by a key held by their wives and placed in a safe with a combination that only their wives know.

The problem is that married men think that their single friends live like that every day. And it’s a terrible pressure on us. Just because we CAN go out drinking and whoring with impunity every night of the year - including national and religious holidays if we so choose - doesn’t mean we DO.

And yet, the first thing my married friends do when I meet up with them is slap me on the back and, with shallow breaths, ask me who I’ve been shagging. They have the same expectant look in their eyes as Oliver Twist asking for more gruel at the orphanage. If I have nothing to report, I genuinely feel bad. I carry on my shoulders all the hopes and desires of these married men. And I do not like the pressure. Not one bit.

There are nights I’d rather stay in with a curry and DVD, but I feel obliged to trawl through bars and attend parties just so I’ll have something to tell these men when I next see them. If I have nothing to report, their little faces are heartbreaking. So now I sometimes find myself going out with a substandard woman for the benefit of other men. It’s a tough equation. I asked a married friend: who should I disappoint, him or myself? My friend, however, told me not to worry as the only person likely to be disappointed in the equation is the woman.

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