Day 125

This is, without a doubt, the greatest THREEHUNDREDANDSIXTEEFIVE challenge T-shirt yet.
It is a thing of beauty. Not aesthetically, obviously, but for what it represents.
I've only owned this T-shirt a short time and it is already steeped in more history than all the others I've showcased this year. It is the only tee of my challenge that can boast of being hand-designed by my mate Kev, graffitied on throughout the course of the day by friends and strangers alike, spat on by a zombie, and blogged about at 5.30 in the morning (please do forgive my breaking convention with this post's tardiness).

This is The Stag Do T-shirt.

I have some nuptials scheduled for the end of the month and as dictated by the law of man, I had to partake in a stag party.
The unwitting adventure began with an elaborate ruse involving my soon-to-be father in law and his fictional suitcase of fruit.

My fiancé charged me with the rather curious errand of travelling all the way out to Charlton to secure said suitcase, as she was unable to do so. For reasons unknown to me, this did not strike me in any way as a strange request, and so I obliged.
Upon arriving at Charlton however, there was not a suitcase in sight, but I did discover a bus stop loaded with my mates each wearing matching, ridiculously bright, yellow T-shirts bearing the handiwork of party mastermind Kev.
In the best font the world has ever known, the tees revealed that those assembled in the bus stop were to be my Zombie Survival Team and that each of us had a pivotal role to play in the ensuing events. I was elected as the team leader, Guy was to be the brawler, Andy provided the brains (a potentially bad omen for a zombie-themed excursion), Kev was unquestionably the weapons expert, Doug was to be our medic and my brother Rob was branded useless right out of the gate.
Needless to say, I got stuffed into my own copy of the garment, shortly before a Land Rover pulled up manned by two corporals. The army representatives approached us and with very little introduction, fastened pillowcases over our heads and frog-marched us into the jeep, much to the dismay of onlookers passing by.

When the cloth was finally pulled from my eyes, I was standing in a decommissioned Cold War bunker, where I would be wearing black overalls and protective headgear, firing an assortment of paint-ball, airsoft and laser-based weaponry at hoards of undead biters, as they shuffled free from their confines at the expense of a poorly executed medical procedure. In order to contain the outbreak and thus save humanity, my comrades and I had to crawl under cargo nets, withstand a wad of zombie phlegm to the face, and survive several rounds of sinew-shattering ammunition.
This was all care of Bunker 51 - the zombie survival training group based near the Docklands, who provide remarkably fun experience days for fans of the zombie persuasion.

Suitably sweaty, exhausted, and sporting blood of both the corn syrup and actual varieties, we made our way on to the second event of the schedule – a butt-load of drinking. This took place possibly in some bars, where several more of my friends turned out for the antics.
The details from this point on are a little sketchy, however I can confirm that someone wrote on my face with a permanent marker pen – standard stag do fodder.

I shall now convey a tremendous level of gratitude to my boys for sorting this awesome stag do bank holiday weekend, and for spawning this marvellous keep-sake T-shirt, now literally engrained with blood sweat and tears.

Apologies also to my fiancé for forgetting to locate the fruit-case.