Chapter One: Check-In Chaos

Heathrow’s Terminal Three on a Saturday morning: humanity’s great melting pot of misery, trolleys with dodgy wheels, and the faint aroma of croissants that cost more than a mortgage payment.

Barry and Sharon Duckworth shuffled forward in the check-in queue, dragging behind them a suitcase that was visibly about to rupture. It bulged at the seams like an overfed python, threatening to disgorge its contents — which, in their case, included three pairs of flip-flops, twenty-seven tins of pickled onions, and an inflatable flamingo.

“Barry,” Sharon hissed, “you didn’t need to bring the onions.”

“They don’t do proper ones in Spain, Shaz,” Barry retorted, his belly straining against a “Kiss Me Quick” T-shirt he thought was ironic. “I can’t be eatin’ them poncy little pearl things they shove in cocktails. These are proper onions. Pickled for stamina.”

The suitcase groaned as the trolley wheel veered left again. Barry swore and kicked it.

Ahead of them, Lady Cressida Fortescue-Blythe was holding up the queue with the sort of aristocratic confidence only hereditary wealth could supply. Her hat, a tower of feathers, swept dangerously close to the ceiling.

“I specifically booked a seat in first class,” she declared to the harassed check-in clerk. “And I demand caviar upon boarding. Do you understand, young man?”

The clerk, a student on minimum wage who had been shouted at by six people already before 8 a.m., nodded numbly.

“Of course, madam. I’ll just, er, put a note on your file.”

“You’ll do more than that,” she said. “And make sure nobody common sits next to me. I have a delicate constitution. I once fainted when a man sneezed within three feet.”

Behind her, a gaggle of lads in matching “Stag Do – Benidorm 2025” shirts were already on their third can of lager. One of them was wearing only shorts and a bow tie. Another had inflatable antlers strapped to his head.

“Oi, Barry!” Sharon jabbed him. “They’re going where we’re going.”

Barry eyed the stags warily. “Bloody marvellous. Just what I wanted. Lads with no shirts singing ‘Sweet Caroline’ for three hours.”

At that moment, Trevor Plumridge stumbled into the terminal, dragging a battered briefcase and sweating profusely. A middle manager with delusions of grandeur, Trevor was bound for Alicante too — or so he thought — to give a thrilling presentation on the European sprout trade.

“I say!” he wheezed, arriving at the queue. “Terribly sorry, everyone. There's a slight delay on the Piccadilly line. Signal failure, of course. London transport — ha ha!” Nobody laughed.

Trevor tried to wedge himself politely into the line. The stags jeered. Lady Cressida stared at him as though he’d crawled from a sewer. Sharon offered a sympathetic smile, mainly because Trevor reminded her of the man from the insurance adverts.

When the Duckworths finally reached the counter, the clerk blinked at the bulging suitcase.

“Er, sir, your baggage appears to be… overweight.”

“Don’t body-shame my suitcase, mate,” Barry quipped.

“No, I mean literally overweight. It’s fifteen kilos over the allowance.”

Sharon’s jaw dropped. “Barry, what did you put in there?”

Barry tried innocence. “A couple of onions. Maybe some tins. The flamingo.”

“The… flamingo?”

“It’s inflatable!” Barry protested. “Doesn’t even weigh much!”

After ten minutes of repacking, during which Sharon threatened divorce, the onions were redistributed into hand luggage, the flamingo deflated with a sad squeak, and Barry had to wear three Hawaiian shirts at once to reduce weight. He looked like a sweaty rainbow by the time they staggered toward security.

Chapter Two: Security Striptease

The security queue resembled a cattle market crossed with a nudist colony. Shoes were flying off, belts dangled, laptops were displayed like contraband, and a woman was trying to argue that her jar of Branston Pickle counted as a “medical liquid.”

Trevor, attempting to maintain dignity, carefully removed his shoes and placed his laptop in a tray. Unfortunately, his belt buckle caught, and in one swift motion, his trousers collapsed to his ankles.

A collective gasp arose. Trevor’s underpants were patterned with tiny Brussels sprouts motifs.

“It’s… seasonal!” he stammered.

A stag lad wolf-whistled. Lady Cressida covered her eyes. Barry nearly choked laughing.

“Oi, Trev, you’ve sprouted early!” Barry crowed.

Sharon smacked him. “Don’t be cruel.”

The inflatable flamingo didn’t fare much better. When passed through the scanner, it triggered a red alert. A stern security officer held it up, eyebrows knitted.

“Sir, can you explain this?”

“It’s a flamingo,” Barry said defensively.

“Why is it covered in… residue?”

Barry looked sheepish. “Might’ve been from the onions.”

The officer sighed and swabbed the flamingo. After five minutes of awkward staring, it was deemed safe — though Barry had to promise not to blow it up mid-flight.

Meanwhile, the stags were attempting to sneak mini vodka bottles past security by stuffing them down their shorts. One particularly inventive lad tried hiding three in a sock.

“Sir, is that a bottle in your sock?”

“Depends how you look at it, luv,” he winked.

The bottle was confiscated.

At the end of the security check, everyone was frazzled, half-clothed, and humiliated. Trevor was still re-fastening his trousers with trembling hands. Lady Cressida was threatening to write to her MP about the “indignities suffered by the nobility.” Barry, still in three shirts, was sweating like a pig at a barbecue.

And yet somehow, they were all through.

Chapter Three: Duty-Free Debacles

The duty-free area stretched before them, a glittering maze of perfume counters, whisky displays, and chocolate pyramids that cost more than gold.

Sharon dragged Barry toward the perfume. “Come on, Baz. Let’s get something nice for me. I deserve it after your flamingo fiasco.”

Barry reluctantly trailed after her, muttering about onion budgets. She spritzed herself liberally with Chanel, nearly blinding him in the process.

“I smell like a film star,” Sharon declared.

“You smell like me nan’s wardrobe,” Barry coughed.

Trevor hovered nervously at the whisky tasting station, trying not to drink too much before his big sprout presentation. The stag lads, however, descended like locusts, demanding tasters of everything. Within minutes, they were chanting football songs between gulps of Glenlivet and Jack Daniels.

Lady Cressida, meanwhile, lectured a sales assistant.

“This champagne is simply unacceptable,” she sniffed. “Do you not stock Bollinger from ’82? I can’t possibly fly without it.”

The assistant blinked. “Er… we’ve got prosecco?”

“Prosecco?” Lady Cressida gasped as if she’d been offered battery acid. “I wouldn’t wash my corgis in prosecco!”

Barry wandered into the food section, beaming. “Shaz, look! They’ve got mini gherkins!”

Sharon yanked him away before he could buy more pickled goods. “We’re going to Spain, Barry. Land of tapas. You don’t need pickles.”

“I always need pickles,” he sulked.

As boarding time approached, the ragtag group of misfits staggered toward the departure lounge — half-drunk, heavily perfumed, and entirely unprepared for what was coming next.

Chapter Four: Departure Lounge Meltdown

The departure lounge at Gate 47 was buzzing with the energy of a small-town carnival and the collective despair of people trapped in limbo. Children screamed, suitcases toppled, and the tannoy droned with incomprehensible announcements.

Barry collapsed into a plastic chair, still wearing three Hawaiian shirts, sweat dripping down his face like condensation on a pint. Sharon fanned herself with a brochure advertising “Authentic Tapas: Just Like Spain (in Slough).”

Trevor perched nearby, trying to rehearse his sprout statistics under his breath. “Seventy-two per cent growth year-on-year… Brussels dominating the export market…” His hands shook as he jotted notes, not realising his biro had leaked a vast blue stain across his shirt pocket.

The stag lads had colonised an entire row of seats, already in the process of arranging a human pyramid. Their leader, Darren, was chanting:

“Goin’ Ben-i-dorm,

gonna get it on,

sun, sea, sangria,

’ Ope my missus don’t see’er!”

A loud belch punctuated each verse.

At the far corner, Lady Cressida had seated herself on a silk scarf she’d placed over the chair, as though protecting herself from plebeian upholstery. She summoned a flight attendant with a flick of her wrist.

“Young man! When will we be boarding? I booked first class and demand to be seated before the peasants.”

The attendant blinked. “I’m not actually staff, madam. I’m just wearing a navy blazer.”

“Well, you look official. Kindly fetch me a gin.”

As time ticked on, frustration grew. A tannoy crackled:

“Ladies and gentlemen, flight EZY 4532 to Alicante is delayed by approximately forty-five minutes. We apologise for the inconvenience.”

The lounge erupted. Sharon threw her arms up. Barry muttered, “Could’ve been halfway to Benidorm by now.” Trevor whimpered about missing his connection in Alicante.

Then came the false fire alarm. Sirens blared. Red lights flashed. Everyone panicked — except the stag lads, who treated it like a disco and began a conga line.

“Fire exits that way!” Sharon shouted, dragging Barry.

“Shaz, it’s probably just a drill!”

Indeed, after five minutes, a harassed staff member announced it was a malfunction. The crowd groaned and shuffled back to their seats.

Unnoticed in the corner, the gate attendants slouched behind the counter, both glued to their phones. One was deep into level 473 of Candy Crush. The other was scrolling through dating apps. Neither had so much as glanced at a boarding pass all morning.

Chapter Five: The Wrong Gate

At last, an announcement crackled:

“Final boarding for flight EZY 6751 to… Riga.”

Nobody listened properly. The stags heard “final boarding” and leapt to their feet. “That’s us, lads! Alicante, here we come!”

Barry checked his watch. “Shaz, didn’t they just say our flight?”

Sharon shrugged. “Sounded about right.”

Trevor, half-deaf from the stag’s singing, nodded. “Yes, yes, that must be ours. Come along. Brussels awaits!”

Even Lady Cressida rose. “Finally! About time these airports got organised. Come, carry my bag, someone.”

The Candy Crush attendant waved them all through without looking up. “Boarding pass… yeah, fine, whatever. Next.” Swipe. Ding. Swipe. Ding.

Not one person noticed the sign above the gate: RIGA.

Like obedient sheep, the entire eclectic group tramped down the jet bridge, flamingo squeaking under Barry’s arm, Trevor still muttering about sprouts, stag lads chanting, Lady Cressida holding her nose as if the very air was common.

The real Alicante passengers sat oblivious at the correct gate, wondering why it was so empty.

Chapter Six: Boarding Bedlam

The chaos on the plane began instantly.

Barry tried to stuff the flamingo into the overhead locker, where it expanded slightly and trapped three people’s coats. Sharon barked at him to deflate it properly, but Barry insisted it “needed breathing room.”

Trevor, desperate to preserve professionalism, attempted to store his briefcase neatly — only for a stag lad to slam a sombrero on his head and shout, “Olé, Trev! You’re one of us now!”

Lady Cressida demanded her seat be changed three times, as she found herself first beside a crying baby, then beside Darren the stag, who insisted on showing her his tattoo of a pint glass.

“This is an outrage!” she declared. “I should be in first class!”

The flight attendant, already on the verge of collapse, muttered: “This is first class, madam.”

“Impossible. It smells of lager and despair.”

Meanwhile, Barry unwrapped a jar of pickled onions. The stench filled the cabin. A woman two rows back gagged.

“For stamina, Shaz!” Barry insisted, crunching loudly.

The stag lads began singing again, this time switching to “Wonderwall.” The entire back half of the plane joined in, out of tune.

Trevor tried to block it out by scribbling economic figures, but turbulence sent a line of ink straight across his face.

At that precise moment, the captain’s voice boomed.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are cruising at thirty-five thousand feet, with an estimated flight time of two hours and thirty minutes to Riga.”

Stunned silence. Then uproar.

“Riga?!” Sharon shrieked. “Barry, where’s bloody Riga?”

Barry blinked. “Spain?”

“No, Baz! It’s not Spain!”

Trevor paled. “Riga… Latvia. Dear God. My sprouts will be ruined.”

The stag lads cheered. “Oi oi! Change of plans, lads! Riga stag do!”

Lady Cressida fainted dead away.

The flamingo, jostled loose from the locker, dropped down and bounced ominously down the aisle.

The flight to the wrong country had begun.

Chapter Seven: In-Flight Nonsense

The uproar after the captain’s announcement could be heard three rows into business class. People shouted, children cried, Barry crunched another onion for “courage,” and Lady Cressida came round from her faint only to scream again.

“This is preposterous!” she wailed. “I did not pay good money to end up in… in… Latvia! What even is a Latvia?”

Trevor was beside himself. He rifled through his presentation notes, muttering. “No, no, no, this won’t do. The Brussels Sprout Board were expecting me in Alicante. They’ll think I’ve abandoned them. I’ll be blacklisted! Blacklisted, I tell you!”

“Blacklisted?” Barry said, with onion fumes coating his words. “Sounds dramatic, mate. It’s only sprouts.”

“ONLY SPROUTS?” Trevor thundered, startling even the stag lads. “Do you realise the European sprout market is a multi-million pound industry? Without me, it could collapse entirely!”

The stag lads, delighted, immediately began chanting:

“Sprout boy! Sprout boy! Gonna save the sprouts, boy!”

Trevor buried his head in his hands.

Meanwhile, the flamingo had migrated down the aisle, bobbing along with each bout of turbulence. A toddler grabbed hold of it, shrieking with joy, while her mother looked ready to throttle Barry for unleashing it in the first place.

The cabin crew, poor souls, were struggling to maintain order. One attempted to serve drinks, but the stag lads treated the trolley like an all-you-can-grab buffet. Lady Cressida demanded champagne. Sharon ordered two gins, muttering, “If I’m goin’ to bloody Latvia, I’m goin’ tipsy.”

Barry leaned over. “Do they do sangria in Latvia?”

Sharon smacked him with the safety card. “Shut up, Barry.”

The climax came when turbulence hit hard. Drinks went flying, a tray of hot lasagne slid dramatically into Trevor’s lap (he yelped, “Scalded sprouts!”), and the stag lads launched into an impromptu karaoke performance of “Angels” by Robbie Williams, complete with topless interpretive dance.

By the time the captain announced descent, the passengers were frazzled, sticky with various liquids, and emotionally scarred.

Chapter Eight: Touchdown Trouble

The plane touched down with a bump, tyres screeching on the runway of Riga International Airport. Snow flurried past the windows. Passengers craned their necks.

“Doesn’t look like Spain, Baz,” Sharon said grimly. “Looks bloody freezing.”

The stag lads cheered. “Snow party!” One of them stripped to his shorts before they’d even taxied.

Trevor moaned. “Oh, Brussels, forgive me. I’ll never be able to show my face at the Sprout Symposium again.”

When the doors opened, the cold hit like a slap. Lady Cressida gasped. “Good heavens! Why is the air solid?”

Barry’s breath puffed out in clouds. “Shaz, I only packed Hawaiian shirts.”

“You’re an idiot, Baz.”

Customs proved another ordeal. Barry attempted to declare his pickled onions as “medical supplies.” Sharon tried to pass off the flamingo as a “mobility aid.” Trevor had his briefcase searched by suspicious Latvian officials, who found spreadsheets labelled “TOP SECRET: Brussels Trade Figures.”

“This looks… important,” one officer said gravely.

Trevor squeaked. “No! They’re just sprouts! Purely sprouts!”

The stag lads breezed through, chanting “Riga! Riga!” and attempting to hug the border guards.

Outside, they were met with snow, Cyrillic signs, and a taxi rank where none of the drivers spoke English. Barry climbed into one and shouted, “Take us to the beach!”

The driver stared. “Beach? In Riga?”

“See, Shaz?” Barry beamed. “They’ve got beaches!”

The driver sighed and drove them into the city anyway.

Chapter Nine: Vodka vs Sangria

The stag lads wasted no time. Within half an hour, they had discovered a dimly lit Latvian bar and declared it their new headquarters.

Barry and Sharon followed reluctantly, Barry insisting that “maybe they’ll do tapas.” Instead, the bartender slammed down vodka shots the size of small swimming pools.

“Blimey,” Barry muttered, peering into his glass. “Looks like petrol.”

Sharon shrugged and downed hers in one. “When in Riga.”

Trevor hovered miserably at the end of the bar, trying to phone Brussels. His mobile refused to connect. The bartender, misinterpreting his muttering about “trade deficits,” assumed he was some sort of British envoy.

“Ah!” the man said, slapping Trevor on the back. “Government man, da? You are a British spy, yes?”

Trevor nearly fainted. “Spy?! No! Sprouts! I’m sprouts, not spies!”

But the rumour had begun. Soon, half the bar was whispering about the mysterious British agent with vegetable secrets.

Meanwhile, Lady Cressida demanded the finest table and attempted to order caviar. The bartender handed her pickled herring instead. She took one bite and nearly expired on the spot.

The stags, emboldened by vodka, began a traditional Latvian folk dance with the locals, substituting pelvic thrusts for the intricate footwork. The locals weren’t sure whether to be impressed or appalled.

Barry, four vodkas deep, clambered onto a table. “Ladies and gents,” he slurred, “this round’s on the flamingo!” and produced the inflatable bird, which he promptly attempted to fill with spirits.

Sharon buried her face in her hands. “We’re going to die in this country.”

Chapter Ten: Trevor the Spy

By the next morning, word had spread through half of Riga: a British intelligence officer was in town. He was slight, sweaty, bespectacled, and had an unhealthy fixation on sprouts.

Trevor Plumridge woke up in a hotel he didn’t remember booking. His briefcase was neatly arranged on the bedside table. Next to it was a note written in shaky English:

“We know you are spy. Meet us tonight. Bring secret papers.”

Trevor’s jaw dropped. “Spy? I can’t even fix a photocopier!”

Downstairs, Barry and Sharon were arguing over the hotel breakfast buffet. Barry piled his plate with herring, black bread, and mysterious sausages.

“Shaz, it’s like tapas but colder!”

“Barry, it’s fish for breakfast. It’s disgusting.”

The stag lads stumbled in, still wearing bits of traditional Latvian costumes, antlers askew. Darren slapped Trevor on the back.

“Morning, Trev the Spy!”

Trevor spluttered into his tea. “I’m not a spy!”

“Course you are, mate. You’ve got the look. Secret agent with sprouts. Brilliant cover.”

Even Lady Cressida had bought into the fantasy. “Mr Plumridge,” she intoned, “I must insist you secure us safe passage back to England. Use your contacts.”

Trevor groaned. The only contacts he had were three sprout farmers in Kent and a man who owed him money for toner cartridges.

Chapter Eleven: Frozen Karaoke

That night, Sharon announced she was putting her foot down.

“We’re not sittin’ around this frozen dump any longer. We’re havin’ a proper night out. Karaoke. It’s tradition.”

Barry perked up. “Do they do Tom Jones in Riga?”

“They better.”

The stag lads needed no convincing. Lady Cressida sniffed but reluctantly followed — mostly because she feared being left alone. Trevor trailed miserably behind, clutching his briefcase as though it might explode.

They ended up in a tavern that looked like a cross between a log cabin and a Soviet bunker. A karaoke machine wheezed in the corner. The clientele consisted of stern locals in thick coats sipping vodka with expressions that suggested they hadn’t smiled since the Berlin Wall came down.

Barry grabbed the microphone first. “This one’s for my Shaz!”

The opening bars of Delilah filled the tavern. Barry belted it out with wild gusto, hips swinging, flamingo clutched under his arm like a dance partner.

The locals stared, bewildered. One old man crossed himself.

Then Sharon got up and demanded I Will Survive. By the second chorus, half the stag lads were arm in arm with her, swaying dangerously, while Trevor tried to hide behind a potted plant.

Lady Cressida eventually took the mic to attempt Rule, Britannia! But the machine only had a techno remix. She gave it her best shot, waving her scarf like a battle flag.

To everyone’s shock, the locals began to thaw. By the time Darren launched into Sweet Caroline, the whole tavern was singing, clapping, and downing vodka in unison.

Trevor was beginning to hope that perhaps, somehow, everything might be alright — when the door burst open.

A group of stern men in long coats strode in. One pointed straight at Trevor.

“You! British spy! You come with us.”

The tavern fell silent. Barry dropped his flamingo. Sharon gasped. Lady Cressida fainted (again).

Trevor squeaked. “They’re only sprouts!”

Chapter Twelve: The Flamingo Finale

Chaos erupted. The men in coats advanced. The stag lads, fuelled by vodka and poor decision-making, charged forward. “Nobody nicks our Trev!” Darren roared, swinging a barstool.

Barry, in the confusion, blew up the flamingo with frantic desperation. “Quick, Shaz! The flamingo’ll save us!”

“How, Barry? HOW?!”

“Trust me!”

Somehow, in the melee, the flamingo was flung onto the tavern’s wood-burning stove. With a hiss and a pop, it exploded — not violently, but enough to release a squeal like a dying pig and shower the room with pink plastic.

The distraction was perfect. The coat-men slipped on fragments of flamingo, stag lads tackled them rugby-style, and Sharon clocked one over the head with a vodka bottle.

Trevor, clutching his briefcase, bolted for the door. Lady Cressida came round long enough to shriek, “Protect the agent!” before swooning again.

Within minutes, the whole tavern was in uproar — Latvians, Brits, and flamingo shrapnel flying everywhere. Eventually, police sirens wailed outside. The men in coats fled. The stag lads scattered into the night.

Barry and Sharon stumbled into the snowy street, flamingo deflated but victorious. Trevor was shaking like a leaf, glasses askew.

“I… I think I’m a fugitive,” he whispered.

“You’re a bloody liability,” Sharon said.

Epilogue

Two days later, a tired, dishevelled, and thoroughly confused group of British tourists straggled back into Heathrow.

Lady Cressida wrote a letter of complaint to “the Prime Minister of Riga.” Trevor was quietly removed from the Brussels Sprout Board (though MI6 had his name on a curious file). Barry proudly displayed the patched-up flamingo in their living room. Sharon swore never to leave Britain again — until the following summer.

At the boarding gates of Heathrow, two attendants sat side by side, phones glowing.

“Level 500,” one muttered. “Crushed it.”

Neither looked up as another planeload of passengers shuffled through. Above the gate, the sign flickered:

“Flight EZY 9543 to… Reykjavik.”

Nobody checked. Nobody noticed.

And somewhere, an inflatable flamingo quivered in anticipation.

THE END