And so the summer ends with two consecutive Saturday nights in Scotland. Next week, the wedding; this week, the stag. The day starts with a 6am cycle through London streets as empty as they ever get.

Victoria station, the Gatwick Express, a flight to Aberdeen. I get the seat next to the wing exit. “In the unlikely event of an emergency,” the stewardess asks, “are you prepared and able to open the door?” Damn right, I tell her.

A big hug in Arrivals for the man of the moment, Mikey, aka Parksie, aka the Parkster, aka the Bald Weasel, aka Yoda. Next Saturday is all about Michael and Patty, but today is all about him, his brothers, his cousins, his mates. Ten of us are gathering in Elgin, Mikey’s home town, an hour away across Speyside. We’re coming in from London, Newcastle, Manchester, Glasgow, and Mikey himself lives in New York. Or stays in New York, as the Scots have it. Over the next 24 hours, several locals will ask me where I’m staying, and look suitably puzzled when I tell them the Premier Travel Lodge just outside of town.

We drive to Mikey’s mum’s house and change into our suits. We’re heading to Borough Briggs, home to Elgin City of the Scottish third division, capacity 3,927, attendance today 537. Elgin are hosting Cowdenbeath in an early-season clash, and they’re also hosting the signature event of Parksie’s stag, lunch in the directors’ lounge, hence the suits. Michael teaches me Elgin’s anti-Cowdenbeath song. Apparently they’re smelly and they havnae got a telly, but I can’t be more exact, having written only a few things down before alcohol intervened, the anti-Cowdenbeath song not among them.

The other lads are outside the ground, smoking, enjoying the sunny, windless day. Hugs for the ones I know, handshakes for the ones I don’t. Latecomers are brought up to speed on the previous night’s tomfoolery. A passer-by is intercepted to take a team photo. Debts are settled with Kieran, his suit pockets bulging with cash. Michael has gone for three best men. His brother Ibrahim is organising a lot of the wedding, Kieran is doing the stag, leaving your correspondent making the speech. We head inside for carb-loading, Caledonian-style: pie, dumplings, potato, bread, beer, more pie.

The cash haemorrhage continues. A raffle. Another raffle. A fiver on the final score. A fiver on the first scorer. A fiver on the last scorer. A fiver to buy Parksie a signed shirt. It’s like last-minute Christmas shopping, money seems to lose its usual value. After a couple of pints, bursting with optimism, I take Elgin to win 3-1 at eighteens. Hardened gamblers, sentiment suspended, are quietly filling in 1-0 to Cowdenbeath.

We take our seats. I count 23 travelling fans, eighteen in the opposite stand, a hardcore of five behind the goal. The game is not without incident (a saved penalty, a harsh sending off) and yet attention wanders.

The Geordies follow Newcastle’s match via their mobiles. I chat to the local Peugeot dealer. “That sending off, it’s f****** killed us, no?” “Aye,” I agree, coming over all Scottish in sympathy, “it’s no’ right.” Kieran serenades the nearest official. “Linesman, I love you! Linesman, your shorts are sexy! Linesman, why aren’t you returning my calls?” It was funny if you were there.

The highlight comes at half-time, when we force Michael to dress up as Briggsy the Badger, Elgin’s mascot, and do a lap of the pitch. Have a look at elgincity.com and go to “Ten Man City undone by Blue Brazil” for the best Scotsman-dressed-as-giant-badger picture you’re ever likely to see. Afterwards, more pie, a swift lie-down, back to the pub.

By now, we’re in matching T-shirts. Parksie’s face on the front, the stag team sheet on the back. And above the team sheet, an infamous snap of the groom-to-be dancing on a table on Millennium Eve in his kilt. The photo was taken from below... I probably should feel self-conscious with a reproduction of my mate’s genitals printed on my back, but no, I don’t seem to care. There’s strength in numbers, and the historic switch from beer to rum and Coke helps as well.

We do a Parksie quiz over dinner. Tell the old Parksie stories. Review the best Parksie gaffes, cock-ups, crimes and misdemeanours. And then, it’s got to be done, we head downtown to Joanna’s, pay our nine quid in funny Scottish money on the door, discover that our average age is double that, and then some, of the other clubbers. Gaggles of spotty 19-year-olds view our arrival with something close to pity.

Sensible men head for their beds, for those that remain, matters degenerate in time-honoured fashion. More rum and Coke. Some moves out on the floor, a spilt drink, local pride slighted, unpleasantness narrowly averted. At kicking-out time, the polis are all over the high street, their van shuddering with detainees, girls raging outside, “I cannae believe you’ve lifted wee Davy,” etc. Staggering away for a 5am finish, the serious business is less than a week away.

robert.crampton@thetimes.co.uk