Have you ever fired a gun? Popped a cap? Blown something to smithereens for fun and/or profit? Yeah, I haven’t either, so I greeted the idea of heading out to a disused bunker complex outside of Warsaw to drink beer and fire heavy-calibre weaponry with a little trepidation.

In case you’re wondering why I’d be doing this, it was all part of my recent stag-do. Does this make it any better or does this make me a real asshole? Let’s see shall we. Just rest assured I wasn’t wearing a tutu, nor was I accompanied by anyone called ‘Big Dave’ or ‘The Alcomonster’.

My stag was an intimate affair. Six dudes, 600 beers, a couple of semi-naked women and a whole lotta vomiting. The Guns were the best man’s idea. We’d arrived in the city the night before and headed out to watch a band (legendary melodic-death combo At The Gates if you’re interested), and had a fairly typical stag time. I don’t know too many twats, so there wasn’t a lot of shouting ‘waaaargh’ in the street, but there were some fuck-off hangovers to deal with.

Stag shooting packages are actually fairly big business. The company we chose offered all sorts of manly add-ons and distractions.

Sexy lesbians in the taxi? Where the hell are they going to sit man?

Bikini babes serving martinis? Surely that would put you off your aim wouldn’t it? I mean, I’m not Roger Moore or anything.

Beer? Yeah sure. We’ll take a case. I mean, it’s not like we’re engaging in anything possibly life-threatening is it?

It was options like these that filled me with a certain existential dread as our van pulled up outside a rough old concrete bunker outside the city.

Shit, we’re definitely going to die aren’t we? It’s going to go all Severance, we’ll have to sit on a tarp when we get in there. And I’m wearing a fucking Jamiroquai hat and a pair of douchebag shades. What a way to meet your maker.

As it turns out, we’d been taken for a ride. No babes, no booze. Just six ridiculous pasty white dues and a whole pile of deadly weapons.

We’re given a choice of three pistols, and three machine guns. A couple of the party go first, and then it’s my turn. The first weapon up is a Glock. You might have heard of this. There’s one in Die Hard II for starters.

It’s an ugly, squat cube of black metal. Something with heft and weight to it. As I grip the handle, I can’t help but feel 100% certain I’ll somehow blast my own dick off, but I aim it anyway, and begin to squeeze the trigger.

HOLY SHIT GLOCK’S ARE LOUD.

Like REALLY LOUD.

It gives a grunting kick too, shocking me as it recoils and the hot casing flies out and goes straight down the front of my top, scorching my tits on it’s way out.

Unfortunately I’m forced to put up with it, because the only way to get it out is to point a deadly weapon at my own man boobs. I opt for the ‘just keep blasting’ option instead, and by the end I think I’m maybe doing okay.

A big Polish dude comes over, tells me I’m shit and aiming all wrong, and hands me a little snub-nosed revolver. After the Glock, this feels more like an old lady’s weapon. No real kick, a bit of a bang but it’s much smaller. A more refined weapon for a more civilised age (you know, 1930’s Brooklyn).

I’m still aiming it too low though, ripping jagged slashes in the target instead of knocking it’s metaphorical dick off. I’m left strangely disappointed, without the feeling that I’d really plugged something properly. Finally I take a little CZ-75. Lighter, semi-auto. An altogether milder shooting experience. It’s the Hamlet Cigar of death dealing.

Let’s move on to the big boys.

For machine guns, we get an AK-47, an ISCC carbine, and American M-16. You know, the ones you saw in all those war movies.

The AK is up first, and again, it provides a hell of a kick. Halfway through, a little guy who we’ve decided is the Polish Charlie from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but who could kill all of us easily, pops over and looks at what I’m doing.

He takes the gun from me, reloads it, and tells me to try aiming through the other eye. His advice as he hands the weapon back is useful, if somewhat stern:

“Don’t fuck it up”.

A few far more accurate shots later and it’s time to switch to the ISSC, which comes with a LASER! Fuck yeah, now we’re talkin’ right?

Well, not really. It’s got no real kick, and while it does have lasers, it leaves me a bit non-plussed as far as space-age weaponry goes. Oh, and you have to stand at a really weird low angle to target the thing.

Never mind, we’ve got the big M-16 coming up! That’ll be cool won’t it? I mean, it’s massive for starters.

It’s also pretty plastic. M-16’s fire teeny-tiny little bullets, and ours jams about 15 times during the session. I hand it back for the third time and get the big guy’s opinion.

It’s an American piece of crap

That said, I’m a much better shot by the end than I was at the start. So good in fact, that when the aforementioned Jamiroquai hat is strung up, I manage to fill it’s hairy hat-arse full of lead in no short order.

At the end I feel kind of badass, but also like I have much more respect for guns than I did before and I know I won’t ever want to own one. Beerless but happy alive, we head off into town to drink Negroni’s and look at boobs until one of us is sick.

Discover more of the world with our Europe travel guides, including this wanky guide to Amsterdam.