Having just returned from a trip to Mexico, I had planned to share the whole experience with you in just one concise article. As I was writing, it became clear the whole story was going to run long, so I’ve broken it down into a mini-series for your reading pleasure. Here is Part 2.

Previous to the Mexico trip, I knew only the bride and groom and a couple others, so the first day was full of introductions. As you may well understand, friendships develop fast in booze-fueled situations, and I quickly became part of the group.

At the pool bar, we became well acquainted with a Mexican bartender who called himself James Bond. He had mad skills in bottle twirling and ice tossing, and if you tipped once in awhile you were guaranteed speedy service and generous portions of alcohol.

The rowdy Alberta bunch picked up where they’d left off the night before, and our week got off to a somewhat inauspicious start when we were nearly kicked from the resort for our ‘inappropriate behaviour’ in the pool.

I am confident the Riu Vallarta has never before had to threaten guests with expulsion before 10 a.m.

Apparently we missed the memo that the five-star hotel was too classy an establishment for boisterous bellyflops, national anthem singing and suggestive Speedo dancing.

Ah yes, those damn Speedos . . .

As I mentioned earlier, the male half of the wedding party had agreed to wear matching black Speedo bikini briefs all weekend, and the boys sported these obscene ‘banana hammocks’ without regard for shame or decency.

Not wanting me to feel left out, the groom offered to hook me up with an extra Speedo so I could join the fun. I politley declined, citing a fear of sunburn on my upper-thigh region.

One particularly offended American woman declared angrily that the Speedos were making her ‘very uncomfortable.’ In an effort to accommodate her, one of the Speedo-sporting groomsman offered to remove the swimsuit and don a birthday suit instead.

The angry woman’s husband assured the guys this would not be necessary.

Another lady drew a roar of laughter from all in earshot when she yelled out, “Hey boys. I see the hammocks, but where are the bananas?”

All these sets of pasty white buttocks proved too tempting for one large Mexican woman who repeatedly snuck up behind members of the Speedo gang and kneaded their rumps like a bakery chef. Naturally, this was grand entertainment to those of us not wearing bikini bottoms.

Later that day, the groom and his merry men participated in a bizarre Chippendale-style photo shoot on the beach, much to the delight of all the female onlookers.

No word on when the calendar comes out.

And so it went for a couple of days — the guys rocking their Speedos wherever they went: pool, beach, volleyball court, nightclubs, etc.

But by the third day I noticed most of them had abandoned the Speedos in favour of more conventional boardshorts.

When I ribbed a couple of them for losing their nerve, one embarrassed groomsman revealed the real reason for the change in garments when he asked, “Dude . . . did you know you can get Speedo rash?”

Stay tuned for Part 3: A vicious beating courtesy of the Pacific Ocean

• Part 1: Matrimonial mayhem in Mexico