Now, I'll be honest with you - Hen Night's are up there with snakes and large dogs as things that terrify me. As a small bloke, enjoying a quiet drink in a pub or meandering down a road to find yourself confronted with an oncoming hen night is, frankly, the stuff of nightmares. It's almost up there with being confronted by a gang of hoodies, except rather than your mobile phone and your wallet, they're usually after your trousers, your pants or a cheeky snog. This may not sound that terrifying to some, but for some reason I've always appealed to the more mature lady - usually the very drunk mother-in-law whose teeth will end up in her Midori and Lemonade before the night is out.
My colleague, Joe, and I were in Leeds for an event last year enjoying a quiet pint and a meal. For those who haven't been, on a Saturday night Leeds turns into Hen and Stag central - like a chavvier version of West Side Story, with added innits and issits. We suddenly found ourselves surrounded by a mature hen night, all of whom had poured themselves into size 20 pink outfits. The blushing bride-to-be was brandishing a pint in each hand and wearing a t-shirt (which was under a heck of a strain) bearing the legend 'fourth time lucky'.
As with stag dos, the nature and content of a hen do is a closely guarded secret that stays within gender boundaries. As men, all we know is that it involves lots of pink, a poor underpaid stripper, lots of alcohol and various penis-shaped novelties. Of course I now realise that at school, when all the girls are bundled off to an assembly, it's not to talk about periods, but instead involves imparting the centuries-old knowledge of how to conduct yourself on a hen night.
No offence meant to Sophie, as she like her sister, is perfectly well-mannered, eminently sensible and not the sort to wee in a glass in the corner of the local Wetherspoons but as I jumped onto the 85 bus that afternoon I was more than a bit terrified. The theme of the night was 80s, as we were heading off to The Reflex later that evening, so I was attired thus (with a mullet wig):
Rather worryingly nobody batted an eyelid during my journey to Clapham Junction. This became doubly insulting when I realised I'd done the whole journey with my flies open. Clearly it takes a lot to impress Londoners nowadays! Of course, when I arrived, nobody else was in fancy dress!
Now, I expected drinking, but good God ladies, you put us men to shame! Stag dos involve lager - lots and lots of lager. This is a ploy invented by men to keep alcohol levels down, as 50% of the time is spent going to the loo. Sophie's hen consisted of lots and lots of Prosecco, each one with an added shot of gin (drunk out of a penis-shaped straw, naturally). I'd only been there for about an hour before I had to approach the karaoke with one eye closed! It all fet slightly odd being the odd chap at a hen do, so I'd decided to adopt a low-key approach and play the shy, retiring wallflower. Sadly, the Gin-seccos got the best of me so I'd soon wrestled the microphone out of someon;es hands and was merrily working through my karaoke repertoire.
We eventually headed out to the City, via a very amusing tube journey which consisted of the most amazing acapella version of' How much is that Doggy in the Window' that could ever grace your lug-holes (the various parts consisted of a low 'Bulldog' a mid-range 'Terrier' and a high 'Chihauhau' - absolutely mint).
The Reflex was huge amounts of fun - as someone who still spends much of his time in the 80s, I was very much at home and enjoyed wiggling to some proper classics. We were also joined by a few more blokes so I swiftly adopted the traditional bloke at the bar stance for at least seven minutes before the lure of Swing out Sister got too much.
The highlight of the evening was a dance-off, which played right into Sophie's hands who promptly delivered a move-perfect Vogue (a song from 1990, but I wasn't going to quibble with the DJ) and brought the winning bottle of champagne home.
All in all it was a truly splendid evening, in the company of some very amusing and very welcoming ladies - and with the added bonus of seeing Mrs Walker, which is joy I need to work harder on to experience more often. I'll spare the blushes of the attendee who feel out of the cab onto to the road and had to be scraped up, needless to say it was hilarious!
Special thanks, of course, to Sophie, who is every bit as entertaining and amusing as ever and who deserves a a marriage to Chris that is as splendid as she is. Thank you for opening up the secret world of the Hen Do. I may just have conquered another fear.
