Hens in space? Try the Cowgate after midnight. Now that’s an adventure
The hen do was a fairly straightforward affair in the 80s. Gal pals met in a pub. The bride-to-be might be dressed up. The rest of the party might also have been in mild fancy dress. There was a pub crawl.
At the end of the night, chips would be consumed al fresco, whilst the bride-to-be told everyone she loved them. Sandra would be crying. No one was quite sure why.
The 90s ushered in the era of the Italian restaurant. Fizzy wine would be consumed. A lot. The waiters would flirt outrageously with aunties, mammas and mother-in-laws, suggestively leaning over to grind black pepper from ridiculously outsized grinders. Tables of girls would shriek when waiters presented the hen with a naughtily posed upright banana flanked by two strategically placed rounded scoops of vanilla ice cream. Sparklers were involved.
Later the youngsters might hit the dancefloor at Eros Elite or Revolution. Potentially hazardous, given the internal cargo of pasta, garlic bread and ice cream. This is known to be a volatile and sometimes projectile combination, especially if you threw a few Jägerbombs in there. At the end of the night, chips would be consumed al fresco, whilst the bride-to-be told everyone she loved them. Sandra would be crying. No one was quite sure why.
It was still fairly simple. Dinner, drinks, a bop on the dancefloor and Sandra crying in the toilets. Those wee soft-hearted souls are the reason why a hen party traditionally moves as a unit, like a pride of lionesses. Tearful Sandra and her ilk require care, solicitous attention and the endless supply of paper tissues from the non-weepy hen. In all my years of watching girls on the razzle, the gal who needs the hankies is not the one who comes prepared.
Stags on a do, incidentally, are not pack animals. As I come home from the The Stand Comedy Club around midnight, I see them strung out along the pavement seeking the next port of call, trusting the one up ahead to lead the way. They look wary, as if they are on patrol through enemy country. Actually, they are. Those hens can spot a lost stag at fifty paces. They don’t stand a chance
The hen do got a bit complicated around the Millenium, I think. Suddenly it was flights to Marbella, spa weekends and ludicrously expensive “experiences”, one of which, I kid you not, involved a group colonic irrigation. You bet I body-swerved that. The hen do started to match the wedding for expense, so it’s inevitable that it should finally go stratospheric.
Jeff Bezoz has a lot of money. He owns Amazon. The business, not the river. Mind you, he’s so rich he could probably buy that, too. He’s about to marry Mrs Bezos Mark 2, who weirdly looks a lot like Mark 1.
His bride clearly felt that an evening of karaoke, Tequila Slammers and a sash saying “Bride To Be” was not her idea of a pre-wedding celebration. Fortunately her super-rich groom-to-be just happens to own a rocket. He pinged her and a few gal pals into the final frontier. For 11 minutes. The hens in space said it was “an adventure”. Seriously? No booze, no chips and no Sandra crying in the bogs? Pretty dull if you ask me. Try the Cowgate after midnight. Now that’s an adventure.