Happy May Day one and all! I hope you’re having a fantastic Bank holiday weekend, full of Morris Dancing and large poles you inexplicably feel compelled to dance around… or am I confusing May Day with Bachelor parties there?
Dom and I spent our weekend predominantly up in Edinburgh, the city I used to call home and to which I always look forward to returning. Well, nearly always. On this occasion I was indeed excited at the prospect of walking the Scottish streets once again and seeing some friends, but our visit on this particular occasion did fill me with more than a little dread!
You see the purpose of our visit was not a relaxing holiday away but a weekend of wild partying! Sadly it was a party to which I was not invited, nor were the rest of my gender (well not any that wanted to keep their clothes on anyway!) for my darling fiancée was about to embark on that most dangerous of female pursuits: The Hen Weekend.
Now, as a modern man I’m all for female equality – equal rights, job equality, the right to pay for half of everything – that all sounds great! But whoever decided that women should be allowed to compete with the raucous, drunken night of debauchery that is the male stag party was, let’s face it, clearly drunk themselves at the time!
At least on this occasion Dom was only a guest; her own Hen party seems infinitely more dangerous, and the bride on this occasion was someone I know and trust… surely this would be a more genteel affair? Although, come to think of it on each occasion the Bride and I had met we had both been less than sober…maybe it wasn’t so safe after all!
So, after enjoying a nice meal at our favourite Edinburgh restaurant (with an amazing Gluten Free menu!) we set off to find out where the girls would be staying for the night. Things got off to a worrying start as we struggled to find the location, helped little by our phoned-in request for directions…
“Can you see a canal?”
“No… we’re on a main road.”
“There should be a canal.”
“Ok… Anything else?”
“Let me think… can you see a canal?”
Brilliant!
Fortunately whilst not exactly precise directions I did recall once working on an event at a bar near the canal and through a process of elimination I did eventually find our desired location. Dom suggested I come up and say hello. On balance, I reflected, turning up as the only guy at a Hen party with drinks already flowing might lead swiftly to my becoming the evening’s entertainment. As I had unfortunately left my fireman uniform and velcro quick-release trousers in my other suitcase I declined the offer and left Dom to join the party.
As I settled in to my own bed that night I wondered what the Hens might be getting up to. Naturally I assumed that games of spin the bottle and scantily clad pillow fights would dominate the evening: these, I’m reliably informed by all of my mates, being the staple activities of all girly sleepovers. Content in the thought of this harmless, innocent activity I began to drift off to a gentle, dreamy slumber. Before long I was starkly awoken, however, by another altogether more worrying thought…
Some of you may be aware of an oft repeated long-running channel four documentary known as Friends – a show in which I recall much talk amongst the girls of “sharing” and the fact that they tell their ‘girlfriends’ EVERYTHING. This is not, I am told, the male version of telling your friends everything (usually limited to a sentence at most, though more often three words) but a full and detailed discussion of most personal information. Time, I felt, for a wee dram of Scotland’s finest!
The following day I set off into town, curious as to when the girls would emerge from their hangovers and brave the dazzling sunlight. Whilst enjoying a pot of Scottish Breakfast Tea (a blend that I must say tastes suspiciously similar to English Breakfast tea – sorry Scotland!) I received a text message.
“In an art gallery :)”
… An art gallery?? Allowing a Hen party into a gallery of expensive and historical artwork struck me as somewhat dangerous, although having said that on the last Stag party I went on I was handed a live shotgun and encouraged to shoot things so I suppose I couldn’t talk.
As the afternoon wore on and I found myself in another cafe, tea in hand, overlooking Princes Street and the city’s wonderful sparkling new tram system (ahem!) my phone beeped once again.
“Just stopped for a cup of tea”
Art galleries and tea? Perhaps my fears had been unfounded; this seemed like a most sophisticated of Hen parties, not the wild wolverine packs of women terrorising menfolk in the streets that I had heard about on so many prior occasions!
No sooner had I thought this than something caught my eye. Wandering down the high-street below was a somewhat rowdy group of girls and, in the centre, what appeared to be a huge, walking, anatomically detailed, inflatable set of male genitalia. For some reason this particular item of bridal wear seems not to have been widely adopted for walking down the aisle, though, judging by the looks of passers-by, it would certainly succeed in keeping all eyes on the Bride. As the revelling group stumbled their way down the street it would appear, as is sadly often the way, that alcohol was preventing the emboldened figure from remaining fully erect, though the surrounding ladies were doing a grand job in helping her back up. Though in no way connected to the party of which Dominique was attending it would appear that my initial fears were not entirely groundless.
As our ever committed photographer had to work the following day she was forced to leave the party early and so, many hours later and with the rest of the group heading to the theatre followed by a night on the tiles, I picked up a rosy-cheeked Dominique ready for the long journey home and asked her whether she’d had a good time.
“Yeah it was great, we had some drinks, went to some really nice restaurants, looked around the city, went to the museum…it was lovely!”
“Aha… and what else did you get up to with the ‘ladies on tour?’
“Hey, what happens on tour stays on tour!”
“I was afraid you’d say that!”
It would seem, my fellow stags, that we shall never truly know what goes on at these strange, and fearful female ritual parties, but one thing’s for sure… for even the boldest and bravest herd of stags, when you see that brood of hens coming your way, it’s time to stampede in the opposite direction!
