Wedding season is upon us and for those of us lucky enough to still have some friends without kids that also means it’s one weekend of freedom. You can spot a parent with young children a mile off on a hen or stag do. They always over do it on the first night, at sunrise they will be wondering around aimlessly because that is what they have been conditioned to do. On the second night they will be sneaking off for a FaceTime bedtime story before returning as Frank the Tank for the rest of the night. On Sunday morning they show no remorse for their obnoxious behaviour the night before (they are on the receiving end of far worse at home) and are usually bright eyed and bushy tailed rushing back home to their little family bubble. I know this because I am one of them, here is my story.
Friday: The Great Escape
“Look mummy, I am you,” “Ahh that’s nice” I scruff her hair keeping her a safe distance from my white trousers. “Go show daddy” I slip out the front door as she trundles off. Whatsapp him “Hi, snuck out to avoid any upset (haah right). J is eating a red crayon again. Love you”. And I’m out of there faster than the Trump White House staff turnover rate.
Two hours of solo driving bliss later and I am marooned in a track with no signal, having been told by the “sat nav whore”, that I have reached my destination. Excitement at spending a weekend somewhere rural has been replaced by indignation at being dragged to the sticks.
“Now this is more like it”, I thought when I finally find the farm house. Sadly we carried on going past the imposing house, through the garden, up into a field and over to what I can only describe as a shed with a bed disturbingly far from a loo.
When people started heading for their sheds at 11pm my inner rebellious teenager screamed, “this might be the life you have chosen but NOT tonight sister!” so at 2am I was angrily shouting “down it fresher” at the bride to be as she gulped a mug full of gin under duress.
Friday Night: Moonlight Milking
4am: Rock hard norks and raging PFT (Pre Feed Tension. Not sure if this is a recognised condition but it should entitle you to a disabled parking badge). Ironically the only thing to hand to express into is a milk jug. “Psssst, psssst, psssst.” The jug is filling up alarmingly quickly and left boob has joined in, so I grab the accompanying tea pot and sit milking my lady udders under the stars.
Saturday: How Much Organised Fun Can One Hen Have?
7am: “Cock a doodle doooooo” “FUCK OFF!” I shout before remembering that I was in civilised company. “Morning” chirps my fresh-faced roomie. “I’ve made some tea, would you like some?” “Oh, no thanks. Think I’m going to sleep a little longer.” I can’t bring myself to check if she washed the tea set out so pull the cover over my head in shame until she goes away.
10am: The organised fun is in full swing. We are sat around the breakfast table drinking tea and playing with Play Doh. Pretty much a standard morning at home except that my tea is hot. That, and the fact that this time it’s not inappropriate to be rolling the Play Doh into a penis. Imagine the outrage if one of the stag do activities was to make a model bride with a big vadge?
Image is author’s own.
A twenty nothing girl with blue hair bounds into the field, “Hi guys, I’m Suki”. That’s not a name. “I’m going to be teaching you a sexy flash mob dance routine, cheer if you think that sound fun.” Sounds absolutely, bloody awful. We all cheer. The end result looked like the before video clip in an Activa advert.
Chocolate art was next on the fungenda. For the unacquainted, you would be forgiven for thinking that this was an hour of doodling penises, a chocolate food fight and shoving the brides boobs in a vat of melted chocolate but no. It’s an exercise in the correct way to hold piping bags. I spend my week avoiding doing crafts with my children but lack the life skills to make something home made that isn’t totally crap. I get a sympathetic smile and a “good effort” pat on the shoulder from the instructor. It’s like being in GCSE D&T all over again, minus the teaching assistant’s words of encouragement.
Image is author’s own.
Saturday Night: Leaky Boobs & Turtle Debauchery
At dinner I accidentally sat next to a random whose opening gambit was about tortoise husbandry, sadly this was not a euphemism, although she did confess that her husband accidentally tossed it off once.
Unable to remember what I preordered, I put my hand up for the pate. Feel slightly guilty that I may have been virtuous and ordered the melon but thankfully I’ve mastered the art of eating without my kids noticing and by the time the bridesmaid fun police have produced the pre order spreadsheet the pate has been inhaled. To avoid any awkwardness, I hid in the bathroom.
With a bottle of wine perched on the cistern, a wine glass in one hand and a boob in the other I expressed into the toilet. By the end of the bottle I was spraying with flagrant disregard for target accuracy. I returned to the table with a soggy top and boobs flapping like beagle ears.
I may have thrown a drunken strop when the bar crawl around Maidstone was scrapped but in hindsight it was the right idea. After copious amounts of Malibu shots and singing Take That’s back catalogue around the camp fire, The Turtle Molester is standing on a picnic table belting out Never Forget.
Image is author’s own
After thanking the bridesmaids profusely I said my goodbyes, knowing full well that despite protestations to the contrary last night, we would not be hanging out together at the wedding. Except maybe for the Turtle Tosser, she is clearly a ledge.
First published on here on The Huffington Post