In addition to being chief cook and bottle washer, dog walker, packer and aspiring Domestic Goddess, I am now also a taxi service. I have just deposited DH at Gatwick and headed home with the pooch by my side- a Thelma and Louise for middle age if you will. As I write (or attempt it- WH keeps standing on the bloody keyboard in her attempts to monitor local feline activity from the window) he is up, up and away to Malaga or Marbella or some such slightly tacky, overrated and expensive destination for yet another stag weekend. And so begins the summer season of drinking and tom-foolery. Rather him than me. Being a little drinker, I find the whole idea of going out, getting hammered and making a complete tit out of yourself in public rather pointless. I suspect I am a deep disappointment to the Northern leaves clinging to the family tree- I don’t recall ever not being handed a drink when we went to my gran’s house. She used to brew huge vats of beer and elderflower wine in all manner of vessels, available for general consumption, but only after you’d had your breakfast. In these post-allergy days I find I can’t drink more than a glass or two and then only with supper. I’m the ultimate cheap date. Maybe that’s why DH fell for my charms- he was sozzled and I was sober!
So when it came to planning my hen night, I was keen to avoid the traditional image. Most of my friends were teachers with limited means and small windows of opportunity term-time. To avoid the Christmas crush, and post-Christmas belt-tightening, I decided on a weekend in October (plenty of time to recover for February wedding, even for the very cautious!) I kept it simple, requested a London night out and had everyone to stay at my house. Ad the BF did an awesome job. The design flaw to being sober for your own Hen is that you don’t find the veils, strippers and phallic accessories in the slightest bit appealing. Nevertheless I got to Strawberry Moons (for the dancing part of festivities) to be presented with a hen package that included a small furry cat, whip and floppy penis-made from the same freaky stuff that you find in kids toys that you can throw against the wall and consequently the most revolting thing you are ever likely to hold. It quickly found it’s way into the huge vat of lurid cocktails that the others were drinking. The list of ‘tasks’ for the Bride-to-be that came with my fun toys also disappeared into my handbag in double quick time. That aside, I had the greatest night of my life- I laughed with my friends, caught up on all their news, and danced and sang until I could dance and sing no more. I don’t think it cost more than £100.
So why is it that hens and stags are becoming more and more complicated and expensive. The basic principles are that you get all your friends together and have a bloody good night out before you get married to the man of your dreams. You don’t need to spend a fortune or go very far to do that. In fact the best Hen’s I have been on were inexpensive but well-thought out. I pity poor DH who feels obliged to schlep halfway to Kathmandu for a weekend of hedonism that could just as easily be achieved nearer to home. It’s no wonder weddings are getting to be so expensive for guests. In planning our wedding, I was very concious of costs, not only for us (we paid for it ourselves) but for those invited. The bulk of our friends are London-based and really appreciated not having to travel miles and spend loads on transport and hotels and such. The few friends who came from afar were highly regarded for making the trip. We had a great day and it didn’t cost the earth. On our first anniversary, DH wished he was doing it all again. And even if we’d had gazillions to spend, I don’t think we’d have done it any different.
Which is why I find it amazing that those WAGS could have spent over three million pounds on their weddings this weekend. Eager to find out what their dosh went on, I shocked both my husband and the newsagent by buying OK! in addition to my usual Hello! this week. 
Naturally OK! is heavy with pictures of the heavily pregnant Jordan- the very reason I can’t usually be bothered with it. But in an effort to get a balanced viewpoint, I felt obliged to buy it….(and if you believe that, you’ll believe anything!) It was worth it for Cheryl Cole’s hair. But I digress. These women are famous for being arm-candy; for drinking, for shoppping, for wearing very high hees, very short skirts and for the acrylic nailed permatan look that has been adopted seemingly by every teenager in my neighbourhood. They all chose the same weekend to get married on and have seemingly turned the whole she-bang into a game of Bridezilla. Elie Saab versus Amanda Wakeley in the dress arena. Lionel Richie against Gary Barlow for music. Manchester Cathedral challenges Cliveden. Posh and Becks have a lot to answer for, not least the frantic bidding by magazines to secure Exclusive Rights to coverage. Of course all of this money does not equal taste. And I doubt very much it guarantees good speeches. Or the obligatory girl crying in the loos at the end of the evening.
Naturally OK! is heavy with pictures of the heavily pregnant Jordan- the very reason I can’t usually be bothered with it. But in an effort to get a balanced viewpoint, I felt obliged to buy it….(and if you believe that, you’ll believe anything!) It was worth it for Cheryl Cole’s hair. But I digress. These women are famous for being arm-candy; for drinking, for shoppping, for wearing very high hees, very short skirts and for the acrylic nailed permatan look that has been adopted seemingly by every teenager in my neighbourhood. They all chose the same weekend to get married on and have seemingly turned the whole she-bang into a game of Bridezilla. Elie Saab versus Amanda Wakeley in the dress arena. Lionel Richie against Gary Barlow for music. Manchester Cathedral challenges Cliveden. Posh and Becks have a lot to answer for, not least the frantic bidding by magazines to secure Exclusive Rights to coverage. Of course all of this money does not equal taste. And I doubt very much it guarantees good speeches. Or the obligatory girl crying in the loos at the end of the evening.
I will naturally be buying next week’s edition to marvel at the Gerrard do. Well,
I wouldn’t want to be biased.
