Sunday Sound Off: Competitive Hens

I’m not talking about our avian friends in some sort of Gladiator style battle, I am of course talking about when the dreaded email lands in your inbox, usually from someone called Fenella who drives Daddy’s Rangey and lives in the Royal Borough.

‘So it’s only going to be £1,700 each for two nights which is like totally a bargain yah? And of course the bride can’t pay for herself (durrrrr) so if you can all transfer me the money immediately (even though I’ve given you no notice whatsoever) that would be super! Of course this is only for the accommodation, you’re all going to have to get yourself to the Outer Hebrides, plus bring your own food and drinkiepoos, oh and also we’ll be hiring a Butler in the Buff, an on site masseuse and a Shamen for healing rituals in the garden. Such fun!’ 

I’ve been to a lot of hen parties in my time and thankfully the wonderful women I’ve seen off into the realm of being a smug married have had infinitely sensible bridesmaids. They understand that not everybody has unlimited funds, not everybody can easily get themselves to Arsefuck Nowhere, and also that the Bride would be having paroxsyms of embarrassment if she thought that they were being dicks about it all.

For a lot of friends who are also faithful hen attendees this is not the case. Forget Bridezilla, it’s regularly turning into Bridesmaidzilla. What you crucially need when organising a hen party is someone who can make sensible decisions. Sadly that doesn’t seem as simple as you’d first think. Instead in a lot of cases you get some fluff brained half-wit in charge who keeps throwing out more and more options all steadily getting more expensive whilst ignoring feedback before deciding on what they wanted to do all along and pissing everyone off in the process.

I went to a hen party some 4,000 miles away from where I live but thankfully there was no Fenella, there was just a lovely friend marrying a wonderful American who said she’d love it if I wanted to come. Key words there ‘if I wanted to come’ which of course I did and could make it work financially. There was no pressure, no dramas, and a cracking holiday at the end of it all. There can be a tendency for the people who stand up to the Fenella’s of the world and say ‘actually I’m really sorry but I just can’t afford this’ or who aren’t able to clear their diary entirely for each of the seventeen proposed weekends to be viewed as bad friends.

Forget all the times you’ve poured the Bride into a taxi, or held her hair back whilst she puked up cheap white wine. Forget the heartbreaks you’ve got her through before she met the one, or the wild nights where you’ve walked home as the sun comes up talking utter nonsense. Sorry lovey, but as you can’t make it to cocktail making classes in Outer Mongolia the last weekend before Christmas where we’ll all be performing an operetta about our friendship with the Bride which you have to attend six weekends worth of rehearsals for, are you even her friend?



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