I am just about recovered from last weekend’s excesses; although said recovery was put back by a few days when I worked till 1am on Wednesday night at the work awards ceremony. Because, you know, I haven’t got enough to do with organising a wedding and a reception party in January, and trying to get all my work done before I go on leave, and sorting out the office Christmas party which is a task not officially in my job description but if I didn’t bother organising it you can bet your boots that nobody else would and then everyone would be all bah humbug for months, and it really isn’t worth it. So I thought that seeing as my calendar is a desolate wasteland I'd volunteer for this japery. Well done me.
Aaaaand breathe. Also: I just used the phrase ‘bet your boots’. What am I, ninety?
So, the hen weekend started on a fantastic foot when I nearly missed the flight thanks to a combination of cricket and being completely plastered on the Thursday night. I woke up at 8.30am on the sofa with my face squashed into a cushion and realised that I was meant to meet K and H for a greasy breakfast at 8 at Victoria. Nice one Warney. Luckily I'd had the foresight to pack the night before (while pissed) so it was just a case of grabbing the passport and handbag and legging it, but I was still late, and I hate being late.
Luckily I was saved by the London cabbie of champions. I didn't find out his name, but I had a hugely entertaining conversation about the cricket with him and he got me to Victoria in record time. Thank you, cabbie! Oh, and to all the cabbies who did not pick me up despite the fact that your lights were clearly on: bite me. However, I can't be that annoyed as I actually achieved a lifetime's ambition and shook my fist in the air at one of you while shouting: "Yeah, you better run!" - and made someone walking past piss themselves laughing which always makes one feel better about themselves.
Anyway, we all managed to assemble ourselves at Victoria at around the right time and hauled ass to Gatwick; where at my insistence we decamped to the horrible Wetherspoons at the South Terminal and had a pint.
WHY is it that whenever I'm in an airport, no matter what antosocial time of the morning it is, I want a pint? And not only that: a pint in a Wetherspoons. What is up with that? I loathe Wetherspoons and am prone to Daily Express type rants about such establishments. A mystery that will never be resolved, I fear.
The flight can be summed up in two words: Brits Abroad. I felt like I was in Benidorm and should be demanding a fried egg at every opportunity ("Uno! Fried egg mate! Fried! Egg! Egg? Comes out of a - er - pollo? Dammit. Chips, then. CHIPS! Fuck this Margie, next year we're going to Blackpool.") The fellow across the aisle from me, who we shall call Zak thanks to his resemblance to the Hollyoaks character of the same name (doh! I meant to keep quiet about the Hollyoaks watching..), even roused the entire plane in a very bad singalong to Wonderwall in my honour as the hen. All very well and japesome, apart from the fact that he would then not shut up singing for the rest of the flight, and proceeded to take us through shocking renditions of Dancing Queen, I Will Survive, and Bohemian bloody Rhapsody. The last one was done while we were landing, and the Easyjet staff were understandably pissed off with the spannered skinhead who was bellowing and waving in their faces while they were trying to give us the lowdown on the time and whatnot. Unfortunately I made the mistake of telling him I'm going to be in Sydney for the fifth Test, as is he, and so fear I am now going to spend the entire time hiding behind pillars and tall Australians in case he collars me and shouts Waltzing Matilda in my ear.
Friday night was spent in the company of a charming young fellow called Adam who had bravely taken on the task of herding ten scary women around his home town to various sweaty bars and clubs. Oh, Adam. How we love thee. Adam let slip that he only got paid the equivalent of fifteen quid a night for this, which appalled us. I'd insist on fifty per annoying member of said hen party, free beers and a kebab at the end of the night. Still, we gave him a hefty tip and paid for all his pints which must have made up for some of the horror.
I had thrown a fit a few months earlier about the need for the bride to be kitted out in a veil and L-plates on such occasions, and insisted that neither feature during the course of the weekend. Credit where credit is due, I was not forced to wear either of these items. However, the girls had very kindly provided me with a red feather boa, a couple of badges and a very fetching pair of deely boppers that featured flashing pink penis models as the bopper element. Oh, what a classy lady. You'll be pleased to hear that we left the blow up 'Roger More'/Tom Selleck at the hotel for later.
From about 10pm the Friday evening gets a bit hazy. Here's what I recall:
- thinking I was Beyonce and doing an unfortunate booty shake dance to Crazy In Love
- talking to a fellow who I was convinced was Terry Christian because C had told me he was. He very much wasn't
- a man who I was talking to ordering a lager with a Rohypnol top, and running away to hide in the toilet
- walking for what seemed about four hours along a tram line with a big blister
- going on a Harold and Kumar style rampage of the Hungarian equivalent of a Costcutter
- annihilating a massive packet of prawn crackers in about five seconds
- H forcing Adam to give her a foot massage in the hotel lobby, therefore proving beyond belief that £15 for a night's work is not enough
- ringing C's ex husband at 2.30am to find out the cricket score
- booting a can of lager all over the hotel room floor. Oh dear.
Quite the night of champions, then.
Next time: a hellacious hangover, a cheering spa expedition, salsa love and lapdancing. Yes, you heard right. Gah.
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