Hen weekend: Part The Second

Phone: Ba!Bababababababaaahhhhhh! Ba! Bababababababaaaaaahhh!

Miss Hacksaw: Frrrmtph. Gah. GAH. Ow. Whts happ-ow.

S, who is unlucky enough to be sharing a room with me: Come on! Breakfast finishes in 20 minutes! I set the alarm.

MH: Gnugh...hate...no...breakfast...going...to...die

S: Do you want me to bring you up a coffee or a sausage or something?

MH: Oh for the love of God, no. I wonder if I can sit up without....ow. No. Oh help.

S: What time did you get to bed?

MH: Er. Sometime after we'd woken people in England up with cricket related phone calls...oh hell, I wish to God I'd never found out the result of that....and after I'd kicked beer all over C's room. About three?

S: Oh dear. Still, the spa will liven you up.

MH: Does this mean I have to get out of bed?

S: Yes.

MH: Dammit. OK, I'll be ready when you get back from breakfast.

[door closes behind S]

MH: Ow, my head. OK, got to get up. In a minute. I'll just lie here for five seconds....mm, comfy....zzz....oh, hello bra....mmm water.....zzzz.

Huh. I am clearly old. I am not normally one for hangovers - I might feel a bit iffy first thing after a few beers but a can of Diet Coke and a potato based product usually sort that right out with no worries. So I was most put out to be clouted round the head with a hangover from hell. Mind you, it was not surprising. We were drinking very strong Hungarian lager of out the sort of glasses one would normally expect to find being used by folks in the Canterbury Tales (in fact I have a hazy memory of holding my empty receptacle above my head in a bar and demanding that someone bring me "a full flagon of mead"); for some reason I had two fruit brandies after dinner and I'm sure sambuca was involved at some point. Ugh. I am a Booze Britain style harpie. I hate myself.

Still, there was no time to lose, as we had a full day of activities planned and had to crack on. I'm sure the cab drivers were all pissing themselves - all ten of us looked rough as hell, so it was quite handy that the first activity was a trip to one of the fantastic spas that are all over Budapest.

Here's a picture of our outdoor spa. Best hangover cure ever.

What is it about hot water that instantly cures all ills? I staggered into the spa feeling about ninety and within five minutes felt absolutely fine. This is despite the fact that I was wearing a mummy-one-piece swimming costume that made me feel like the annoying step aerobics woman in Cocktail. This is what happens when you pack when hammered, people. I do not recommend it.

There was also five pools indoors, but the inside of the building gave me the willies as it was somewhat like how I imagine a gas chamber would have been like. Gah. Plus all of the pools inside were full of meatheads in Speedos.

I could have spent all day in that spa - especially the really hot one at the end ("we recommend that you do not stay in this pool for longer than 20 minutes") where they had a stone table in the middle of the pool with chess boards painted on. That rules. I'm so dragging the Fiance back to Budapest and making him play chess in the pool until we both pass out from heat stroke. However, the fact that eight out of ten of us hadn't been able to face breakfast meant that we were all bloody starving for some grease, and so on to Chilis it was for the BEST SALSA I HAVE EVER EATEN. I don't know what they put in it, but I could have happily stayed there all day shoving tortilla chips and salsa into my face. Seriously, Chilis, I salute you. And now I really want some chips and salsa. Dammit.

S and K, as organisers, then kindly made everyone do a quiz on how well they knew me. Predictably, the questions were not regarding my favourite colour or boy band. Over the course of the next two hours I ended up telling everyone the following facts:

• the location of my first proper kiss (behind the public loos in the park, aged 13. Nice)
• that I have had sex in a video shop (Christ. What the hell...)
• the fact that when I was eight, me, my best friend and my brother had a 'band' called Risk, and made my parents record us singing our top single, named 'Waste of Love'. I KNOW. It featured my brother on 'drums', also known as the tin lid of his Ghostbusters laundry bin. Heh.
• My most embarrassing moment ever, which I cannot bring myself to share even here as it is too awful. Why I did not substitute it with a different story - like the one about me going arse over tit down an entire flight of stairs at the Ruby Lounge, I don't know. Dude, where's my therapist?

Most duff. I tried to get everyone to reveal their sordid pasts, but they were most stubborn in remaining resolutely quiet. Humph.

En route to the next activity our tour guide took us to a cafe, which had the best English menu of all time. Take this excellent description of a sachertorte: "Chocolatey and cakey. It tastes mostly like muffin!" Brilliant. Luckily I am not a cake person or I would probably still be sat there hoovering up every item on the menu to see if it was mostly, or not at all, "like muffin". In the end I just had a Fanta, and felt like I was a kid on the grown ups holiday as everyone else had coffees. KT even asked me if I wanted to do some colouring while I was waiting for my drink. Thankfully this amused me enough to take my mind off the next activity: pole dancing. Pole. Dancing.

I'll be honest and admit that I was dreading this. I am not naturally co-ordinated, and the thought of flinging myself round a pole and relying on my arm and leg muscles for keeping me up did not fill me with hope.

I bloody loved it. We were taught by a proper stripper sort, who was surprisingly patient with a bunch of sniggering girls squealing "Ooooh! It feels really weird! Oof." It does feel bloody weird though. Here's a snap of me in the kick off position (oo-er):

I love how I am clearly saying something along the lines of: "My legs aren't meant to bend like this! Are you completely mad?" And the tutor lady is clearly thinking: "Christ. You are the least bendy person EVER."

Also: check out my sexy, sexy rolled up track pants and sock combo.

Anyway. Once I'd got over the notion of bringing my leg up to further than sofa height and got my head round the idea of basically falling forward, possibly onto my nose, then it was fantastic. I felt like a proper stripper sort, which felt rather better than I thought it would do. I'm so taking lessons over here once I'm back from Australia. The Fiance is researching temporary poles for the front room on my behalf (Aw. Or not.)

So, once we'd all had a go and proved ourselves to be stripper-worthy sorts, it was time for the surprise element of the jaunt.

"I shall teach you a dance to perform for the husband on wedding night!" announced the stripper, in the manner of announcing the Von Trapp Family Singers. I thought: she's basically show me some sex-aay moves and make me follow her, which would have been enormously humilating yet entertaining for others, which sums up most of my day to day scrapes quite well.

Oh no (or ho no, I suppose). It was a lap dance. I have never been more embarrassed in my life. Chaps - where are you meant to put your eyes? I didn't know where to look without causing offence, and spent the whole time pulling a variety of facial expressions ranging from "I am vaguely amused by this capery" and "Shit. I think I just saw her clitoris.". I fear she may have clocked that one as she halted proceedings to rearrange what was featured of her pants where they'd caught in her arse crack and moved. Haa! Luckily for me, I can re-live all of this fun whenever I wish as two of the girls kindly took video of the event, which has already been circulated round my office. Laters, dignity.

Next time on Miss Hacksaw's Hen Night of Humiliation: I eat too much beef and have a Tom Kitten moment, Suse and I road test some traditional Hungarian shots, and Tom Selleck gets head.