Hen weekend: Part the Third (at last)

So, that was the biggest blogging hiatus ever. This is due to a number of reasons - the main one being that the admin gimping kicked off big style when I started having to prepare to leave the place for a month, and so had to organise the office so it would run smoothly in my absence. It sounds like I am bigging myself up massively here, but I wanted to avoid what happened when I last went on holiday - namely getting a text from my line manager asking me how on earth one changes a printer cartridge. Another reason is that I have been in Sydney for the last two weeks, and have been too busy having a marvellous time to come on here and type.

Righto, so back to the hen do, which actually took place over a month ago. Worst blogger EVER. To recap events so far: I am on my hen do in Budapest with nine other lovely ladies. I have so far drunk too much lager, been to a restaurant wearing a pair of plastic penises on my head, eaten too many crisps, woken up with the hangover from hell, been to an outdoor spa, learnt to pole dance and then been on the receiving end of a lap dance from a stripper while wearing an alarmed look on my face.

After a few hours I managed to recover from that insanity, and we all went out to dinner at a place called Tom George. We hadn’t really sampled much traditional Hungarian food – having mostly sustained ourselves on chilli con carne, crisps and salsa (nice move for those of us planning to squeeze ourselves into a wedding dress at some point in the near future) up until that point; and Tom George turned out to not be the place to rectify this Brits Abroad style of eating. Billed as ‘the place to be for socialites and soccer stars’ in Budapest, it had a menu of champions. I don’t think I’ve ever been out to a restaurant where everyone had a shortlist of dishes they wanted to have, as everything looked so fabulous. I think we all bounced in between four starters and six mains for about half an hour before we finally felt able to place any orders. Pleasingly though, they had a cracking cocktail menu which we all took complete advantage of. Bellinis for the equivalent of two quid? Yes, I’ll have three, thank you!

As I am rather one for taking advantage of situations where I am the centre of attention and therefore nobody can tell me off, I proceeded to have the most un-politically correct meal I think I’ve ever eaten – comprised of goose liver pate for starters and the biggest rack of veal I have ever seen in my life for a main. Oh dear. And I ate it all as well, with the humiliating consequence of having to spend the rest of the meal with my trouser buttons discreetly undone and cursing myself for being such a pieman. What an idiot. Still, I brightened up somewhat with the news that I’d pretty much managed to increase the final bill by 25% thanks to polishing off an £8 brandy.

Next up it was onto a pub called Captain Cook's which sported the oddest clientele and the rudest waitresses known to man. Excellent. It was also when we broke out the bag of forfeits, which resulted in a shot-tastic few hours. After I picked out six forfeits in a row which said 'drink a shot of Miss Hacksaw's choice' ("six sambucas please, thank you"), it was decided that I was getting off rather lightly on the boozing front, so S bought me a tequila slammer.

I hate tequila. I can't even smell the stuff without feeling vomit rise in my throat, and the addition of lemon and salt only makes the ridiculous caper worse. I sat at the table looking morose in front of it for half an hour trying to work up the courage to neck the damn thing while becoming more and more convinced that as soon as I put a drop of it in my mouth I would hurl everywhere and be thrown unceremoniously out onto the street.

After boring everyone for what seemed like hours re: the tequila hatred, Suse took matters into her own hands and decided that what I needed was a shot of a traditional Hungarian liquer.

Firstly, it's call Unicum, which is a) awesome, and b) sniggersome. Secondly, it smells like cherry coke! Hurrah! Tequila Hatred was put aside for the time being while I necked a glass of this and waited for the fun to begin.

Holy shit. You know how different parts of your tongue respond to different flavours? Mine went like this:

Tip of tongue (sweet): Mmm. Cherry coke. Why don't we have some more?

Sides of tongue (sour): Zzzzzzzzzzz. What? Oh. Zzzzz.

Back of tongue (bitter): What the fuck?! What the hell IS this? Gah! Help! Bad...taste..keeps..on...coming...I hate you....

Brain (not in top working order thanks to alcohol): Ah! I know what will help! That lovely, lovely shot of tequila that has been on the table for half an hour!

Back of tongue: Mmmm. Tequila rules.

Bloody idiot. Anyway, shortly afterwards the pub closed (or, the staff told us the pub was closing, although a curious amount of people seemed to be still ordering drinks. I fear the Hungarian folks may have been bored with the screaming harpyness that was going on.)

So, what do you do at the end of the night when you've got nowhere to go but a hotel? Yes, you go back to the hotel with a sack of wine and blow up your delightful meant-to-be-Roger-Moore-but-looks-more-like-Tom-Selleck blow up doll, and wait for the hilarity to ensue.

WHY is it so funny, when you're hammered, to take a variety of photos of you and your friends giving blow jobs to blow up plastic dolls? Hardly original, I know; but at the time it seemed like the funniest thing in the world ever. I looked back at the snaps a few days later and cringed at yet more evidence that proves that when drunk, me and my friends behave like those women you see on Booze Britain Ibiza letting shaven headed blokes in Charlton Athletic shorts hump them in Pacha while one of their mates is shoving her tits against the camera and another is being sick in the street and showing off her bits in a manner even less dinified than Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan. Shameful.

And, so to bed, via a box more of wine that really wasn't required and a Sex and the City style debate regarding circumcision. Disgraceful.

The next day was a bit of a blur to be honest. We pottered about the Christmas market with buckets of gluwein trying to keep warm, had hysterics at the fact that C & A seems to be the height of sophistication in Hungary, had yet more chips and salsa in Chilis Bar (mmm) and then herded ourselves onto a plane for a journey home that was somewhat quieter than the one out, namely because everyone on said flight had clearly been on a stag or hen do and were as shagged out as we all were.

I'm sorry this blog, and any other updates, have been so long coming. I've had a load on, and also had a spazzy moment when I wondered whether it was worth carrying on blogging, as I don't ever say anything of any value, unlike the most excellent Dave and Noosa; and of late have been far too busy to give regular updates. However, I'm over that now - I'm back in the UK on the 13th and a more normal service will be resumed then.

Also, I hope you all had fabulous Christmases, Hannukahs and New Years and whatnot. I shall be blogging about mine over the next few weeks, so please come back and have a read. In the meantine, I urge people to go and read Grace Dent's TV OD. It's one of the funniest columns ever - apart from her World of Lather Guardian column of course - and is currently focusing on the bear pit that is Celebrity Big Brother. Which this year features H from Steps. Who is, in a huge shock to everyone, gay! Didn't see that one coming.

Righto, I'm off, as it's Prawntastic Saturday at Pier 26 at Darling Harbour and I haven;t had a beer for 12 hours. I love holidays.