It seems that wedding season has started again, and more importantly, hen night season. Now a male friend of mine recently enquired as to what 'really happens' on hen nights. My answer was as truthful as his response as to what 'really happens' on stag nights, for as we all know: what happens on tour, stays on tour...but I have made a few wry observations from my own experiences...
1. Hen nights bring together ladies of all circumstances, and those with husbands and children are those who actually drink the most, behave in the most lewd manner, and generally spend the night egging the hen on to have one last snog, and then demonstrating this themselves in an...errr...attempt to convey the crucial importance of this to the hen. Shameful.
2. Naturally leading on from this, the single ladies are the ones that drink less, pull less, and go home the earliest. Obviously this isn't their only excuse or opportunity to let their hair down. Quite.
3. The formation of a group of ladies who quite often don't know each other (being a collection of school friends, university friends, work colleagues, sister-in-laws etc) and the addition of 10 bottles of rose result in a sense of touching camaraderie, friendship and loyalty over their night of hilarious antics, and all look forward to meeting up again at the actual wedding.
4. When the wedding actually happens, everyone sticks at the side of their husband/boyfriend/date and just politely smiles at all the other hens. Everyone has something to hide. No one wants anyone to discuss or reveal what really happened, although they may make snide comments to their husband/boyfriend/date such as 'yes, that's her, the one that did the thing I told you about' in order to divert from their own guilty conscience.
5. Everyone is very interested to see what everyone else's other half looks like. They already have heard about their inadequate lovemaking/kinky preferences/disgusting personal habits after the game of truth and dare back at the hotel after that bottle of vodka was drunk. Fascinating, and in many cases, explains a lot.
6. A stripper is not a good idea.
7. I did warn you, a stripper is not a good idea.
8. Look, take it from me. I have been on enough hen nights to know for certain that a stripper is NEVER A GOOD IDEA.
9. Though if that Polish barman wants to strip whilst making our cocktails, for a tip, then that's ok.
I dread to think of what really goes on at stag dos, though I actually suspect that more happens on hen dos. Men are pretty predictable - alcohol, drugs, lapdancers, kebab... I was once at a hen do when the organising bridesmaid suggested that everyone strip off together in the hotel room and find an appropriate object to protect their modesty for a group photo. It seemed hilarious at the time, but in retrospect is actually rather odd. Any guys reading this will assume that in our tipsy state this 'naturally' descended into some sort of orgy...well let me tell you, you've been watching too much porn...and what happens on tour, stays on tour...
Saturday, 30 June 2007
Friday, 22 June 2007
A difference of opinion
It seems to be quite easy to meet people who have the same interests as you these days. Internet forums bring together Shakira fans from around the world, and I’m sure there are many tales of people sparking relationships over their shared love of meerkats.
When I think about it, I’m not entirely sure how my boyfriend and I got together. We were at the same university, and apart from that, the only thing we have ever worked out that we have in common is that both of us had a hamster called Crumbs when we were kids. It seems our entire compatibility rests on this amazing co-incidence. In fact we disagree on everything possible:
Me: Diet coke
Him: Regular coke
Me: Blur
Him: Oasis
Me: London Lite
Him: The London Paper
Me: Wembley is the best Fraggle
Him: Gobo is the best Fraggle
Me: Caribbean (I can dream…)
Him: Glastonbury (don’t mention it this weekend…)
Me: Allergic to cats
Him: Allergic to guinea pigs
Actually the list goes on…
But in fact, I think that perhaps some of the best couples have nothing in common. Now my boss and her husband may have a harmoniously amicable marriage, but really they actually have completely different interests: he drinks red wine, she drinks white, he likes the South of France, she likes Dubai, and it works because they dine and holiday separately…well perhaps not the best example, but still, differing opinions bring variety to a relationship, right? My boyfriend and I often have lively debates, for example, why you shouldn’t name a child after the place it was conceived...yes Brooklyn is a much better name than Romeo, but when you might still be living in Tooting in five years time…
But my colleague at work is not convincing me on her current love interest. She recently had a breast enlargement operation, and her surgeon was an extremely handsome Kiwi. She is besotted, and has a date with him this Friday night (believe me, this girl always gets what she wants).
Now I feel that the fact that he has already touched her intimately whilst she was naked and unconscious already makes it just a little uncomfortable, but my main problem is that he actually bungled the operation, giving her uneven results, meaning she has had to have consequent corrective surgery. What a basis for a relationship! A major issue of contention, bound to be brought up in any argument, already exists, before even their first date! Every time they argue over how she never does the washing up, she can retort, ‘well, you botched my boob job, you bastard!’ I’m really not sure…
Hmm, you know, my boyfriend and I have plenty in common – both being normal is more than enough.
When I think about it, I’m not entirely sure how my boyfriend and I got together. We were at the same university, and apart from that, the only thing we have ever worked out that we have in common is that both of us had a hamster called Crumbs when we were kids. It seems our entire compatibility rests on this amazing co-incidence. In fact we disagree on everything possible:
Me: Diet coke
Him: Regular coke
Me: Blur
Him: Oasis
Me: London Lite
Him: The London Paper
Me: Wembley is the best Fraggle
Him: Gobo is the best Fraggle
Me: Caribbean (I can dream…)
Him: Glastonbury (don’t mention it this weekend…)
Me: Allergic to cats
Him: Allergic to guinea pigs
Actually the list goes on…
But in fact, I think that perhaps some of the best couples have nothing in common. Now my boss and her husband may have a harmoniously amicable marriage, but really they actually have completely different interests: he drinks red wine, she drinks white, he likes the South of France, she likes Dubai, and it works because they dine and holiday separately…well perhaps not the best example, but still, differing opinions bring variety to a relationship, right? My boyfriend and I often have lively debates, for example, why you shouldn’t name a child after the place it was conceived...yes Brooklyn is a much better name than Romeo, but when you might still be living in Tooting in five years time…
But my colleague at work is not convincing me on her current love interest. She recently had a breast enlargement operation, and her surgeon was an extremely handsome Kiwi. She is besotted, and has a date with him this Friday night (believe me, this girl always gets what she wants).
Now I feel that the fact that he has already touched her intimately whilst she was naked and unconscious already makes it just a little uncomfortable, but my main problem is that he actually bungled the operation, giving her uneven results, meaning she has had to have consequent corrective surgery. What a basis for a relationship! A major issue of contention, bound to be brought up in any argument, already exists, before even their first date! Every time they argue over how she never does the washing up, she can retort, ‘well, you botched my boob job, you bastard!’ I’m really not sure…
Hmm, you know, my boyfriend and I have plenty in common – both being normal is more than enough.
Friday, 15 June 2007
A good moan
Now I actually hate it when I hear people ranting about public transport in London, but I think I deserve my contribution this week.
Have you ever been told off by a bus driver?
In fact, this is something that has happened to me on more than one occasion. The first involved a certain bus route where the two services were the 220 and 270, virtually impossible to distinguish until the very last minute, and resulting in sometimes stopping a bus, only to then not get on. But most recently, I was sat at the bus stop on my way to work, engrossed in a world of Justin Timberlake on my iPod, when my bus approached. I didn't see it in time to have made my presence known at the bus stop, but the bus stopped anyway to let some crazy Tooting residents off, so I jumped up to get on it. The front bus doors opened, and as I fumbled about to try and turn the volume on my iPod down whilst simultaneously locate my Oyster card in the chasmic compartments of my bag, the bus driver looked at me sternly and said ' You have to flag the bus down if you want to get on, we don't stop automatically you know'. My surprise at being reprimanded over my failure to engage in passenger signaling etiquette, meant I simply looked at him with a baffled expression. Then, he added the grumpy warning 'Next time, I won't stop, you know'.
What?!
To start with, I was not aware that there was a public transport sanctioning system in place for people who fail to observe these unwritten commuter rules. Secondly, what exactly were the chances of him driving the same bus on another morning, recognising me at the bus stop and refusing to stop in order to teach me a lesson? Perhaps though, this explained those times when buses mysteriously failed to stop despite the frantic waving of potential passengers, it was all part of an elaborate discipling regime. I really resented this chastisement though, considering how once on the bus, people seem to be free to do whatever they like. Someone even tried to sell me a pirated DVD of Spiderman 3 on the bus last week. Perhaps it's just Tooting buses.
And road rage. Now I'm not talking about lack of tolerance at other people's mistakes or inconsideration, but completely unhinged behaviour at other drivers doing anything that impedes their intended route. For example, yesterday I needed to turn my car round before starting my journey, and after looking round carefully before the maneuver, and indicating, despite the empty street, as soon as I attempted to swing it round in the nearest right hand turning, a huge 4x4 vehicle whizzed out of nowhere behind me. I pulled over to let it pass, but no, this was not acceptable. Despite my petite Peugeot leaving enough room for a double decker to pass by, I had committed the crime of interrupting the intended passage of this oversized, overpriced beast. The driver instantly stopped, got out and began ranting inanely at me. The community police officer who happened to be passing immediately came to my rescue, appalled that my abuser was half as tall again and twice the width of me. There was no need though, for as soon as I launched into my vitriolic counter-attack the other driver was gone in a cowardly puff of carbon-emitting exhaust. Humph.
While I'm at it...
Why is it that Starbucks now have a leaflet in stores telling you exactly how many calories are in your Mocha?
Why is it that when you have no money and casually wander into Topshop you find the perfect bag, and it costs £100 when all the others are £35?
Why is it that men pretend they can't iron?
Is it just me?
Have you ever been told off by a bus driver?
In fact, this is something that has happened to me on more than one occasion. The first involved a certain bus route where the two services were the 220 and 270, virtually impossible to distinguish until the very last minute, and resulting in sometimes stopping a bus, only to then not get on. But most recently, I was sat at the bus stop on my way to work, engrossed in a world of Justin Timberlake on my iPod, when my bus approached. I didn't see it in time to have made my presence known at the bus stop, but the bus stopped anyway to let some crazy Tooting residents off, so I jumped up to get on it. The front bus doors opened, and as I fumbled about to try and turn the volume on my iPod down whilst simultaneously locate my Oyster card in the chasmic compartments of my bag, the bus driver looked at me sternly and said ' You have to flag the bus down if you want to get on, we don't stop automatically you know'. My surprise at being reprimanded over my failure to engage in passenger signaling etiquette, meant I simply looked at him with a baffled expression. Then, he added the grumpy warning 'Next time, I won't stop, you know'.
What?!
To start with, I was not aware that there was a public transport sanctioning system in place for people who fail to observe these unwritten commuter rules. Secondly, what exactly were the chances of him driving the same bus on another morning, recognising me at the bus stop and refusing to stop in order to teach me a lesson? Perhaps though, this explained those times when buses mysteriously failed to stop despite the frantic waving of potential passengers, it was all part of an elaborate discipling regime. I really resented this chastisement though, considering how once on the bus, people seem to be free to do whatever they like. Someone even tried to sell me a pirated DVD of Spiderman 3 on the bus last week. Perhaps it's just Tooting buses.
And road rage. Now I'm not talking about lack of tolerance at other people's mistakes or inconsideration, but completely unhinged behaviour at other drivers doing anything that impedes their intended route. For example, yesterday I needed to turn my car round before starting my journey, and after looking round carefully before the maneuver, and indicating, despite the empty street, as soon as I attempted to swing it round in the nearest right hand turning, a huge 4x4 vehicle whizzed out of nowhere behind me. I pulled over to let it pass, but no, this was not acceptable. Despite my petite Peugeot leaving enough room for a double decker to pass by, I had committed the crime of interrupting the intended passage of this oversized, overpriced beast. The driver instantly stopped, got out and began ranting inanely at me. The community police officer who happened to be passing immediately came to my rescue, appalled that my abuser was half as tall again and twice the width of me. There was no need though, for as soon as I launched into my vitriolic counter-attack the other driver was gone in a cowardly puff of carbon-emitting exhaust. Humph.
While I'm at it...
Why is it that Starbucks now have a leaflet in stores telling you exactly how many calories are in your Mocha?
Why is it that when you have no money and casually wander into Topshop you find the perfect bag, and it costs £100 when all the others are £35?
Why is it that men pretend they can't iron?
Is it just me?
Friday, 8 June 2007
Book club
After last week's cringe-worthy encounter with the city boys, and a weekend in Skegness spent fetching pints of Stella from the bar for bandmate 'Nasty', I decided that it was time for some intellectual stimulation in my life. On my friend Leila's suggestion, I joined her friend Victoria's book club. This week's book was The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, and having already read this recently, I arrived eager but nervous on Tuesday night, clutching my copy in hand and armed with a good bottle of Chablis and a stock of comments deftly lifted from the Guardian website. These book clubs were a serious business so I'd heard, the two ultimate faux pas being to admit you hadn't finished the book and bringing cheap Chardonnay.
After everyone was comfortably seated and acquainted, with glass of wine in hand, I was aghast at the tumult of apologetic mutterings, embarrassed grimaces and occasional apathetic shrugging of shoulders from various members at not having read the book, it really was 'the dog ate my homework Sir...' Taking a large gulp of wine, I ventured that the actual idea of time travel was pretty convincingly handled by Niffenegger. After a few polite nods, and half-hearted comments regarding plot holes, the host Victoria turned the subject to the new Big Brother series. This really got discussion going and after a few more drinks we were in full swing, slating the ludicrously-vain, transparently-mercenary contestants offered by the reality TV show this year. If I hadn't been so merrily drunk, I would almost have resented how my expensive Chablis was gulped down along with the seven other bottles of cheap plonk we'd got through so far.
Soon we were all far too pissed to even hold a discussion of our favourite Sex and the City episodes, and so Victoria decided to turn on her computer and connect to the internet. It has been a while since I'd been drunk with a group of girls, and I'm used to watching YouTube clips of 'comically' dubbed pop videos (or just Jessica Simpson's new pop video) with my boyfriend's friends after a night out, so match.com and mysinglebestfriend.com were real eye openers. At first I was a bit disturbed at the opportunity to literally 'shop' for men on these sites, finding it rather stalker-like. But soon I realised we women need all the advantages we can get - a man's main criteria in the opposite sex seem to be an ample bra size and shapely derriere, with a pretty face being the hat trick, from what I can gather. All this can be ascertained visually from a few metres away. Women need to know a man's job, hobbies and star sign before we can seriously consider having a relationship with them - and here you could get all of this information upfront on each man, saving all those pointless drinks with their colleagues, attending rugby matches with their friends, and awkward initial sexual fumblings to then discover that he is a Gemini. Why hadn't this been invented when I was 20?!!!
I was starting to feel quite envious of this opportunity that I had never had, having met my boyfriend at University. I have never been taken out on a proper date in London (paying for my kebab does not constitute taking me out for dinner), and I imagined choosing an outfit, making small talk, shamelessly getting too drunk and going back to his place... It suddenly seemed very glamourous, until one of the girls Sarah then revealed how she had recently met a man called Scott through match.com. It started off very well through some email flirting, then one night he texted her, asking what she was wearing. Slightly confused, she innocently replied saying she was wearing the stripy pyjamas she had got for Christmas. This seemed to reveal some kind of kinky desire in Scott who then replied explaining exactly what physical manifestation of lust this had aroused in him, and how Sarah might help him out with this, via text message. So in the space of ten minutes, I went from feeling left out of the exciting world of grown-up dating, to realising that the internet hadn't changed anything. Nothing much had moved on from my distant single memories of being chatted up by losers in bars, and probably never would.
But I am now a massive fan of the book club. My suggestion for next month was a classic - Pinot Grigio.
After everyone was comfortably seated and acquainted, with glass of wine in hand, I was aghast at the tumult of apologetic mutterings, embarrassed grimaces and occasional apathetic shrugging of shoulders from various members at not having read the book, it really was 'the dog ate my homework Sir...' Taking a large gulp of wine, I ventured that the actual idea of time travel was pretty convincingly handled by Niffenegger. After a few polite nods, and half-hearted comments regarding plot holes, the host Victoria turned the subject to the new Big Brother series. This really got discussion going and after a few more drinks we were in full swing, slating the ludicrously-vain, transparently-mercenary contestants offered by the reality TV show this year. If I hadn't been so merrily drunk, I would almost have resented how my expensive Chablis was gulped down along with the seven other bottles of cheap plonk we'd got through so far.
Soon we were all far too pissed to even hold a discussion of our favourite Sex and the City episodes, and so Victoria decided to turn on her computer and connect to the internet. It has been a while since I'd been drunk with a group of girls, and I'm used to watching YouTube clips of 'comically' dubbed pop videos (or just Jessica Simpson's new pop video) with my boyfriend's friends after a night out, so match.com and mysinglebestfriend.com were real eye openers. At first I was a bit disturbed at the opportunity to literally 'shop' for men on these sites, finding it rather stalker-like. But soon I realised we women need all the advantages we can get - a man's main criteria in the opposite sex seem to be an ample bra size and shapely derriere, with a pretty face being the hat trick, from what I can gather. All this can be ascertained visually from a few metres away. Women need to know a man's job, hobbies and star sign before we can seriously consider having a relationship with them - and here you could get all of this information upfront on each man, saving all those pointless drinks with their colleagues, attending rugby matches with their friends, and awkward initial sexual fumblings to then discover that he is a Gemini. Why hadn't this been invented when I was 20?!!!
I was starting to feel quite envious of this opportunity that I had never had, having met my boyfriend at University. I have never been taken out on a proper date in London (paying for my kebab does not constitute taking me out for dinner), and I imagined choosing an outfit, making small talk, shamelessly getting too drunk and going back to his place... It suddenly seemed very glamourous, until one of the girls Sarah then revealed how she had recently met a man called Scott through match.com. It started off very well through some email flirting, then one night he texted her, asking what she was wearing. Slightly confused, she innocently replied saying she was wearing the stripy pyjamas she had got for Christmas. This seemed to reveal some kind of kinky desire in Scott who then replied explaining exactly what physical manifestation of lust this had aroused in him, and how Sarah might help him out with this, via text message. So in the space of ten minutes, I went from feeling left out of the exciting world of grown-up dating, to realising that the internet hadn't changed anything. Nothing much had moved on from my distant single memories of being chatted up by losers in bars, and probably never would.
But I am now a massive fan of the book club. My suggestion for next month was a classic - Pinot Grigio.
Friday, 1 June 2007
Oh god
On Monday my boyfriend excitedly informed me that his band have gigs in Rotherham, Skegness, and Rhyl, and he is now off on a three week inventively titled ‘Northern Tour’. I am not convinced that the kudos of the venues particularly warrant him taking three weeks precious annual leave that we could have spent on holiday together, and his bandmates ‘Snake’, ‘Nasty’ and ‘Diesel’ (aka Rupert, Rodney and Dave) are not exactly paragons of morality, law or hygiene, so I decided to take my boss up on that offer of a night out in the City on Wednesday (well, she did say the first bottle of Champagne was on her).
What I didn’t realise until my boss and I arrived at the bar, was that her Swedish au pair already at a table with a glass of Moet bestowed upon her by an admirer, was to be my partner in crime for the evening. My boss made her exit and good god, it began.
The top that au pair Helena was wearing made it perfectly clear exactly how much money she had spent on surgically enhancing her chest, and I have never quite seen anything like the clearly practised sultry glance that she used to gesticulate interest to any man who had foolishly flashed a credit card in the vicinity. She quickly informed me that she did not want anyone to think that she was ‘just’ the au pair, and that she would be telling people that she was my boss’s PA. What did that make me? I didn’t have time to come up with a suitable alternative, before two men came over.
Both ‘Tony’ and ‘Steve’ were (in my eyes) hideously unattractive, but there must have been something about the bulge in Tony’s wallet that Helena liked, as she immediately latched on to him, leaving me to make painful small talk with his sidekick. After barely two minutes had elapsed she announced that we had been invited to the VIP area of another nearby bar with them. For my purposes this was an order, not a suggestion.
Two hours later, I was quite tipsy, albeit on house white wine – it seems that while Tony’s American Express card was platinum, Steve’s Natwest credit card was maxed out. Then again I was her boss’s cleaner (thanks, Helena) and I too was maxed out - on conversation involving cufflinks, sports cars and how much I charge on an hourly rate (for my cleaning services, of course). So when Helena suggested a turn on the dancefloor, I was only too glad to oblige. However it seemed that Helena was now intent on articulating her powers in the bedroom department through the medium of dance. Cue moves worthy of a Pussycat Doll. This was a little off-putting, but bearable in comparison to the earlier humiliations of the night, that is until she decided to involve me in some erotic grinding. Oh god. I think the idea was to titillate the guys, but the result was me suddenly standing there horrified and statue-like, the pole in her pole-dancing routine.
It seemed to work for Tony though who left with Helena in tow, smugly triumphant after he offered her a job as his new PA. Ha ha. I would warn my boss, if I thought her childcare was in any real jeopardy.
And I’m going to book a train ticket to Skegness this weekend. My boyfriend has run out of clean socks.
What I didn’t realise until my boss and I arrived at the bar, was that her Swedish au pair already at a table with a glass of Moet bestowed upon her by an admirer, was to be my partner in crime for the evening. My boss made her exit and good god, it began.
The top that au pair Helena was wearing made it perfectly clear exactly how much money she had spent on surgically enhancing her chest, and I have never quite seen anything like the clearly practised sultry glance that she used to gesticulate interest to any man who had foolishly flashed a credit card in the vicinity. She quickly informed me that she did not want anyone to think that she was ‘just’ the au pair, and that she would be telling people that she was my boss’s PA. What did that make me? I didn’t have time to come up with a suitable alternative, before two men came over.
Both ‘Tony’ and ‘Steve’ were (in my eyes) hideously unattractive, but there must have been something about the bulge in Tony’s wallet that Helena liked, as she immediately latched on to him, leaving me to make painful small talk with his sidekick. After barely two minutes had elapsed she announced that we had been invited to the VIP area of another nearby bar with them. For my purposes this was an order, not a suggestion.
Two hours later, I was quite tipsy, albeit on house white wine – it seems that while Tony’s American Express card was platinum, Steve’s Natwest credit card was maxed out. Then again I was her boss’s cleaner (thanks, Helena) and I too was maxed out - on conversation involving cufflinks, sports cars and how much I charge on an hourly rate (for my cleaning services, of course). So when Helena suggested a turn on the dancefloor, I was only too glad to oblige. However it seemed that Helena was now intent on articulating her powers in the bedroom department through the medium of dance. Cue moves worthy of a Pussycat Doll. This was a little off-putting, but bearable in comparison to the earlier humiliations of the night, that is until she decided to involve me in some erotic grinding. Oh god. I think the idea was to titillate the guys, but the result was me suddenly standing there horrified and statue-like, the pole in her pole-dancing routine.
It seemed to work for Tony though who left with Helena in tow, smugly triumphant after he offered her a job as his new PA. Ha ha. I would warn my boss, if I thought her childcare was in any real jeopardy.
And I’m going to book a train ticket to Skegness this weekend. My boyfriend has run out of clean socks.
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