I’m sitting here on the sofa opposite BF who is currently
organising a Stag Do. Not for himself. His good friends H & H are getting
married this June and he is Best Man for H.
Currently we are discussing things I would never usually have
expected to be discussing with BF. Things like colours of the stag t-shirts.
Fonts. What should his nickname be (Dr Dick – did you really have to ask?!).
The size of the men who are going – wahaaay! You get the idea.
H, the groom BF is BM-ing for, is having what sounds like an
epic, Stag-Man fest. They are going to Prague as a group. I mocked it at first
and now actually I’m a bit (much) jealous. It’s starting to sound AWESOME! They
have t-shirts with nicknames on them. They are being met at the airport and
taken around Prague with either a man who looks like this
or a woman who looks like this
who will take them to all the best bars and organise their
time away. It’s not even that expensive. They get to fire guns. GUNS. I’m anti
guns and I am still jealous.
And it’s Prague. Even if I’m drunk the whole time (in all
fairness, they spend most of every episode of Mad Men drunk) and miss its
majestic beauty and splendour, I would love to go. So yes, I am ragingly
jealous. Because there is something I genuinely think is liberating about a
group of people heading out on the town dressed in some horrific get up
celebrating with their friends until they all wake up in the same chip shop at
3am with a Donar Kebab stuck to their face.
BF is actually doing a much quieter affair for his own Stag
Do and is heading to his home city to follow the ale trail and go Clay Pigeon
shooting. His dad, my dad and all of our brothers will be there so I’m not
expecting it will be too raucous. At least, I suspect not. You never know how
it will turn out when you get enough testosterone, real ale and men in a small
pub space. But I suspect it will be a thoroughly nice, drunk time had by all
with few in the way of strippers, hookers and burying them in the desert after
a coke fuelled party. Who knows.
I have always been aware of the contentious nature of Stag
and Hen Do’s. There are a number of reasons why people don’t like them, which I
shall attempt to express:
1)They celebrate the rowdy ‘lad culture’
which is so abhorrent to many who have to share
their city centre with a bunch of loutish members of either sex with their
skirt up their arse, their shirt off (in either sex let’s face it) or urinating
in the street. But then, that’s a normal Saturday night to a lot of folks. So
are Hen Do’s or Stag Do’s really increasing the after effects of this display
of primal mating rituals and drinking escapism? Not in my books. They just wear
more L plates and specially printed t-shirts.
2) The Price.
The average
Hen Do or
Stag Do used to take place at your local boozer the night before the
wedding. This was back int’ good old days when you didn’t live with your
spouse. Now they range from £50 for activities and
a picnic to some cracking
holidays in the UK, Spain or Prague for £200+ (see the StagdoCompany for all of the
Boobs
and Guns you could ever hope
to handle – ha ha – or Hen Heaven for some Shots and Giggles) and even some luxury sites which cater for the more
discerning (ahem) Hen or Stag here.
But it’s a lot more than a night at the pub would cost, even in London, and
also involves a lot more organising which leads me to….
3) They are a logistical nightmare to organise for the lucky
Best Man or Bridesmaid. Frankly, if a
company wants proven experience in Project Management, they should include Hen
Do organisational skills. My Cousin E who is organising my own Hen Do, despite
being a tame and quiet affair in comparison with the mega events she has
organised in the past, or the massive group BF is shipping to Prague should
have some kind of NVQ qualification. I tip my hat to them.
4) They have been tainted by the TOWIE tar brush.
Ok, awful looking Hen Do’s and Stags have been
around since Benedorm was first a resort, but everyone now tries to outclass
themselves with ‘who can do the least tacky/most tacky hen do’ from this to
this. Seriously, apparently now they are genuinely considered to be tainting
Blackpool. Tainting Blackpool?! At least they are USING
Blackpool, which is more that the Great British Public did in the 1980’s and
1990’s. See here
for more on that.
I love a good hen do. I have had some wonderful nights. Mrs
B’s Hen do which started in a classy Greenwich cinema and continued on to where
I have photos of myself and my university friends in the City franchise of
Reflex wearing leg warmers on our arms, golden fake boobs, visors and giant
sunglasses. My Cousin R’s Hen do in Monmouth where we hired a medieval house,
played ‘pin the codpiece on the King’ and salsa’d until late in Bristol. Mrs
O’s which was in Spain – yes Spain, where her folks had a flat, we got a mini
holiday and tans for the wedding.
Then there are the bad ones where I knew no-one and felt
awkward. I have had a fair few of them.
Hen Do awkwardness is the worst. Give me a like if you’ve
ever felt that gut wrenching, bone crunching awkward moment when you realise
that you know no-one on the night out, you have nothing in common with anyone,
you try and try and just can’t get drunk
enough and you’ve bankrupted yourself to attend. Plus, you weren’t told you had
to bring a costume and you’re the only one in a cocktail dress while everyone
else is a sexy cowboy. Painful.
Bachelor Parties to
Americans (Bachelorette Parties to the Ladies), Junggesellenabschied to the Germans, maanhaar partytjie in South Africa and enterrement de vie
de garcon to the French, or literally the death of the bachelor. Lovely. Stag Do
however in the UK, please.
The Romans were pipped to the ‘weird wedding tradition invention’
in this instance by the Spartians who apparently invented the Stag Do in the 5th
Century BC as a way of celebrating a man’s last night single. Which bearing in
mind Sparta was a male dominated country like the rest of Ancient Greece sounds
suspiciously like an excuse to party their arses off. By 1896 one Herbery
Barnum Seeley’s stag do was broken up by police for allegedly displaying a nude
belly dancer. Jimmy Stewart had midgets jump out of a serving dish. Top that
y’all.
Did they traditionally wear stag horns?
Apparently fake stag
horns are now popular to wear on a stag do. Why? As far as I can see, while the
Horned Man remained an integral part of British Folk Law as a symbol of
fertility, he has nothing to do with a man’s last night as an unmarried Buck –
oh wait, there we go. Horns in mythology in the British Isles also represent
Kingship and I suppose the man is ‘King of his Friends’ for the day.
Then in all fairness, girls wanted in on it and the Hen Do
was born. Hen Do’s really didn’t exist until the 1940’s (Eleanor Roosevelt had
one – she was already married but she still called it a ‘Hen Party’ so we’ll
count it). Katie Price got Botox on her Hen Do. Yes really. See here.
Kate
Middleon had a quiet night in. Different strokes for different folks.
There is also a seedy side to the whole affair I know. I am
not trying to say that it’s all innocence and laughter.
I am not a fan of intimidating Stag or Hen Do’s – you know, the
ones who get into a club or bar en masses and act like they’re Pitbull/Jennifer Lopez/both Pitbull AND Jennifer Lopez but tackier. I hate
the idea that my BF will even step foot in a strip club and am vehemently anti
sex industry when it comes to Stag or Hen Do’s, the sex industry in general in
fact. I am intelligent and worldly enough to understand why I don’t want my boy
stepping foot into places where enforced working conditions tantamount to
female slavery and the violence which many of these women are involved with
(endemic to an industry that many have not chosen to follow) is rife.
You only have to look at the Stag Do activity names to see
how hyper-sexualised and derogatory towards women a lot of these holidays are
(not to mention the faintly nauseating pictures of women sucking guns/wearing
very little – no boys, it’s not empowering, it’s called ‘sexual
objectification’ – watch the Ted Talk here) with names like
‘Big Guns and Strippers’.
The Hen side of Last Night of Freedom.com is like stepping
onto a different planet. It’s pink. Look at the coy girls giggling at the man
with most of his modesty covered. They are wearing face masks. FACE MASKS.
There is a poledancing trip. But you actually get to Pole Dance instead of
watching someone else pole dance. Mud wrestling. Where you get to mud wrestle
your friends. In Private. There is one
picture of a semi-naked man. Evidently this website knows what women want. Or thinks it does.
You can buy
t-shirts with the Stag or Hen’s name on them. You can buy Willy
Head boppers. Willy straws. In fact, anything in a willy shape. Tutus. Hire
the Butlers in the Buff to come and wait
at your table. Have some Pole Dancing Lessons. For J’s wedding, C and I
organised a Burlesque Lesson for all followed by a night out in Leeds. In
corsets and pants. Epic. You can go skiing, go to Antarctica, go skydiving, go
to Las Vegas or Skeg Vegas. You can do anything you want so long as you have
the money to do it and the friends who want to go with you.
So yes, you can look at a Stag Do or a Hen Do as a 'waste of
money' over 'something trivial' which is, if I’m honest, how I tended towards looking at them a
few years ago when I was working a low paid job with limited holiday. After
all, you’re about to pay for a hotel at the wedding location, buy an
outfit/hat, travel and get a gift to see your friend get married. To pay £400
on top for a Hen do (which is ball park when you add up
accommodation/travel/activities) seems a bit much.
But if you really want to go, you’ll find the money and the
time. Because basically a Hen Do (or a Stag Do) is an excuse to get together,
let off steam and have some fun. It’s mainly innocent. Yes, some taxis get hurt
and Blackpool gets a bit less family orientated every time a group gets dressed
up as their favourite super heroes or duct tape their mate naked to a street
lamp. I am vehemently against anyobjectification of images of men or women and
I feel sick that anyone thinks visiting strip clubs is ‘normal’ or a ‘right of
passage’ but heck, they sell boppers with penises on them. They are in the main, bloody good fun and well intentioned.
Cousin E, any chance we can change the Hen Do to Blackpool?
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