Hen and Stag Do's

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 5^th 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?

In which I Loose it Three Times

Forgive me Blog Spot for I have lost it. Thrice now have I turned into that which I swore I would not. Bridezilla happened. She took me over and she made me her puppet.

Poor Bridechiller. She sat, huddled in fear, as the gargantuan monster she so swore to defeat rampaged across the landscape, destroying all in her path, strewing things in her wake and leaving a trail of confusion and mayhem.

To be fair, this wasn’t entirely my fault. And it also was.

BF was prepared to propose and he was prepared to marry me. Was he prepared to do it when I wanted him to….? Possibly not. Yes, I will admit reader; I massively pushed him into it.

BF still maintains that he had a plan. Sort of. Kind of. At some point. He was going to ask me at some time in the misty future, put it that way. Then he proposed. After we were engaged he wanted to leave it a few years for the wedding and I (knowing how my anxiety would build to fever pitch over one year, let alone two) was determined to marry the following year. We set a date within 48 hours of getting engaged. For some reason I felt I had to nail him down or we’d do that endless drifting of long term engaged couples where everyone wants to know when the wedding is but no-one likes to ask. Why? I don’t know. Fulfilment of a life plan? I enjoy a party? I would like to be married?

Anyway, long story short with minimal naval gazing, BF spent two months getting his head around it. By the time he had stuck his head up and gone ‘hey up babes, I’m ready to arrange stuff!’ we’d booked the church, chosen the venue, I’d practically bought a dress and had picked the colour palette. In all fairness I had tried to get him involved and he’d just gone a bit angrily vague whenever the ‘W’ word was mentioned – the way I go when a customer mentions that they read the Daily Mail. BF acknowledges this. But it doesn’t change facts that by the time he’d come to terms with it all, M and I had decided quite a lot of the main things about the wedding. We always checked with BF first of course (who would shrug and look slightly disinterested), but by the time he came out of his man cave and actually wanted to be involved, most of the main stuff had been done.

This hadn’t helped my stress levels and, having felt rightly or wrongly that I had done a lot on my own, to suddenly be told I needed to run everything we decided now by him and even find he disagreed with some things I was proposing (How could he?! Didn’t he know how IMPORTANT this was to me?! He doesn’t even LIKE flowers gnash growl flame smash), it only served to fan the flames building up inside me. All squashed up hidden away because of the unacknowledged guilt that somehow I had bullied him into all of this. What a mix of horrific emotions to keep locked up.

Added to work stress (I work in a stressful place and so does he), family stress (M is wonderful but she likes what she likes and knows how to push for it which is hard when you have a man who doesn’t want what she wants but are forced to do all the explaining to both parties) and trying to maintain social normality (no-one tells you you can’t), I was a powder keg.

1.     In which Bridezilla Makes her big Debut

One weekend in November we had had a wonderful tasting session with Harold who does a kind of Italian German fusion food – seriously lush. Both of Bf’s parents, BF, M & D and I had eaten like absolute pigs having polished off 6 courses (and several entrées) each. Afterwards, we retired to the sitting-room where we all sat around, slightly glazed, looking stunned at one another, polaxed with over eating.

Suffice to say, I can heartily recommend Pomegranate Catering for their amazing taster menu, their willingness to please and their encouragement that we were important to them. If you are getting married in the Kent area, go with them. They are great and I can’t wait to eat like a pig again at the wedding. Reminds me, speak to Mrs McW about putting an elasticated front on the dress….

So basically, we chose the menu from what everyone liked that night. Which was fine. Until we had to finalise it. Skip forwards two weekends when we were back down with my folks…..

I never knew M and would come to loggerheads over pork, but that’s what we did. M said lots of people didn’t eat pork. I said more people didn’t eat lamb (the pork was amazing – I wanted the pork), M said if we had the pork starter we couldn’t have the pork main. BF said why not. M got a mulish look on. D tried to put a word in and gave up – don’t think he cared about pork or beef. I said I didn’t want the beef I wanted the pork. Which is ridiculous, because I live for beef and am frankly ambivalent about pork.

Holy God, I swear, this is where it really kicked off.

Before I knew it I was out of my chair, screaming that everyone was ganging up on me before flouncing out and up to my room - it took 5 minutes with the word pork mentioned maybe thirty times and I was apparently sixteen again. I spread myself out on the bed (‘Like a Disney princess weeping’ I pictured in my mind) until BF came up, calmed me down and hugged me (which is, boys, what you do when your mad fiancée turns into a raging tower of insane hormones over beef or pork). It took me an hour to calm down, at which point I went downstairs and apologised. We all had a laugh, ha ha ha! And I thought that was it.

I’d never do THAT again!

2.    In which Bridezilla doesn’t like the cut or colour of your gib, Young Man!

BF and I went to look at suits. More on those later. Suffice to say we got a cracking deal on them at a local shop in Oxford. Anyway, he’d gone off with his Best Man (Bestie from now on) and tried a few on. He loved the style I liked too (win win - he looks like an actual penguin in formal wedding attire so is going for a Prince Edward style). And he fancied the dark blue. I laughed at this (ha ha ha!) thinking, ‘don’t dwell on that thought darling’ but he carried on saying it. He liked the dark blue, wasn’t the dark blue nice?

The colour palette I have picked (poor BF! I can’t even try and say ‘we’) is going to be stunning. Although the wedding is in August we are having essentially autumnal colours and calling it ‘harvest’. Think this.                                 

Then picture dark blue suits. Nooooooooooo.

But understandbly this, from BF’s P.O.V was the ONLY THING he got complete control of – what he and his ushers wore. Guess what. He still preffered the blue to the brown.

I went mental. In Oxford High Street. We stood at the traffic lights at the corner of Cornmarket and Queen’s street and just yelled at one another. YELLED.

Autumn colours and BLUE? Are you INSANE MAN?!

Well, mainly I yelled. And then he uttered the words which were sure to bring out the fangs and the claws; ‘why can’t we just change the colour palette?’ Oohhh. Ohhhh heck.

I lost it. People actually turned and stared. Poor BF. He whisked me around the corner to the White Horse and by the time we had got there, the tears had started. We sat down with a pint and had a little chat. The scales fell from my eyes.

I felt dreadful. Especially when he said he wasn’t really that bothered but just wanted to see how I’d react. Epic fail.

This would be the last time. The very last time I swore as we had a cuddle and went to catch the bus.

Until it happened AGAIN over the guest list.

3.    In which Bridezilla Appears for Act Three

The Guest List is what will test your ability to remain calm in any situation. Firstly, you know the people you have to invite. Yes, you WANT to invite them but you also know that you can’t NOT invite them. They take up half of the party.

Half.

So your 130 (which is massive for most wedding numbers) is down to 65. Add in a lifetime of friends who you have met while you were single for 29 years on both sides and then the people who your parents say you should invite (because there will be at least 10 of them on either side) and you’re out of space. Leaving 20 people who you actually really wanted to invite out in the cold.

That was one of the most incredible temper tantrums I have ever had. It took me an hour and a half to calm down, loose the scales and stop destroying Tokyo. And the sad thing is, most of it was pure frustration and lack of control. I knew (know) that in fact we will get lots of people who won’t be able to make the wedding and will therefore manage to invite a few on our second list, but when you have people asking you when the wedding is so that they can book their hotel and you know they are on the second list….awkward!

Don’t even speak to me about the fact that we have said ‘no children’.

The no children thing, to me is sensible. Not only do you have a more adult wedding but the idea of an enclosed space with a load of ragingly drunk adults and small breakable people charging everywhere makes me very nervous. Plus, we just don’t have the money or the space. We’re in our Thirties – a lot of our friends have children and we just don’t have the space for them. Plus, when you speak to most parents the idea of having a night off is much more interesting than having to look after little Jimmy, hyped up on cake and sweet food all day, then go home early with at least one of you sober.

So as we have the space and the marquee for the weekend, we have decided to do a second do on the Sunday for all people who have families and would rather come with their kids. Bouncy castle, ice cream van and I even get another frock. It can’t be all bad!

There we have it.

I think I have the solution now. First I started getting my back and stomach seen to as it turns out that they are a mess and this has helped my general stress levels. Second, I started seeing a hormonal reflexologist who is amazing and has serious helped smooth out the bumps life was causing meaning I take things more sensibly now. Karen is great. She is in Oxfordshire and is much recommended. You can find her website here.  And lastly, BF and I have slowed down. We’re trying to spend more weekends at home, more evenings at the gym or watching Futurama together. Just chilling.

I realised that you just have to sail through things, not just bump up against them until they give way.

So now, when M starts to get angry or pushes something which BF and I don’t want, whereas I would have maybe have reacted and started a fight which would have me looking like this in mere moments followed by a sobbing fit.

In fact I have tried to cultivate a general attitude to anything wedding related which leaves me feeling like this:

Look at Zen Bride. She is so relaxed she is doing YOGA in her WEDDING DRESS on a BEACH. How much more relaxed could you get?

Plus, what the hell?! This is something which doesn’t sit well with me in our sensible, enlightened culture. Why does a woman get to behave like an absolute bitch just because she is getting married? It’s absurd and frankly pretty pathetic for all women. Read this wonderful blog on Feminism and Bridezilla.

http://feministwedding.blogspot.co.uk/2010/11/bridezilla-is-anti-feminist-concept.html

It’s not fair on BF either when I go all Jackie Chang in a rage on him! He was more confused than I was all three times. M & D were similarly hurt by my increasingly aggressive rages and bouts of crying as all M wanted to do was make sure her daughter and future son-in-law had the best wedding they could have, and all D wanted was to not be yelled at.

Why the heck does it matter anyway? It’s one day in our lives; one. The birth of our first child, the day one of us gets that massive promotion, the day we buy our first house….these are things which are just as important as our wedding day and you’re not allowed to have stomping, screaming, fire breathing hissy fits over them. Does it matter if the groom suits are the wrong colour? Does it matter that the bridesmaids’ hair has fallen out or the only photo of you looking half decent shows your back fat?

We’re one of tens of weddings, all white, all as glossy and smoothly run as they can be and all trying to be perfect on that one weekend in August. There will be hundreds more that month and thousands that year. Why is our wedding so special? The only people it matters to are BF and I, with the parentals coming a quick second. Being a bride is not a right, it’s a privilege which you should treat as such. You are lucky to be doing what you’re doing, not entitled.

It’s certainly not worth upsetting my fiancée and my mother and my father simply because I can’t (let’s face it) have whatever the f*ck I want when I want it because I’m wearing a white dress.

That’s not Bridezilla; that’s just childish.