The Hen of all Hens - Chapter 1

If only they knew that 10 girls had spent a friday evening celebrating their work.

Yes, I have survived my hen do. Goodness knows how, it was huge. All that sneaky planning, plotting and scheming was finally unveiled and I have to say, it was the funniest weekend of my life. I still ache from laughing so hard. I cannot believe the work that went into those three days – I am so lucky to have such brilliant, thoughtful and highly creative mates.

And I know what goes on tour stays on tour as the stags might say, but I have to write down some of the shenanigans – simply because I have never experienced anything like it! However, as this is a wholesome family blog and so that I don’t frighten the life out of my mother-in-law-to-be, I might not give you all the goriest details. (But you’ll probably get the idea.)

So after rendezvous-ing in Wimbledon on Friday lunchtime, (and promptly losing each other as we got over excited buying snacks for the journey in M&S) myself, Best Girl Claire, Annabel and Kirsty hit the motorway… and appeared to be heading south. I still had no idea where we were going at this point, I immediately assumed it was coastal. But no, Annabel was simply taking the scenic route - to actually head north.

After much troughing of jelly sweets, and a quick and unplanned stop at Bicester Village for some random outlet shopping (it was weird, like we were drawn in by some gravitational shopping force – but I did find my wedding shoes! Hurray!) we arrived at our destination. A cottage in the countryside on the outskirts of Birmingham. (not Blackpool as they’d led me to believe throughout the journey up.)

I was greeted by Best Girl Emma, Best Girl Jen and Sandra who were already squealing and drinking wine through a comically shaped straw (no prizes for guessing what shape). Hannah arrived shortly after, followed by my Mom and sister Helen. After introductions and troughing of the crisp buffet that Emma had laid out, I was then instructed to slip into a checked shirt and blue jeans.

I was completely baffled...until they put me in a weird brown wig, slapped on a ‘tache and informed me that, tonight Matthew, I was going to be one half of the ‘hilarious’ double act, The Chuckle Brothers. To me, to you and all that.

Yes, of all the minor achievements and accomplishments from my 34 years on this planet, my mates chose to celebrate the day I bumped into The Chuckle Brothers in Waterloo’s Burger King and had a photo taken with them.

Not my most glamourous look

Even more hilarious though, I wasn't the only person dressed in this ridiculous outfit. For some unknown reason, all my hens decided they wanted to dress like stars of slapstick and each and every one wore checked shirts and a comedy ‘tache. Even my Mom:

Val wishes she was a drinker

Before the whole premise of this ridiculous concept had chance to properly sink in, two taxis had pulled up outside the cottage, to chauffeur all the Chuckle Brothers to the nearest pub. To say the drivers looked bemused is an understatement. I think they wondered why we were all dressed as Corrie’s Kevin Webster.

So off we went to the nearest country pub to completely ruin a quiet Friday night drink for a handful of locals. Any hope of a ladylike evening plummeted further when the Best Ladies produced a papier mache phallus (sorry Mom) that was filled with random statements about each Hen. My task was to guess who said what to win a prize. (As you’d expect, many of these seemed to have been purchased in popular hen paraphernalia purveyor, Anne Summers).

Now, the randomness of these statements baffled me. Some were odd, (“I fancy Michael Portillo”) some were fairly sensible ( “I’m a keen gardener”) some were a bit weird (“I have a sambucca burn on my bottom”) and some were absolutely filthy (too rude for me to repeat on this wholesome blog). It was mindbending – especially after a litre of white wine. But full marks to the girls for coming up with a creative take on a raffle.

What's the collective noun for a group of chuckle brothers?

The taxi men returned to collect us at 11.30pm, and were probably a little disturbed by Sandra who was more plastered than most of us and had somehow morphed into Hitler:

Back at the cottage, HitlerSandra opens a biscuit tin to reveal some rather unusual shaped homemade gingerbread. Put it this way, if Greggs had a top shelf, they’d be perfect. They were certainly not ideal for accompanying a cup of tea with the vicar. Our task was to set about decorating these unique biscuits with glitter, icing, sweets and sprinkles. It’s probably best I don’t go into detail here – let's just say it would have made even Nigella 'I love a good baking innuendo' Lawson blush.

Once our creations were complete (and in most cases eaten) and knowing we had a full Saturday of nonsense ahead of us, we eventually all stumbled off to bed. My sides were already aching from laughter at this point - so how on earth could this evening be topped? What would Saturday hold for me? Could the Chuckle Brothers be beaten?? Needless to say, I had a restless night's sleep. (Though that was mostly due to the wildebeest-style snoring from a hen-who-shall-remain-nameless.)

"To me, to you..."