The Hen of all Hens - Chapter 2

Claire plots my downfall...

As dawn broke on our hangovers, and the waft of bacon drew us out of bed like a bunch of Bisto kids, a feeling of mild intrepidation washed over me. Then SandraHitler and Emma appeared still wearing their moustaches, which simultaneously made me laugh and wince cos my sides were still hurting from laughing so hard the night before.

After feeding on bacon butties and doing our best to rehydrate, I was ordered to go and sit in a room with a copy of Heat and not come out until told. All I could hear were the hens scampering around giggling.

Worryingly, I heard Mom say “If I blow my nose it’ll all come off.” I can’t even begin to describe my confusion at this point.

Suddenly, a blindfold was thrown through the door, and I was ordered to put it on. Tight. I was then guided into the lounge and Jenny cryptically said:
“Lou, what did you most like to do on a sunday night when you were young?”

Not a bloody clue was my initial reply. Then the music started and I removed my blindfold. The scene that unfolded was one I will never forget. One by one each hen appeared dressed as a well-known popstar, and each doing a small dance routine to ‘their’ song.

As Robert Palmer’s Addicted to Love blared, one of the girls from that iconic video was dancing in front of me. Or was it Sandra with an inflatable guitar?
Next out of the door was Cheryl Cole Jenny, in a ‘Fight for this Love’ military outfit, complete with split trousers. Then Emma as Bananarama (I wondered why she’d been scrunching her hair over breakfast) and
Claire as Gary Barlow, complete with spangly knickers from their ‘Do What You Like’ video. Next, came Kirsty as Madonna, all crucifixes and bangles, Hannah with bright pink hair as Cyndi Lauper, Annabel as a magnificent Lady GaGa (she was wearing a big fur coat and flashed me some spectacular underwear as she danced past). Then Avril Lavigne’s double appeared - my sister was the spitting image. But the one that made me laugh the most was my Mom – she was Michael Jackson and moonwalked, yes moonwalked across the room. (Her outfit also explained the bizarre nose comment I had overheard during my incarceration)

It turned out the Sunday night activity they were referring to was my weekly habit of making mix tapes by recording the charts on Radio 1. I have such fond memories for those prehistoric days BA (Before Apple) when the likes of iPods and iTunes were fodder for Tomorrow’s World, and all we had was a wobbly C90 and a tape deck to compile our favourite music with. And the hens had latched onto this ‘hobby’ and bought it to life 20 years later in a cottage in Birmingham. Unbelievable.

From left: Mickey Jacko, (check out the nose!) Avril, Cyndi, Cheryl,Gary Barlow, Gaga, Robert Plamer girl, Madonna
Front: me looking utterly stunned with Bananarama.

As I gawped around the room, taking in the sight of my hens and wondering where Mom learned to moonwalk, that feeling of intrepidation returned. What or who would I be dressed as?

Then someone’s finger slipped on the iPod (that wouldn’t have happened with a tape deck would it??) and the unmistakable opening chords of one of my favourite ‘guilty-pleasure’ songs filled the room.
“Boom boom boom. Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know…..”

The penny dropped. And just in case I hadn’t got it, Jenny reminded everyone in the room that, as well as recording the charts, I once spent several hours (days? weeks?) trying to learn the dance routine to Britney Spears’ chart topper Hit Me Baby One More Time. (Tragically, at a time when I was old enough to know better I might add. Or have a real hobby.) And after a few glasses of wine, I would be prone to showing off my dance moves whenever the song came on.

To my horror, I realised this nugget of information had been logged. I was escorted from the room, and given my outfit. This is the look they were aiming for:

and this is what they got:

Before I had chance to gather my thoughts, or indeed run and hide, the taxi men from last night came back. They didn't even looked surprised by our outfits by this point. It was almost as if they had expected us to be wearing something ridiculous. And as the line up from an episode of Stars in their Eyes piled into the cabs, it dawned on my that it was only 11.30am and I was stone called sober. And I was going somewhere dressed in a red lycra cat suit.

That 'somewhere' turned out to be the centre of Birmingham. Still not sure what was going on, we headed straight to the nearest Walkabout Bar. ("Suave bars won't let us in looking like this!" explained Jen.) Hilariously the bar was gearing up for the imminent England footie match, and as we took our seats to order some stodge, the place slowly filled up with fairly unattractive brummy blokes, looking to watch the game. Without girls getting in the way. Whoops. Thank goodness for the hypnotic distraction of over-paid chavs chasing a bag of air in a field - because no-one seemed to notice that Michael Jackson, Madonna and Britney were in the room. Phew.

But suddenly, we were exiting the Walkabout to head to THE location. The Best Girls whispered and nudged each other excitedly as we went...just next door. To a rather cheesy looking night club. But it was lunchtime. And it was empty. What were we doing here?

Next thing I knew a young bubbly dance teacher appeared before me, introduced herself as Nichola and announced that she was going to teach us all the dance routine to Britney's Hit Me Baby One More Time.

In my head the theme tune to Jim'll Fix It played loudly. It was a dream come true. No more pausing and rewinding the video, trying to amateurishly cobble together the routine myself. Here was a professional person, who could show me precisely how to replicate Britney's moves.

I could have wept with joy. And then I realised I was 34 not 14 and needed to get a grip.

Two hours later, and Nichola had taught all us hens the entire routine. She said we looked amazing - but she was probably being nice. I didn't care. As I busted my new expert moves in my red cat suit and blonde wig, for one moment I really was Britney Spears. (Before she shaved her head and went barmy obviously. Y'know, while she was with Timberlake and was still a pop sensation rather than a smack head. Allegedly.)

Look at the concentration!

The hens post dance lesson. "Shall we audition for Britain's Got Talent??"

We had an hour or so before our taxi men returned, (those guys were rapidly becoming an integral part of the whole weekend - I might invite them to the wedding!) so we all trundled off for a cocktail in the busiest part of Brum, for just a fraction more humiliation.

Sober and in broad daylight. Had anyone really thought this through?

As I necked my cocktail and a couple of Jaegerbombs, while forcing my little sister to do the same (sorry Mom), I quietly celebrated the fact that the official 'stitching up of the hen' was over, and surely all that remained was a nice quiet night in with the girls.

Oh how wrong can a person be...

"Oh baby baby, how was I supposed to know that my best mates would make me wear a skin tight lycra cat suit???"