How To Hen

I met George at university and we immediately clicked.


We soon became best friends. What’s the difference between a friend and a best friend? A friend would just tag one funny photo of you, but a best friend would dedicate an entire album to your face and watch as the notifications come flooding in:

“Georgina Oblong has added multiple (this is why I turned to surgery) photos of you.”

Nevertheless we remained thick as thieves. I got on so well with her family; I’d stay at her place in Sussex for weeks at a time (bringing only one pair of clean pants) chat with her parents (lie on the sofa and demand poached eggs on toast with cups of tea on tap) and they even consoled me through tough times. (“I’ve lost my pants, I have carpet burns up my back and a tab at your local pub for £500”).


George has a twin called Lizzie (“there’s two of you?! Fuck, I’m even uglier than I thought”) who is soon to be married.

Cue – The Hen Party

On the morning of the hen I received a phone call;
“Debbie are you ready? We need to leave in an hour!”


I had a date the night before (someone – anyone love me) and was feeling a little ill. (“George I think I’m dying” – “I don’t care. MOVE.”)

I boarded the train to West Sussex, super excited to be seeing my friend after so long:
“Stop shouting at me – I can’t make the train go any faster.”
“Well, maybe Debbie if you had left two hours ago.. have you got everything?”
“I forgot to pack clean pants. Can I borrow yours?”

When I got to the train station we were raring to go:

“Feeling any better, Debbie?”



We then picked up another hen, Abby – beautiful and fresh faced, who took her seat in the back.
“You alright Debs?”
(I briefly turned, looking like the ghost of Christmas past).


And we continued on our “OMG ROADTRIP” (in total silence, swallowing vomit and listening to George explain how she’d forgotten her contacts and the only time she’d driven long distance she had crashed).

The fuel was low, George quickly pulled over then asked: “do you know whether this car takes diesel or petrol?”

Abby and I laughed, it was obviously a joke (and then stopped laughing when George peered through the window: “Seriously is this diesel or petrol?”). She returned after refuelling her tank (probably with air) and asked if I could drive instead.

So off we went, me behind the wheel whilst George asked (unsettling) questions: “Why are there so many police around? (“I dunno George, maybe because there is a drunk, uninsured driver on the road?!!”).

The journey seemed to be taking forever:

“Seriously Debbie, it takes three hours to get to bath, we’ve been on the road for two. Why is the Sat Nav still saying we have three hours?”

“Sat nav? I’ve just been driving straight”
“Tell me you are joking?”
“Well I was waiting for you to say turn.”



We soon (“I can’t believe its taken us nearly six hours to get here Debbie”) arrived at the house. The first guest to appear was the a friend of the bride’s mother (and definitely not my target audience for the blog). We had the usual introductions: “Yes I’m a keen writer, currently just running a blog which has been praised for its honesty”. (Bravery – “Debs are you sure want to tell the internet you did anal with a stranger?”)

Margerie was really supportive, and coming from a HR background said she would happily put me in touch with a few of her contacts (until George turned around and said…)

“Do you want to see the blog Margerie”
“No, no George – there isn’t time”

‘Yes of course let’s see…’




The other guests started arriving (as WW111 was about to break in the living room between Margerie and I. Abbey attempted to mediate the situation).


Once the bride and the rest of the party had arrived we all had a few glasses of prosecco then sat down for the meal. My music had been chosen to play as a backing track for the evening (a collection of popular soundtracks and Disney). Whilst we were feasting the room fell silent (along with the music) then “da..dum…” (“Debbie, what is this?”) “da dum da dum da dum..” (“it’s the Jaws soundtrack”) so we all sat munching as the shark continued to approach “is this the song you play when you’re cornering your victims?” – I briefly glanced at Margerie “Absolutely not George, stop being so childish.”

The following day we wondered around Bath, the heavens opened and we found ourselves in a Caribbean styled restaurant. I laughed when I saw goat on the menu (and then went quiet when everyone ordered it). I decided to copy one of the other hens and get a seafood curry – having a quiet word with the waiter: “I cannot handle hot food, it’s not spicy is it?” – “No no man, it’s so mild you will be fine” (said the stoned waiter).

The food arrived (I eyed up the goat, still very confused) and ate my “mild” curry (“George I can’t breath”). The waiter came over and asked if everything was ok – and we all nodded “yeah delicious” (which it would have been had I not been swallowing fire). He gave me a glass (pint) of milk after my fourth visit to the toilet (“I think Mount Versuvius is about to erupt out my arse”).

Once the rain had calmed (and my bottom) we made our way back to the house and got ready for an evening at a top Greek restaurant.

The alcohol began flowing and I was keen to right the terrible first impression I made in front of Margerie, so showed off some of my other talents.



Head banging…

And twerking.

The night progressed and as ever – we drank…and drank and were soon chatting to the owner of a bar who invited us to have a lock in with a few of his friends (a load of freshers from the University– average age 21). They all looked so young (when I could see) then I got really drunk (and took one back).


We kissed (dry humped on every piece of furniture available – sorry world) but the alcohol began wearing off and I realised he wasn’t the one (“You’re 19?! Fuck me this is a new low…”) so I went to bed (forgetting to say goodbye to my boyfriend who was left downstairs) and fell asleep.

I was awoken by George the following day:

“Don’t start Debbie. We are leaving. Now.”

I got (fell) out of bed.


And (didn’t collect my stuff) went downstairs to see my boy (toy) being escorted out of the house (still drinking his can of lager).


I followed George and Abby to the car, but had to quickly run back. I’d forgotten a few things. (Everything. “Debbie where’s your bag?” – “Have you not got it?” – “WHY THE FUCK WOULD I HAVE IT?”)


I didn’t understand what all the rage was about (but it soon became apparent). We reached the car: “Why has it moved? Have you driven it already this morning?”

“Yes Debbie I have. You left the lights on, on Friday night.”


“This meant the car had no battery when we arrived at it this morning at 9am. So I had to jump start the car – I don’t know how to jump start a car, so luckily a strange man came and helped.”

“However the battery still kept cutting out so for the past two hours me and Abby have been driving around the outskirts of Bath as there is marathon going on in the City to charge the battery – Oh, and you bought a random child back to the house.”


In these situations I understand there’s nothing I can really say (but apologise for all eternity) and just keep out of my friend’s way (but I was so fucking hungover and passed out really attractively in the back).

She dropped me off at the station to get my train back to London.

“George my train isn’t going to get here for another hour.. can I wait in –


…Never mind”

So I sat and waited, texting friends (tindering – swiping right to everything) exchanging funny pics (posting Tinder moments)but I was still bored.

I began work on my newest project (further shame to my family), something that I am very excited about (I can already see the adoption papers being signed) and began mapping out chapters – for my upcoming book.




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s