Hiking. I've never liked it. I honestly don't understand the purpose. Hours of walking, usually on challenging terrain, in order to end up exactly where you started, bruised, tired and dirty.
My animosity towards physical exercise is deepset. Aged four, I was wrongly disqualified from the dressing up race at school. You see, I was ahead of the fashion curve when it came to gym wear. Whilst my peers wore black slip on plimsolls, I, was the proud owner of a pair of clean, white Green Flash trainers. The only set back here was that I couldn't do up my shoelaces. Sports day came around and I was entered, along with my classmates, into the Dressing Up Race. Starting in basic shorts and polo shirts, we had to run the length of our netball court, picking up the pieces of clothing that had been placed pointedly along our path. We had to grab them, put them on and the girl who got to the end of the course, fully clothed, won. They didn't only win the race, the kudos, the adulation of her classmates. She also won a ribbon, not just any ribbon, but a shiny green ribbon, the ribbon of winners. On this, particularly sunny day, I decided, that ribbon was mine, I stared the length of the course, limbering up, my chubby four year old legs ready for anything, and I realised, I had one obstacle to winning. Those damn shoelaces were going to hold me back. Strategically, I decided to skip the fiddly laces. I ran, determindly towards the shoes, slipped them on (just like the other girls did) and ran as fast as my stumpy legs would carry me. I looked around in delight, the sweet realisation that I had won, dawning on me. I'd never won a race before! Triumphantly, I walked up to collect my green ribbon. It was glinting, enticingly in the sun, and it was all mine. I had won, fair and square.
To my absolute dismay, I was informed that as i had not done up my shoelaces, I had been disqualified. I was FOUR.YEARS.OLD, who disqualifies a four year old?! It's ok they said, you can have a 'participation ribbon' and they handed me a small piece of pink material, the loser's ribbon. That was the last time I willingly took part in sports, competitive or otherwise. In netball class, I chose to play Goalkeeper, I figured that was the position with the least amount of running and ground to cover, without the pressure of having to score goals. As I grew older, my disdain grew to absolute contempt, and I point blank refused to get involved in PE lessons. I would hide in the foul smelling toilets, brazenly reading teen magazines with my fellow sporting reprobates.
There were, of course, times that I couldn't avoid exercise, one of which happened when I was 16 years old. I embarked on a month long tour around Israel, part of a group of around 15 teenagers. My first proper trip away from home. August in Israel is sweltering. The heat envelopes you and is almost suffocating. This is a disastrous climate for me. My hair immediately reacts badly, frizzing into tight ringlets in a halo around my head, a jew-fro, if you will. This, coupled with staying in dingy youth hostels did not sit well with me. I'll admit now, I spent most of the month moaning. The heat was too much, the food was rubbish, the beds were uncomfortable. Worst of all (for the two people leading this tour) was my absolute, point blank refusal to embark on any hikes. There were, around 7 or 8 hikes throughout the trip. Aimed at showing this group the wonder of nature, timed around sunrise or sunset, for the best views. I was simply not having it.
One day, my leader had enough. She told me that the hike was simply a 'short walk down hill', and I didn't have a choice. Begrudgingly, I donned my best, wedge Sketcher sandals, and went to meet the group of Israelis that we were spending the day with. Standing in front of me, in the forest where the hike was starting, was one of the most beautiful boys I've ever seen. He had tanned skin, blondey-brown hair and a smile which revealed perfect white teeth. It was love at first sight (on my part).
To my absolute delight, I was paired with him for the first part of our journey, a ride on a donkey. Gallantly, he offered me the seat on the donkey, he would walk alongside. Gracefully, I jumped astride my trust steed, and promptly slipped off the other side. This wasn't a great start, but I laughed it off in what I could only hope was a blasé way.
When we got to the start of the hike, I realised two things. Firstly, this was not going to be a 'short walk down hill' nor was my footwear in the slightest bit appropriate. I was faced with an obstacle course most appropriately found on the Crystal Maze. I half expected Richard O'Brien to pop out and tell me this was the 'Aztec zone'. My hiking partner went ahead, telling me to hold on to the rope, and not look down. Behind me, was a sheer drop. I stoically carried on, crying, cursing and threatening to sue whoever would listen. Surely, someone should have told me not to wear wedges whilst mountaineering? As we approached some rungs in the side of the mountain, that we were supposed to climb down, I absolutely froze. There was no way on G-D's earth I was going to climb down some psudeo ladder impaled in the cliff face. My partner coaxed me onto the first rung, lifting my inappropriately clad foot down to the second one, his hands covered in dust from the bottom of my shoes. He patiently did this until the bottom, with me, furiously screaming blue murder to anyone who would listen to me (at this point, no one). We were finally at our 'short walk down hill', two hours later, which appeared to be an almost vertical drop to the bottom.
I sat down, indignantly, and refused to move. Not even, Mr Gorgeous could change my mind. I would stay there, I told them, until they had found a helicopter to come and collect me. I would eat leaves and berries, I would build a hut, I was not walking down the bloody mountain. An hour of screaming, threats, and every persuasion tactic under the sun, and a solution was found. Not only A solution, but THE solution. Mr Gorgeous, was to walk, backwards, down the entire mountain, holding my hands. If I fell, he promised I would be caught.
Of course, the tour leaders were right, the walk down hill took all of 20 minutes, which is rightly classified as a short walk down hill. But, to me, they were 20 blissful minutes, holding Mr Gorgeous' hands tight (probably too tight) whilst my foam footwear buckled under the rocks. When we reached the bus, I half expected him to lift me, heroically up the stairs, to the sound of adoring applause.
Of course, he didn't, he patently never wanted to see my sweaty face again. He politely said goodbye and legged it, to the safety of his mates, who were standing around the side of the bus, sniggering at him. He looked browbeaten, bruised and worn out, poor sod.
Despite those heady 20 minutes, my theory was proven correct. Exercise sucked (especially with inappropriate footwear) and, hiking was for mugs. We did indeed end up exactly where we started, filthy dirty and covered in bruises, I was too infuriated to even appreciate the sunset on the way down the mountain. Personally, I blame the teachers at my primary school for this whole debacle (and the loss of the love of my 16 year old life). If they hadn't have disqualified me, who knows, I may have been an Olympic athlete, or, at the very least, not chosen such precarious shoes for my first, and last ever hike.
Wednesday, 5 November 2014
Friday, 2 May 2014
Tinderella: A Study into the Men of Tinder, by B.Jones-Stein
There comes a time in any modern single girls life where they have to face the facts. To stand up and be counted. To shout loudly from the roof tops and tell everyone they know. I, am a Tinder addict. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I enjoy nothing more than lying in bed, and swiping left, or right, based purely on whether or not this one person has an attractive profile photo.
In order to justify this debasing behaviour in my mind, I've convinced myself that this is an anthropological study. A microcosm of society, with varying objectives, showcasing themselves in the most flattering light possible. So, what have I concluded from this study? Well, a few things, mostly, that there are a lot of strange people in this world, or perhaps it's magnified on Tinder. Secondly, there are a lot of seedy people in this world, and I can only hope that my fellow strong, independent, confident (sometimes) females, don't partake in the suggested activities. My third theory remains just that, a theory. Somewhere, in a sea of odd bods, there will be a gem.
To further advance my scientific theory, I have grouped together people, based on how they present themselves, both verbally and visually.
Tinder male type 1: The tattoo'd hardnut.
What do they look like?
These men proudly display their inked biceps, either with or without photos of their face. From sleeves to 'tramp stamps' (is there a male equivalent?) these men take time to angle the camera to highlight the intricacies of the artistry, and, show very little else. Some, alarmingly, like to wield firearms at the camera, and conversely others, sensitively hug their pet dog/cat/hamster/horse, to counterbalance the hardnut demeanor. It's most confusing.
What do they think this says about them?
Depending on the design and placement, I would suggest that this differs, however, for the sake of this study, I'll make a broad brushstroke assumption: they want to show you how 'hard' they are. Ladies, these men can take the pain. They don't just have one, small, pishy tattoo, a token tattoo if you will, no, they want to show you that they can sit through hours of pain, if not hours, WEEKS. This, you will find attractive, because I am a man and I can withstand pain. But, it doesn't stop there. These inked adonises have more than one layer ladies. They are also, artistic. This, means, that they're both strong, and creative, and probably sensitive to boot. Why sensitive? Well, those works of art, that adorn their rippling biceps.. They have meaning. Meanings so deep, the only way they can be explained is by taking you out on a crap date and boring the hell out of you for two hours.
The Bridget verdict?
These idiots will regret permanently scarring themselves when they can't be arsed to go to the gym and their skin sags, and I certainly don't want to have to stare at a saggy old tattoo when I'm old and grey. A definite swipe left, for no way would I date them.
Tinder male type 2: the flasher.
What do they look like?
From bare bums, to willies, any self respecting tinderella will have seen it all. Some flashers, like to show off their 'assets' in various poses, others, just one, simple shot.
Flashers usually accompany these pseudo-pornographic photos with a compelling strap line, with a strong call to action. Examples include 'come get it, ladies' or 'yes, I am that pleased to see you'. These tinderites NEVER show their face, nor are they interested in conversation... In case you were wondering. If you do chose to converse with them, they usually will start the conversation with something as simple as 'DTF', charming, alluring and romantic.
What do they think this says about them?
'I want sex, and lots of it'
Fellow tinderella's, make no mistake. These men don't care about anything other than getting some. One doesn't need to be an anthropologist to work that one out.
The Bridget Verdict?
SWIPE LEFT! (But first take a screenshot and send to friends, so they can share your disbelief/disgust/surprise- pick applicable emotion)
Tinder male type number 3: the married man/the married man with kids.
What do they look like?
Picture the scene: you're minding your own business, swiping left (and very occasionally right) and you come across a photo of a happily married couple. The bride's veil, blowing gently in the breeze, the groom, staring lovingly at his chosen one. Hold on, you think, this isn't facebook, why am I being assaulted with another photo of a happily married couple on their special day? You reassure yourself. Clearly, this man was the best man, he's showing his sensitive side. So you start to browse through his photos. And slowly, it dawns on you. This man wasn't the best man, he was the groom, and what's more, he has three, beautiful children.
What do they think this says about them?
I have no idea. I have racked my brains for hours. What the hell would possess anyone to put photos of their wedding day and children on a dating app? Answers on a postcard please.
The Bridget verdict?
These men are brazen. They hold little regard for the sanctity of the marriage vows they have undertaken. They're also stupid. They have no concept of the power of social networking. Because, my dear readers, tinder is handily linked to Facebook. As such, it shows you if you have any mutual friends. These men, will be found out. A friend of a friend of their wife will see them. Swipe left, or find yourself an unwilling participant in a real life soap opera.
Tinder male type 4: The mirrored selfie taker
I have nothing intelligent to say about this, except WHY?? Men of tinder, you do realise that a selfie is taken with the front camera of your iPhone. You don't need to display yourself in a reflective surface to be seen... Apple inc has taken the hard work out of taking photos of yourself.
The Bridget verdict?
If you're going to do it, at least clean your mirror in advance. Did your mothers not teach you anything? Swipe left, until they learn about the core features of their phones, and apply basic hygiene in their bathroom.
Tinder male type 5: The sporty man
What do they look like?
Ripped. Healthy. Competitive. Action packed. Daring.
These men regularly partake in competitive sports and want you to know about it. From rugby to football, golf to boxing, martial arts to sky diving, I've seen it all.
What do they think these photos say about them?
Like all the best propaganda posters, these tinderites have designed their profiles carefully. With a main message and underlying meaning.
The main message here is: I am sporty. I have no fear. I am a man's man. I can ski, and play golf, and ride a horse, sometimes simultaneously. I am that good, the Old Spice man has nothing on me.
The underlying message is: let's date, exclusively in the week. Actually scratch that, exclusively on Wednesdays. Why? Because I am a busy man. At the weekends I will be skiing in France with the lads and I will play football and rugby after work. Wednesdays are my free day, so fit in, or shut up.
The Bridget verdict?
Hell no, I've tried skiing once, it was a disaster, I find it difficult walking down the street without falling over.. Swipe left.
Tinder Male Type 5: The odd ball.
What do they look like?
There is no one size fits all for the odd ball. Actually, the opposite. There are some who just stray from convention, punks, strange piercings, oddities that one can find just walking down the street in London. But some, chose tinder to display their sexual fantasies. Foot fetishes, or dressing up as a women, all these men are looking for acceptance, and delight in the opportunity to display themselves in all their strange glory to potential suitors.
The Bridget verdict?
I'm a fan of convention.. and I'm not sure how my family would react if I brought home a man dressed as a french maid.. swipe left
And thus concludes the findings of my Tinder study. An interminable stream of sporty, unconventional sex pests awaits you, as soon as you click on that red and white icon on your screen. Interestingly, this form of dating app has become so socially acceptable, that my attached friends have developed a kind of Tinder FOMO. They say things like 'I wish I was single so I could go on Tinder.' This, annoys me. Why would anyone, who has found their match, want to wade through consistent stream of freaks just to MAYBE find someone just to go on a date with? However, a girl can still hope, there is a chance, even if its a Lilliputian chance, that I will find my needle in the mobile haystack and my Prince Charming will swipe right for me. But just in case I need to stop being so picky, I may just try skiing again.
In order to justify this debasing behaviour in my mind, I've convinced myself that this is an anthropological study. A microcosm of society, with varying objectives, showcasing themselves in the most flattering light possible. So, what have I concluded from this study? Well, a few things, mostly, that there are a lot of strange people in this world, or perhaps it's magnified on Tinder. Secondly, there are a lot of seedy people in this world, and I can only hope that my fellow strong, independent, confident (sometimes) females, don't partake in the suggested activities. My third theory remains just that, a theory. Somewhere, in a sea of odd bods, there will be a gem.
To further advance my scientific theory, I have grouped together people, based on how they present themselves, both verbally and visually.
Tinder male type 1: The tattoo'd hardnut.
What do they look like?
These men proudly display their inked biceps, either with or without photos of their face. From sleeves to 'tramp stamps' (is there a male equivalent?) these men take time to angle the camera to highlight the intricacies of the artistry, and, show very little else. Some, alarmingly, like to wield firearms at the camera, and conversely others, sensitively hug their pet dog/cat/hamster/horse, to counterbalance the hardnut demeanor. It's most confusing.
What do they think this says about them?
Depending on the design and placement, I would suggest that this differs, however, for the sake of this study, I'll make a broad brushstroke assumption: they want to show you how 'hard' they are. Ladies, these men can take the pain. They don't just have one, small, pishy tattoo, a token tattoo if you will, no, they want to show you that they can sit through hours of pain, if not hours, WEEKS. This, you will find attractive, because I am a man and I can withstand pain. But, it doesn't stop there. These inked adonises have more than one layer ladies. They are also, artistic. This, means, that they're both strong, and creative, and probably sensitive to boot. Why sensitive? Well, those works of art, that adorn their rippling biceps.. They have meaning. Meanings so deep, the only way they can be explained is by taking you out on a crap date and boring the hell out of you for two hours.
The Bridget verdict?
These idiots will regret permanently scarring themselves when they can't be arsed to go to the gym and their skin sags, and I certainly don't want to have to stare at a saggy old tattoo when I'm old and grey. A definite swipe left, for no way would I date them.
Tinder male type 2: the flasher.
What do they look like?
From bare bums, to willies, any self respecting tinderella will have seen it all. Some flashers, like to show off their 'assets' in various poses, others, just one, simple shot.
Flashers usually accompany these pseudo-pornographic photos with a compelling strap line, with a strong call to action. Examples include 'come get it, ladies' or 'yes, I am that pleased to see you'. These tinderites NEVER show their face, nor are they interested in conversation... In case you were wondering. If you do chose to converse with them, they usually will start the conversation with something as simple as 'DTF', charming, alluring and romantic.
What do they think this says about them?
'I want sex, and lots of it'
Fellow tinderella's, make no mistake. These men don't care about anything other than getting some. One doesn't need to be an anthropologist to work that one out.
The Bridget Verdict?
SWIPE LEFT! (But first take a screenshot and send to friends, so they can share your disbelief/disgust/surprise- pick applicable emotion)
Tinder male type number 3: the married man/the married man with kids.
What do they look like?
Picture the scene: you're minding your own business, swiping left (and very occasionally right) and you come across a photo of a happily married couple. The bride's veil, blowing gently in the breeze, the groom, staring lovingly at his chosen one. Hold on, you think, this isn't facebook, why am I being assaulted with another photo of a happily married couple on their special day? You reassure yourself. Clearly, this man was the best man, he's showing his sensitive side. So you start to browse through his photos. And slowly, it dawns on you. This man wasn't the best man, he was the groom, and what's more, he has three, beautiful children.
What do they think this says about them?
I have no idea. I have racked my brains for hours. What the hell would possess anyone to put photos of their wedding day and children on a dating app? Answers on a postcard please.
The Bridget verdict?
These men are brazen. They hold little regard for the sanctity of the marriage vows they have undertaken. They're also stupid. They have no concept of the power of social networking. Because, my dear readers, tinder is handily linked to Facebook. As such, it shows you if you have any mutual friends. These men, will be found out. A friend of a friend of their wife will see them. Swipe left, or find yourself an unwilling participant in a real life soap opera.
Tinder male type 4: The mirrored selfie taker
I have nothing intelligent to say about this, except WHY?? Men of tinder, you do realise that a selfie is taken with the front camera of your iPhone. You don't need to display yourself in a reflective surface to be seen... Apple inc has taken the hard work out of taking photos of yourself.
The Bridget verdict?
If you're going to do it, at least clean your mirror in advance. Did your mothers not teach you anything? Swipe left, until they learn about the core features of their phones, and apply basic hygiene in their bathroom.
Tinder male type 5: The sporty man
What do they look like?
Ripped. Healthy. Competitive. Action packed. Daring.
These men regularly partake in competitive sports and want you to know about it. From rugby to football, golf to boxing, martial arts to sky diving, I've seen it all.
What do they think these photos say about them?
Like all the best propaganda posters, these tinderites have designed their profiles carefully. With a main message and underlying meaning.
The main message here is: I am sporty. I have no fear. I am a man's man. I can ski, and play golf, and ride a horse, sometimes simultaneously. I am that good, the Old Spice man has nothing on me.
The underlying message is: let's date, exclusively in the week. Actually scratch that, exclusively on Wednesdays. Why? Because I am a busy man. At the weekends I will be skiing in France with the lads and I will play football and rugby after work. Wednesdays are my free day, so fit in, or shut up.
The Bridget verdict?
Hell no, I've tried skiing once, it was a disaster, I find it difficult walking down the street without falling over.. Swipe left.
Tinder Male Type 5: The odd ball.
What do they look like?
There is no one size fits all for the odd ball. Actually, the opposite. There are some who just stray from convention, punks, strange piercings, oddities that one can find just walking down the street in London. But some, chose tinder to display their sexual fantasies. Foot fetishes, or dressing up as a women, all these men are looking for acceptance, and delight in the opportunity to display themselves in all their strange glory to potential suitors.
The Bridget verdict?
I'm a fan of convention.. and I'm not sure how my family would react if I brought home a man dressed as a french maid.. swipe left
And thus concludes the findings of my Tinder study. An interminable stream of sporty, unconventional sex pests awaits you, as soon as you click on that red and white icon on your screen. Interestingly, this form of dating app has become so socially acceptable, that my attached friends have developed a kind of Tinder FOMO. They say things like 'I wish I was single so I could go on Tinder.' This, annoys me. Why would anyone, who has found their match, want to wade through consistent stream of freaks just to MAYBE find someone just to go on a date with? However, a girl can still hope, there is a chance, even if its a Lilliputian chance, that I will find my needle in the mobile haystack and my Prince Charming will swipe right for me. But just in case I need to stop being so picky, I may just try skiing again.
Monday, 7 April 2014
Beshert
I went to a wedding last night, and was, one of five single people there. Two were under the age of two, but, for the sake of saving face, I'm going to count them. At the end of the wedding, the rabbi, called up all the 'singles' (collective noun for those without a partner) to the front, to drink from a cup of wine, as it was a good omen to find your 'beshert'.
When I'd got over my, extremely unholy, feelings of wanting to batter the rabbi over the head with a whole case of wine, no, scratch that, an entire wine cellar, I started to think about this idea of someone having a 'Beshert', or a preordained, destined partner (for anyone who watches friends 'a lobster').
It is a bit of an odd thought, that some guy (or girl, whatever) is sitting up in heaven, deciding who one will ultimately end up with. If it's so preordained, why is it so bloody difficult to find this person?!
And so begins another Bridget-esque tirade about the sorry state of my love life, and the past three months have been nothing short of disastrous. You see, I started doing this #100daysofhappiness project (much to the delight of my brother, who just loves to see my pseudo-smug updates every day. (In his words 'when the hell is it going to be over'). One of my biggest motivations for this project was to try and exude a more positive demeanor, and it started to work. As I started to skip to the sound of the birds, appreciate the sunsets, and revel in the small things, I remembered one thing it said on the website. 'People claimed to have fallen in love when completing this challenge'. Well, I thought, I'll embrace that idea, and go on a few dates. Silly me.
Date number one, with a guy who, told me I was who he should probably marry one day, borrowed a not insignificant amount of cash and cried on my shoulder about how depressed he was. Why was he depressed? Well, it turned out HE WAS ALREADY MARRIED. Now, this guy continues to haunt me, popping up on instant messenger every so often with some handy love advice, most recently (and might I say, most insultingly) he suggested I look for a boyfriend on 'a site that caters for men who like larger ladies'. Asshole.
NEXT
The American TV producer, who wooed me with a creative date, comedy club and a fun pop up bar, and kissed me shyly goodbye at the tube station. He was a perfect gentleman, bright, funny, ambitious and spontaneous. He showered me with attention until date number two, my turn to organise. I picked a cosy cinema, with an oscar nominated movie, and dinner before hand. Perfect, no? Well, apparently not. In the first scene, the lead character's husband killed himself, and the film went downhill from there. It was, admittedly, bloody depressing. But, you know, that shouldn't matter, it's not my fault that the movie was bad, right? Wrong. I never heard from him again.. apparently the film 'ruined his illusions of me'. Great.
NEXT
This one, actually never technically made it to a date. This is because, he was absolutely and utterly terrifying. After two days of texting, he declared he loved me (weird). I went away on business, and he told me to tell my (male) colleague that my boyfriend was 'jealous and dangerous' (we'd not met). And proceeded to tell me his sad life story, in detail, about the murder of his parents, and how he had spent his life seeking revenge. Shit.Got.Weird. The only reason I carried on texting him was because I was terrified of him finding out where I lived and ending me.
NEXT
Burpy guy. He seemed like a great prospect. Jewish, educated, funny, not too intense, not intimidatingly good looking. So, we met for a date. He trekked (from Essex) to my 'hood', and we went for dinner. Now, burpy guy was a vegetarian (nothing wrong with that, although I maintain, you cannot make friends with salad) and he ordered a large onion and cheese tart. He then, proceeded to burp stinking gas in my face for the remainder of the date. It was awful. But, I tried to overlook it. In fact, I convinced myself that it was just a quirk, that his gaseous stomach could be overlooked. I ignored the fact that he was unapologetically belching without covering his mouth, and then breathing the onion stench in my face (I will NEVER eat an onion tart in my entire life). At the end of the night, he leant in to kiss me and i was greeted by the unappealing onion smell, mixed with stale beer. I artfully (certainly for me) moved my mouth out of his way and offered him my cheek. even doing a double kiss (proclaiming it continental) to cover up my disdain.
Now, most girls would call it a night at that said goodbye and gratefully watch him walk into the night. Not me, no no. I waited, anxiously for this guy to text. I'm not sure what I was expecting, or even wanting. Feedback on my dating performance (married guy had helpfully informed me that I was a decent date, I dressed well, made relatively intelligent conversation and, appeared educated. Double asshole), or perhaps, I wanted to go back for round two? Maybe this time, the gas wouldn't be limited to being emitted from his mouth. I should have walked away. Instead, I got upset when he apologetically texted me saying that he would like to stay friends, but he wasn't attracted to me. HE wasn't attracted to ME? We all know I'm not a super model but at least I don't emulate a skunk on a date. Oh, and did I mention, he 'left his wallet at home', so essentially I HAD TO PAY FOR HIM TO BELCH IN MY FACE ALL NIGHT.
And so ends my unsuccessful date rant. A myriad of weirdos, each with their own quirks, and clearly none, my Beshert. And now that I think about it, I'm bloody glad about that. I'm not sure I could cope with an entire lifetime being burped at.
Saturday, 11 January 2014
Willy Straws
Have you ever heard that saying, always the bridesmaid, never the bride? Well that applies to me. Except, instead of being shoehorned into a dress that doesn't upstage the bride, I am a serial hen-goer.
I go to a lot of hen do's. Hen's in London, in the country, at spas, in cottages. Hen's in hotels, hen's in apartments. Outdoorsy hens, indoorsy hens, raunchy hens, tame hens. The list is endless.
I find the idea of a hen (or a Bachelorette for you yanks) odd. It's pitched to you as celebrating with your engaged friend their 'one final fling as a single woman'. But, that's just a silly thing to say. They're not single, they're engaged to be married. Most likely, they've been shacked up with their loved one for a year, or two, or more. More importantly, more often than not, there is a large shiny rock gracing their left ring finger, a stark reminder that the weekend we're about to embark upon is most certainly not, their final weekend as a singleton, but in fact, a massive piss up.
In my experience, no hen is complete without the ubiquitous willy straw. Most probably designed by someone who saw a huge gap in the market for phallus shaped drinking apparatus, they are unattractively detailed in their design and I cannot imagine anything less provocative than drinking through them.
In fact, there is clearly a huge market for penis shaped paraphernalia. Everything from confetti, to spin the 'bottle' games, to pin the penis on the photo of the attractive naked man.. You can drink shots out of them, wear them like odd pink antennae on a headband, and yes, they also manifest themselves as straws. It's as if someone has assumed that every almost married woman, is suddenly predisposed to ensure that one weekend is entirely jam packed with effigies of male genitalia. He puts a ring on it, and she goes willy crazy.
Well, a blog post would not be complete without an awkward story, and hopefully you can see where this is going!
I'm in the midsts of organising a hen, for a very close friend. Diligently, over the christmas break, I scoured eBay for as much hen paraphernalia as possible within the boundaries of being remotely classy, and, what hen would be complete without willy straws? As usual, I got my orders delivered to the office.
Over the past week, there was a growing pile of packages on my desk, each one a different shape, with different decorative goodies inside, the first to arrive were the willy straws. I put them in my bag at the end of the day and walked towards the tube, tired for my long day but relieved that the hen was starting to come together.
Whilst trying to walk down the escalator, I got caught behind some very slow, very loud tourists. They blocked the escalator, and no matter how loudly I tutted, coughed or complained to the person behind me, they didn't budge. I barged past them at the bottom of the escalator and walked pointedly towards my platform. As I got there, the train doors were just about to shut. I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and ran towards the doors, graceful as a gazelle and as focussed as a lion going to catch their prey. I made it, and triumphantly exclaimed 'I DID IT' to my fellow passengers, who looked away, bemused and most probably, unamused. What they didn't understand was, I did it, without falling over, that is a HUGE achievement for me.
Embarrassed at the lack of affirmation, I went to find a seat, just as the train jerked suddenly forward, leaving me flying into the lap of a sweet old man. Out of my bag flew a packet of willy straws, and landed on his foot. Before I could reach down to get them, he bent down, and retrieved the offending item from his foot, inspecting them on his way up. The 2-3 seconds that this took place literally felt like 20 minutes, but what happened next was probably the most humiliating thing I've ever experienced. He turned the packet around in his hands, obviously bemused to be holding a packet of penis shaped drinking straws and read out the 'risque' strapline printed in large, gaudy, neon pink letters on the side of the packet. 'Suck on these big boys'.
A couple of people behind me snorted loudly, and I snatched the straws away, scuttling to a free seat, indignant that someone had laughed at me falling over, until it dawned on me. All the people behind me could see, in that moment, was me, half wrapped helplessly around the tube, handrail pole, and half on top of an elderly gentleman whilst he, loudly requesting that someone (presumably the person draped on top of him) 'Suck on these big boys'. I will leave you to imagine the shade of red that my face went,
Needless to say, by the next stop I had buried the straws at the bottom of my bag and firmly zipped it up, and moved carriage.
And my lesson has been learnt, in the future, all hen paraphernalia will be delivered to my flat as, I cannot imagine a hen where people drink through normal shaped straws. Nor, can I ever discount the idea of not falling over in public and losing the contents of my bag again. This is my compromise- call it damage control, if you like.
I go to a lot of hen do's. Hen's in London, in the country, at spas, in cottages. Hen's in hotels, hen's in apartments. Outdoorsy hens, indoorsy hens, raunchy hens, tame hens. The list is endless.
I find the idea of a hen (or a Bachelorette for you yanks) odd. It's pitched to you as celebrating with your engaged friend their 'one final fling as a single woman'. But, that's just a silly thing to say. They're not single, they're engaged to be married. Most likely, they've been shacked up with their loved one for a year, or two, or more. More importantly, more often than not, there is a large shiny rock gracing their left ring finger, a stark reminder that the weekend we're about to embark upon is most certainly not, their final weekend as a singleton, but in fact, a massive piss up.
In my experience, no hen is complete without the ubiquitous willy straw. Most probably designed by someone who saw a huge gap in the market for phallus shaped drinking apparatus, they are unattractively detailed in their design and I cannot imagine anything less provocative than drinking through them.
In fact, there is clearly a huge market for penis shaped paraphernalia. Everything from confetti, to spin the 'bottle' games, to pin the penis on the photo of the attractive naked man.. You can drink shots out of them, wear them like odd pink antennae on a headband, and yes, they also manifest themselves as straws. It's as if someone has assumed that every almost married woman, is suddenly predisposed to ensure that one weekend is entirely jam packed with effigies of male genitalia. He puts a ring on it, and she goes willy crazy.
Well, a blog post would not be complete without an awkward story, and hopefully you can see where this is going!
I'm in the midsts of organising a hen, for a very close friend. Diligently, over the christmas break, I scoured eBay for as much hen paraphernalia as possible within the boundaries of being remotely classy, and, what hen would be complete without willy straws? As usual, I got my orders delivered to the office.
Over the past week, there was a growing pile of packages on my desk, each one a different shape, with different decorative goodies inside, the first to arrive were the willy straws. I put them in my bag at the end of the day and walked towards the tube, tired for my long day but relieved that the hen was starting to come together.
Whilst trying to walk down the escalator, I got caught behind some very slow, very loud tourists. They blocked the escalator, and no matter how loudly I tutted, coughed or complained to the person behind me, they didn't budge. I barged past them at the bottom of the escalator and walked pointedly towards my platform. As I got there, the train doors were just about to shut. I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and ran towards the doors, graceful as a gazelle and as focussed as a lion going to catch their prey. I made it, and triumphantly exclaimed 'I DID IT' to my fellow passengers, who looked away, bemused and most probably, unamused. What they didn't understand was, I did it, without falling over, that is a HUGE achievement for me.
Embarrassed at the lack of affirmation, I went to find a seat, just as the train jerked suddenly forward, leaving me flying into the lap of a sweet old man. Out of my bag flew a packet of willy straws, and landed on his foot. Before I could reach down to get them, he bent down, and retrieved the offending item from his foot, inspecting them on his way up. The 2-3 seconds that this took place literally felt like 20 minutes, but what happened next was probably the most humiliating thing I've ever experienced. He turned the packet around in his hands, obviously bemused to be holding a packet of penis shaped drinking straws and read out the 'risque' strapline printed in large, gaudy, neon pink letters on the side of the packet. 'Suck on these big boys'.
A couple of people behind me snorted loudly, and I snatched the straws away, scuttling to a free seat, indignant that someone had laughed at me falling over, until it dawned on me. All the people behind me could see, in that moment, was me, half wrapped helplessly around the tube, handrail pole, and half on top of an elderly gentleman whilst he, loudly requesting that someone (presumably the person draped on top of him) 'Suck on these big boys'. I will leave you to imagine the shade of red that my face went,
Needless to say, by the next stop I had buried the straws at the bottom of my bag and firmly zipped it up, and moved carriage.
And my lesson has been learnt, in the future, all hen paraphernalia will be delivered to my flat as, I cannot imagine a hen where people drink through normal shaped straws. Nor, can I ever discount the idea of not falling over in public and losing the contents of my bag again. This is my compromise- call it damage control, if you like.
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