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.