Clucking ridiculous

It was the morning of the hen weekend. I'd risen early for a weekend - there was driving to be done, and a hen party to attend.

I was just about ready, when entering my living room I realised that Julie's sister was staring at me. Despite me leaving the window open for her, she'd instead exited the bedroom, crossed the hallway, and was now pleased-as-punch sitting on the lovely yellow wall of my living room. I had to be brave. I donned rubber gloves (I'm not sure why, but there are very few situations in the world in which I don't feel braver once wearing rubber gloves), grabbed a glass and the comedy flyer. This was war.

Eventually Julie's sister went on a short-haul flight from my living room window to the ground floor... and scampered off into some bushes. I am all that and a bag of crisps. Don't mess with me (if you're a spider).

So, the hen weekend... well, thereby hangs a tale. Quite a tail.

Now, I could tell you how beautiful the city was in the sunlight, how nice it was to be surrounded by my uni friends, and how amazing the horse-riding was that afternoon. But I won't. Instead I'll tell you about the stripper.

So we were all gathered in a little room in a Travelodge. For it is nothing but luxury for me and my glamorous celebrity-filled life. A few of us had partaken of a few glasses of wine... but nowhere near enough.

A knock came at the door. Corinne (the hen) opened the door. In came "The Stud" (this was what he called himself), dressed in full police uniform.

"All roight moi luvver?" he asked, full-blown Bristolian. Well, that might not have been his exact phrase, but it gets my point across.

He started dancing. It was like watching a sixteen year-old try to pull in a club. He took his jacket off. Then his shirt. Then his trousers. Then he blindfolded Corinne and made her hold a fake willy (please see picture). We all giggled, mostly through horror. Each of us had a "forfeit" for the evening (mine was "Get a man to buy you a drink"). We all thought Cezza should have used hers with the stripper: "Chat up a minger".

He took all his clothes of and wobbled himself around for a bit. It was horrid.

After "the big finish" (I've seen bigger), we experienced the most Pinter-esque part of the evening, where, as we all were sitting around awkwardly, he clumsily struggled to put his pants and trousers back on.

I was a little bit sick into the back of my mouth. If only I'd had my rubber gloves with me. Maybe not.