A thing about another hen party

Went to a friend’s hen party on Saturday. These chaps were there. One was called Matt, one was called Luke. Don’t ask me which because their faces were entirely not the point. For any of you devils lucky enough never to have been to a hen party*, they’re from a company called Butlers in the Buff which supplies beefcakes in small aprons to pour your drinks. Ooh, matron.

It’s always fairly awkward at the start of the evening because everyone stands around awkward and sober, ignoring the two naked men that keep walking up and offering you a battered prawn (not a euphemism).

‘Don’t let us catch you pouring your own drink,’ joked Matt or Joe early on Saturday night. ‘That’s what we’re for.’ So we all giggled nervously and promised we wouldn’t do anything so unthinkable as to help ourselves. Except I’m not drinking at the moment and when I asked Matt or Joe for a top up of fizzy water, he came back with a Pimms.

‘Oh, sorry. You probably would have been better off getting your own drink,’ he said a bit sadly.

‘That’s alright,’ I said. ‘Can I have a photo with you guys?’

‘Sure,’ they both said, perking up and standing either side of me, facing the camera.

‘No that way, turn around,’ I said. Fizzy water makes me quite bossy.

So they turned around and we did the photo, and then I was overcome with the desire to smack them both on the bottom. So I did. And then I had to go inside from the garden to wash my hands before eating another battered prawn.

*I’m joking. I grumble on and on about hen parties (have written about it for Tatler HERE) but obviously they are terrifically good fun and drinking through a penis straw never gets boring…