Clucking hell

‘Last fling before the ring.’ ‘Buy me a shot, I’m tying the knot.’ ‘Keep calm and bridesmaid on.’ If you find yourself on a train to Brighton, Paris or Amsterdam with a group of women in T-shirts bearing the above slogans, change carriages. You are about to witness Jen’s hen in full prosecco-and-Pringles feather. On the lash, off the leash, bonded together in squealing sisterhood for one night only.

If only it were for one night. The hyper-inflation that has seen weddings go from church and breakfast to three-day wonders now extends to the hen. Away we go to Lisbon, Barcelona, Marbella on a dawn flight in matching hoodies and hangovers from the pre-hen the night before. The last time I was at Luton, a party of hens wearing ‘Bride Tribe’ tops and headbands with fluffy antennae had divided into two groups with the bride — white hoodie, L plate — weeping at the centre of one and the maid of honour — pink hoodie — sobbing in the other. They hadn’t even been through security.

It starts with an email: ‘Hey lovely ladies…’ The maid of honour invites the hens to fill out a ‘Doodle Poll’ listing all the weekends they are available between now and the wedding in August. Then comes the WhatsApp group — #donttellthebride — and six months of messages about the budget, the ethics of stripograms and who’s going to buy the willy straws.

Hens can be homespun (knit your own garter ribbons, Great Bridal Bake Offs, cottages in Hardy country) or hysterical. The hysterical hen is done ironically. Lawyers, doctors and management consultants forget feminism, chuck #MeToo, and cry: ‘Bring on the naked butler! Fox in the hen house! Pour me a phwoar!’

Now it’s my turn.