What I learned on my stag weekend...

So I survived my stag do - hair somewhat amazingly unshaved - and Kate coasted through her hen weekend, dignity intact despite a circumsized penis cake and flashing nipples. After a wonderful weekend in the Devon in the company of 21 of my friends (20 on the second night after my sister defected to the Hens) I have learnt the following things:

1. Swimming pool volleyball is the best game in the world. Fact.
2. Having girls at a stag weekend will make it more decorous, but it won't make it any less decadent.
3. There is NEVER a time when strippers are a good idea. True fact.

However, on the drive back, severely hung-over and slightly unnerved by Beans's assault on motorway driving conventions, I felt a warm glow brought on not by nausea or even fondness for my friends, who had made the effort to travel all the way down for the weekend. Instead, my sense of wellbeing was due to the knowledge that I was coming back home to Kate, having completed my last act as a singleton. Well not as a singleton, but at least by myself; for, from now on, everything I do will be with Kate.

I can't wait!

Feathers And Antlers - by Kate

Hen dos. Stag parties.
Let us consider the edifying spectacle of a single-sex group (or is that a group sex of singles...?) in matching togas or tiaras, shrieking in super-stretch limos and swaggering (then staggering) from bar to bar, hellbent on humiliation and inebriation. When watching examples of the singleton's last hoorah, my reaction is usually a mixture of indulgent amusement and horror. Accompanied by wincing.
Despite the numerous wedding invites on my CV, I've only been to a few hen-dos. And actually, they were all varying degrees of fun. Mainly because none of them involved wearing L-plates, male strippers, indeterminate pub-crawls or the introduction of random items into bodily orifices.
In most cases, a (reasonably) civilised meal was a main focal point. At a couple, we went to health spas for some girly pampering; at another, we rented a stone cottage and did some walking; at another, we had an all-day, all-night house party. What they all had in common were lots of women out for a good time and fizzy wine. Which can be a lethal combination, admittedly.
So when thinking about my own hen do, I was determined it would be simple, cheap, fun and largely hygienic. So my Matron of Dishonour (Hen) was asked to look for a self-catering place with stroll options during the day (to a local coffee-shop, perhaps, and/or a beach), for communally-cooked meals and a chance to party in private. Cheapness and a south west location were also preferred.
Amazingly, she found a place in North Devon that ticked all the boxes and could sleep up to 18 for around seven pounds per hen per night. That's some roost.
The one thing worrying me is that my MoD (Hen) - I also have an MoD (Clothing) and a Matron of Honour (Bridesmaid Whipper-In) - despite being a much loved friend, is also the woman who shaved a perfect stripe down the chest of one of our male friends who'd unwisely passed out at a party while she was there. Let's just say it adds a certain frisson to the proceedings. Blue hair dye, or even worse, mousy brown hair dye have been casually mentioned in my hearing. I'm telling myself it'll be fine. It'll all be fine.
In fact, it's Theo I'm more worried about. His alcohol tolerance is alarmingly low. He is also somewhat hirsute and I fear for his eyebrows/hair/beard/chest-hair. I have asked his best men (one of whom is a woman and therefore probably more dangerous) to be gentle with him and to please return him undamaged. I just suspect their interpretation of "undamaged" may be different to mine. Oh well. By having the stag and hen dos so early, we've at least allowed two months for things to grow back again. Most things, anyway.