JUST to prove I don't just make things up for the sake of my column, and that all my mates actually are getting hitched, I went to my first hen do last weekend.

Happily, there was no mention of Blackpool, L Plates did not come into the equation and I was fairly confident that in accepting an invitation to a weekend in Stroud I was in no danger of catching my friend on her hands and knees removing a banana from some oily fellow's nether regions.

So hurrah for that. I mean, I enjoyed The Full Monty but I do have my limits. Which is why I'm happy that my first hen do was an altogether stripper-free experience.

It seems that some women feel it is obligatory to be as tacky as possible at hen dos, with fake plastic boobs, phallic-shaped sticks of rock and deeply regrettable snogs with ginger men forming the high point of the evening. I refuse to believe that people actually enjoy this.

Perhaps it is actually a canny psychological technique for dispelling any last minute doubts. After all, any woman contemplating jilting her hubby and rejoining the singleton brigade is likely to take one look at the bunch of shrieking, sozzled slappers showing their bits to the whole of Wetherspoons and conclude that a brisk walk up the aisle followed by immediate emigration to South America with no forwarding address is the wisest course of action.

Recall the well worn phrase 'Last night of freedom.' If freedom is defined as downing 14 Slippery Nipples and chucking your knickers at The Chippendales, Nelson Mandella might have thought twice, don't you think?

Though this type of hen do is still going strong (at least I hope so or the woman wearing the inflatable genitals on her head in my local last week has a lot of explaining to do) happily I didn't have to attend one. Instead we drove into the country to stay in a large house for the weekend. Despite a couple of city-slicker moments (getting stuck up a path roughly the width of a scarf in the pitch black, admiring the lovely sheep and then realizing they were cows) we embraced the fresh country lifestyle with vigour.

Well okay, what I meant to say was we embraced the alcohol with vigour. A murder mystery dinner gave us all a good excuse to get wigged-up and merry, one friend who happened to be a doctor was grilled for half a day about the workings of the female body, and we played 'I've never' (example: one person says, 'I've never dyed my hair' and those who ever have drink a sip of their wine) When it (rapidly) moved away from the subject of hair care and into more dodgy territory it gave light to some highly entertaining revelations indeed. Really you should try it sometime.

All in all did what all girls love to do: Drink wine, eat our own bodyweight in mini cheddars and talk about sex. He might not come right out and say it but, given the option, I reckon Nelson Mandella would opt for that over a gyrating Chippendale any day.

JUST to prove I don't just make things up for the sake of my column, and that all my mates actually are getting hitched, I went to my first hen do last weekend.

Happily, there was no mention of Blackpool, L Plates did not come into the equation and I was fairly confident that in accepting an invitation to a weekend in Stroud I was in no danger of catching my friend on her hands and knees removing a banana from some oily fellow's nether regions.

So hurrah for that. I mean, I enjoyed The Full Monty but I do have my limits. Which is why I'm happy that my first hen do was an altogether stripper-free experience.

It seems that some women feel it is obligatory to be as tacky as possible at hen dos, with fake plastic boobs, phallic-shaped sticks of rock and deeply regrettable snogs with ginger men forming the high point of the evening. I refuse to believe that people actually enjoy this.

Perhaps it is actually a canny psychological technique for dispelling any last minute doubts. After all, any woman contemplating jilting her hubby and rejoining the singleton brigade is likely to take one look at the bunch of shrieking, sozzled slappers showing their bits to the whole of Wetherspoons and conclude that a brisk walk up the aisle followed by immediate emigration to South America with no forwarding address is the wisest course of action.

Recall the well worn phrase 'Last night of freedom.' If freedom is defined as downing 14 Slippery Nipples and chucking your knickers at The Chippendales, Nelson Mandela might have thought twice, don't you think?

Though this type of hen do is still going strong (at least I hope so or the woman wearing the inflatable genitals on her head in my local last week has a lot of explaining to do) happily I didn't have to attend one. Instead we drove into the country to stay in a large house for the weekend. Despite a couple of city-slicker moments (getting stuck up a path roughly the width of a scarf in the pitch black, admiring the lovely sheep and then realizing they were cows) we embraced the fresh country lifestyle with vigour.

Well okay, what I meant to say was we embraced the alcohol with vigour. A murder mystery dinner gave us all a good excuse to get wigged-up and merry. One friend who happened to be a doctor was grilled for half a day about the workings of the female body, and we played 'I've never' (example: one person says, 'I've never dyed my hair' and those who ever have drink a sip of their wine). When it (rapidly) moved away from the subject of hair care and into more dodgy territory it gave light to some highly entertaining revelations indeed. Really you should try it sometime.

All in all did what all girls love to do: Drink wine, eat our own bodyweight in Mini Cheddars and talk about sex. He might not come right out and say it but, given the option, I reckon Nelson Mandela would opt for that over a gyrating Chippendale any day.