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When our nephew Chris and his live-in girlfriend Sam got married this year in Bingham , a village near Nottingham, we were already prepared for most current English (or Northern English) wedding practices: top hat and tails, minus the top hat, for the men in the wedding party, hats for the mothers of the bride and groom and even for one or two of the female guests; an exquisitely elegant bridal gown; a full set of bridesmaids; a picturesque village church decked out with flowers; a catered reception in a hotel for close friends and relatives followed by an evening party and disco to include a wider set of acquaintances; a multi-tier wedding cake trimmed with exquisite sugar flowers; and for the out-of-town relatives hotel rooms rather than mattresses on the floor. We had experienced much the same in 1995 when Chris’s elder brother Michael got married to Joanne in Darlington.

What we had not experienced were the preliminaries to a wedding. The happy couple prepare for the event like many other couples by organizing a stag party for him and his friends and a hen party for her and her friends. Such parties are not of recent origin, but the type of party is. For example, Chris held his stag party not in his home town in a single pub. Not even in his home town wandering from one pub to another or in a nearby town, but rather in Dublin, Ireland. This required 15 men to fly from Teesside to Dublin, just for the privilege of spending two nights in a hotel and almost every waking hour in one drinking establishment or another and then flying home again. The hen party for Sam wasn’t quite so extreme, but it too involved two nights away and the now traditional Hen-anigans. The Hen is dressed up to show the world what is afoot. At a minimum she must wear a wedding veil and a pair of learner plates, although often the entire party will be dressed up based on some kind of theme. Special T-shirts announcing that the wearer is a member of “June’s hen party” are often to be seen.

Until August of 2002, my knowledge of such things was always second hand. The last hen party I attended was probably when my sister Sue got married back in 1975. Her hen party was held at a night club in a village near Darlington, and although I have no memory of the event, I have been assured that I was there. Imagine, therefore, my surprise to be invited to the hen party for Kathryn, the daughter of Sue’s best friend. My immediate reaction to the invitation was that it would be an extravagance. It involved spending one night in a hotel and then of course meals and drinks besides. My next reaction, was “So what!”. It would be fun and what was money for if not to be used for enjoyment. Yes, our net worth has fallen by half since the height of the stock market boom, but given our rather abstemious life-style ($25-$30 a night when we stay in hotels), we are not at all likely to starve any time soon.

The party drove to York in three cars on the Saturday morning, and there met up with another three or four revellers. There were two distinct groups: the oldsters and the youngsters. No prizes for guessing which group I belong to. We weren’t dressed up like some other parties, but we had all agreed to wear something stripey. After a snack in place of lunch, we wandered around the center of York, window-shopping. Since there were about 18 of us, it was no mean feat to manage to keep together, and I think the youngsters were releived when we oldsters opted to stop for a cup of tea/coffee and leave them to their own devices.

We met up again at about 5:30 for an evening meal at the pub/restaurant called Witherspoon, next door to the Travelodge where we were all staying that night. Hen parties must represent a significant source of income for York hotels, given that we encountered at least five other parties, each made up of around 20 people, and each no doubt staying in one of the hotels around town. After supper we all went up to our rooms for a rest and a shower before heading out to the streets. The hen party proper began around 8 p.m. and lasted for us oldsters until about 1:30, and maybe another hour for the youngsters. As expected, we hopped from pub to pub, staying in one pub only long enough to consume a single drink. Because many of the pubs in York are located on a street called Micklegate, such a pub-crawl is often called the Micklegate Run, according to friends who live near the town.

All of the pubs have loud music and some even a dance floor to entertain the drinkers. Sadly the music is usually so loud that it does rather kill conversation, but after a few drinks even that stops being a problem.
As pub-closing time approached, the youngsters started chivvying us oldsters about a declaration made earlier in the day that we wouldn’t be going to any night clubs for after-hours drinking and dancing. Cleverly they told each of us that the others had already decided to go, pressuring us to fall in line, which we dutifully did. A shuttle bus is available in the town center to take carousers the two miles or so out of town to the two nightclubs which are jointly owned and differ only in that one is limited to over-23’s. While in town, the youngsters had been collecting coupons giving discounts of up to 100% on entry to the clubs, including a free drink, meaning it hardly added to the expense of the occasion, so off we all went, singing (honestly) all the way.

The clubs were heaving when we got there. The music seemed even louder than the loudest pub, and the dance-floor was hopping. That was our first stop after the bar, but unfortunately, the club’s bouncer quickly pulled us off the floor — no drinks on the dance floor ladies! With nowhere to leave the drinks safely, we all congregated in a corner of the bar area to bop as we sipped. That’s when we noticed the worst point of all — the carpets all through the club were mushy with spilt drinks, sodden with beer and wine and god knows what else. Walking was more like squishing, and dancing wasn’t helped by the fact that there was a noticeable delay between the intent of lifting a foot and its effect. Ugh! Before we left we found out the secret of the over-23 rule. You had to be over 23 to watch the go-go girls and boys strut their stuff. To my mind, the rule ought to have been reversed, i.e. you should be required to be under 23. No sane adult would enjoy watching someone with spare tyres gyrating around a pole. Well, at that point, it was clear that it was time to go home, so out we went to the bus stop for a ride into town and then a brisk walk back to the hotel.

The next morning we all gathered for breakfast and all were a little the worse for wear. The drive home seemed very much an anti-climax, but on the whole it was an interesting experiment for me. Best part was definitely the opportunity for lots of dancing. Something to be repeated soon I hope at the wedding party for my friends Dinah and Mick. This is definitely the year for weddings. By the end of the year we will have attended four, more than we have been to in the last ten years.