Revenge is a dish best served cold – isn’t that what they say? Though it’s an idiom I’ve rather heatedly stewed on over the years while doing various unhinged activities in the name of friendship.
Learning and dancing to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)” in a room full of gyrating women dressed like extras from Flashdance, for example. Awkwardly asking a young man, completely naked but for a small apron and bow tie, what he was studying at university while he casually offered round hors d'oeuvres with his arse hanging out. Madly wrapping another woman in toilet paper to create an approximation of a wedding dress within a strict three-minute timeframe.
Yes, I’m talking about the institution of the hen do. Those two words – especially when they appear together in the name of a newly created WhatsApp group you’ve been invited to join – are enough to send a chill down even the most enthusiastic woman’s spine. They hold the promise of months of passive-aggressive messages from a turbo-charged maid of honour who’s taking her duties slightly too seriously; an exorbitant Airbnb booked at least three hours’ drive away from every single attendee; and a “funny” themed dress code so nichely specific to the bride-to-be that it requires an entire new outfit to be purchased (before inevitably ending up in landfill).
By the time you hit your mid-thirties, you’ve likely attended so many of these things that you can’t quite distinguish the individual iterations from one another. The events meld together in a blur of bizarre workshops and hot pink feather boas and penis paraphernalia that haunts your dreams.
I blame America for the “extra-ness” of the modern British hen and stag party – they upped the ante and, like the try-hard lemmings we are, we followed suit. What used to be a few drinks down the pub to bid a fond farewell to single life has escalated into an all-weekend affair, complete with a strict itinerary of mandatory “fun” and a price tag to rival that of a week’s holiday in the South of France.
It is, therefore, completely unsurprising to me that we seem to be going off the idea as a nation. Only 51 per cent of people now think they should have a stag or hen do, according to a recent YouGov study on current attitudes to weddings; more than a third (36 per cent) said they simply wouldn’t be having one.
While I completely respect and sympathise with this attitude, I have to be honest – I won’t be doing likewise. If and when the time comes, there’s one big reason I’ll be forcing my friends and family to endure this cursed pre-nuptial tradition alongside me: revenge. Call me petty, but having been subjected to an endless roster of stale afternoon teas, novelty cocktail-making classes and enforced craft-making that no one in their right mind would choose to do for fun over the past two decades, I’d say I’m owed. And you best believe I’ll be collecting on that debt.
There’s one big reason I’ll be forcing my friends and family to endure this cursed pre-nuptial tradition alongside me: revenge
I can date this desire to inflict my own tedious send-off on everyone in my life back to what I consider to be my hen party low point, which entailed spending 90 minutes fashioning a lampshade out of fabric I’d been told to bring from home. It was like I was back doing my textiles GCSE coursework – the sweating; the cursing; the terrible, poorly made item at the end of it all – only this time, I’d had to fork out an inexplicable £50 for the privilege.
The strange thing is, nobody ever sets out to plan a tedious or financially ruinous weekend for their loved ones. Everyone wants to organise something genuinely enjoyable. And yet it just seems impossible, as if simply attaching the word “hen” or “stag” to any activity guarantees its inevitable downfall.
Why not simply do something fun instead, you might ask? Certain friends have ditched the separate events altogether and thrown one big “hag do” with their partner for all of their friends – which makes far more sense in 2026, where friendships no longer fall down antiquated gender lines.
But, like I say, I’m petty. When it’s finally my turn, I’m not sure I’ll be able to resist booking a house in rural Wales that no one can afford, mandating that everyone dress as their favourite Taylor Swift era, and forcing my nearest and dearest to paint coasters while I quaff cheap prosecco and cackle from the sidelines...
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