WGOTSOT: The Binmen Cometh
Before we get to the nitty-gritty, a quick explanation. WGOTSOT stands for What Goes On Tour Stays On Tour, which as you probably know has always been the motto of stag and hen dos.
Until now.
Because with its insightful WGOTSOT series, you can now find out the truth of what actually happens on the last night of freedom. If you’d like to share the true story of your stag or hen-do just email us the details but bare in mind we need all the details – we want the blood, the hangover, the shaky knee sex behind the bins of the Odeon. You can of course change names and incriminating details. Just give us the dirt.
THE BINMEN COMETH
State your made-up name: Kelly
How old are you: Old enough to know better
Role at wedding: Bridesmaid
9.30 AM: Alison (not her real name) and her party of hens arrived in Manchester on the train from Whitley Bay drinking £4.99 champagne out of the bottle through a freshly opened packet of penis straws.
The hen party theme was “Filthy Robin Hood and his Merry Slags” which had been thought up by a well-respected journalist friend. I felt a little uncomfortable walking through Piccadilly train station totally sober wearing fishnets, a feather hat and a t-shirt reading ‘Alison – You Filthy Slag’ but on seeing the girls dressed in similar but smaller costumes and singing, ‘Do A Queer, A Female Queer’ my inhibitions began to evaporate into the early December morning frost. I was thankful for the extra warmth when Helen began to pass around the fuzzy penis hats.
10:00 AM: We couldn’t find a bar open near the train station so we settled for a McDonald’s breakfast. We drunk diet cola spiked with vodka through Helen’s penis shaped beer bong – or ‘The Dong Bong’ and I gagged after eating an egg mcmuffin that Georgia had spilt poppers on. I felt queer. Like my head was going to explode. “Dean” our cheerful MacDonald’s employee was left shaken after an incident involving an inflatable male doll and a hash brown. Sorry Dean.
4:00 PM: We spent much of the time till now downing pints of cider with a 49-year-old man called Pete whose nose was so bulbous and purple it looked like a dogs balls. The hen had decided she wanted to see what the shopping was like in Manchester. A little known fact about Geordie women is that most of the time they carry miniature bottles of booze in their handbags – so we trundled though the high street shops drinking mini bottles of Bells out of Cary’s handbag until Helen threw up a little bit into an All Saints Military Boot and we were asked/ordered to leave.
8:00 PM: Totally donkey’d on Deansgate Locks. Had a snogging competition with a rival Stag do and was slapped in the face by the Best Man’s penis. He bought me a blue WKD to compensate the redness, though I remember thinking at the time he had done me a favour as I didn’t have to re-apply any blusher. Helen had stopped talking and was propped up against the wall in the corner crying. The rest of the hens were dancing around Alison and Carly was walking towards me with a drunken grin on her face. Apparently, we had to leave. Carly had been caught by the bar manager giving a man a blowjob in the unisex toilets.
11:00 PM: Had drunk so much I had to keep thinking of sand to stop myself throwing up. Helen still crying.
2:00 AM: Alison was snogging Winston – a large and unattractive bouncer from The Printworks. After bumping into purple nosed Pete again in Lloyds, Lalain and Georgia had performed a lesbian lap dance for him wearing flashing penis head boppers. Spotting Alison with a mouthful of Winston we dragged her from the club and headed toward the taxi rank.
Eight girls from Whitley Bay wearing few clothes in winter weather are not unheard of. Eight girls from Whitley Bay in a blizzard at a taxi rank half naked = death. Unable to get a taxi – and with Helen still crying – we began the 12 mile walk to our hotel in Hyde wrapped in newspapers we found on the floor.
On the way Alison persuaded me to “climb in a wheelie bin to get warm for a bit.” Drunken and exhausted I stood on a wall and climbed into the wheelie bin. The girls laughed out loud – even Helen – and began rolling me down hill – I don’t know if it was the bumps in the path, the cocktail of booze and accidentally swallowed poppers or the fact I had been drinking for sixteen hours straight but I threw up. In the wheelie bin and all over myself. And I didn’t care.
3.10 AM: By now the hens had wheeled me outside a council flat on the edge of Manchester and banged on the door. I couldn’t even get out to run away, so I stood in my bin, defiant and covered in puke and awaited my fate. I still have the scars from cutting my hand on an empty baked bean can when my wheelie bin was pushed over by the angry scally we woke.
Happy Wedding Alison.
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haha brilliant. Great site. There’s some more amusing hen party stories plus loads of tips here:
Hen Gifts
Enjoy!
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