.... a HEN NITE (I'm deliberately spelling it NITE as it's the correct tacky spelling).
A Hen note in my experience, I'm sorry to say, has always been an evening where you will be shelling out hundreds of pounds to sit around in a dark tacky niteclub drinking champagne cocktails through a pen*s-shaped straw surrounded by girls you have nothing in common with bar the fact you share a friend who's about to get married. On top of this it involves DRINKING. I haven't had a drink for the last 2 months and a week, ever since I stopped smoking, this was going to be a seriously test of my resolve.
Luckily for my non smoking gambit, the niteclub in the West End the Hen had chosen was so tacky I didn't once look out longingly to the smoking area wishing I could go out and strike up an interesting convo with anyone. I was pre-occupied with working out how the hell to get out of there I didn't think once about having a cigarette.
The night had it all, tack, large amounts of alcohol, other smokers in our group, a fight... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrghh!
HIDEOUS.
But I didn't smoke
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Polster - I'll swap you an evening in a west-end club surrounded by drunken "laydez" (to follow your tastefull spelling) for a whole weekend with my mother in law?
By mid-day sunday I don't know what I wanted most - a loaded revolver or a cigarette!
Bloody hen nites. It would have been the classic smoking moment to get the hell out of the club, stand outside, light up a Marlboro Light and stare at the sky saying "For the love of God!!!"
Munster - I'd have used the loaded revolver on the obligatory outrageously p*ssed "Watch me fall over" girl in our group. Easily.
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