I’ve not been on a lot of hen nights, but those I have been on were distinguished by their disparity. There was climbing a wall then having a pizza, own-brand Irish cream in Colchester, and a Sloaney blowout – up to and including a dance at Crazy Larry’s (fave nightspot of 80s royals). All were great in their different ways; all served to show that one friend’s dreamy evening is another’s Armageddon.
Magic Mike XXL – the movie sequel about male strippers, which distils essence of hen night and adds abs – further highlights the amazing range of female taste. Not just whether you’d prefer to see the nipples of Channing Tatum, or a leathery ex-wrestler, or that lad with curly hair who wants to start an artisanal yoghurt company. No. The real revelation was that one woman’s idea of sexual empowerment is another’s three minutes on stage wedged against a stranger’s crotch in an ill-ventilated conference hall listening to the sound of people screaming.
That women can now watch male strippers seems only right and proper, of course. But I’m not sure it’s a shining example of what Emmeline Pankhurst fought for. In Magic Mike, women are hauled on stage, then sat or even strapped down as hulking lads bounce about them, kneading their bottoms like sourdough, grabbing their hair, grinding their thighs, spraying cream on their breasts, mounting them every which way, then flipping them up and spinning them round before slamming them back on to a chair, no thought for sciatica.
The lucky girls gasp with enfranchised joy. The crowd around – mute but for whooping – chucks cash ever so empoweringly. Then the compere, Jada Pinkett Smith, comes on to tell the clientele they are “queens” and that, when it comes to sex, everyone likes a bit of sour with their sweet, gentle with their hard and “no” with their “yes”. To which I’d add a bit of “hell” to my “what the”.
Top of the mops
Just as the use of “XXL” in Magic Mike’s title suggests to me not generous genitals but morbid obesity, so too the moniker “Magic” feels a bit of a push. Mike never saws an assistant in half or whips out a bunch of flowers. His sorcery is confined to clothes-removal and jigging. Tatum’s moves are spectacular. But they are not supernatural.
One non-kosher use of the word magic I am, however, happy to go along with is when it’s applied to mops. Specifically, the hi-tech kind, which have proved a revolution for those of us resigned to a life spent shifting bacteria round the kitchen with the old, stringy sort, slippers splattered with grey water, hands riven with splinters.
Last year I bought a steam mop, which despite the terrible weight and faff makes you feel like some sort of all-powerful hygiene dragon huffing about the house. And last week I spent under £20 on a Vileda for those times I couldn’t be bothered to use the big one. It was wonderful, save for one small flaw: its head was too wide for the bucket. Then I twigged: no need for one. Instead, it comes with a little refillable container for soapy water, which you can then fire out in front as required, like an iron or a fun gun. What a time to be alive.
New wave tactics
Unless you’re the Queen or a very small child, waving at strangers isn’t really done. But a couple of new viral videos of animals – one a bear, one an elephant – waggling paws or trunks at ecstatic onlookers, offer a model for future social interaction. When you do wave at someone you don’t know – a nice, non-binding acknowledgement of fellow humanity – the result is generally as happy-making as if you had been an A-list star or a basking seal. There’s little effort, no cost and maximum psychological benefit. The winky salute can be added for variety. Why not give it a try?`
