If you read my last post, you'll understand the need for two, separate hens - a PG version and one with a Triple X, Snuff Movie certificate.
My mum and impending mum-in-law would undoubtedly have opted for pins in their eyes, over our Berlin debauchery - which, funnily enough, is what I tried to rid myself of the wizened Frankfurters that were burnt onto my retinas.
So my delicious bridesmaid, Sophie was tasked with plotting a mildly more civilised, London shindig for family and chums.
I was led up the stairs of The Great Eastern Bear Gallery in Shoreditch, to feast my balls of look upon the most terrifying artistic installation since Tracey Emin's tampon and snotty-tissue strewn bed: Walls filled with myself and fiance as mermaids, Hawaiian dancers and sex dolls.
Brittains Vodka set up a bar for us, serving 21% tipples in flavours like Strawberry and Rhubarb, Chilli Chocolate and Black Forest: a heady combination when served in the giant goldfish bowl I was made to drink from, complete with inflatable parrot and enough vodka cream to bring Keith Floyd back from the grave.
Worryingly, there were rows of chairs facing a stage area. And I began to fear the worst, when one hen let slip that a bare and unfettered penis was to feature in proceedings. I pondered wholesome ways of removing thongs with my teeth, which might seem sweet, endearing and in-no-way weird, awkward and disturbing for relatives. At that point, a world-weary Chris Packham lookalike emerged from the toilet with a grubby towel around his waist.
I thought of my happy places, singing "raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens" inside my head, while distracting myself with the natty, Blowing in the Wind necklaces each guest had been given. Each one was made from a bonafide leaf, dipped in gold or silver. Sadly, mine wasn't a fig leaf.
So I couldn't have fist-pumped the air any harder when Packham's pecker was unveiled (without assistance) and he presented us with charcoals and pencils for life drawing. He clearly thought I'd never seen a pencil before.
Poor old Chris looked like he yearned for the halcyon days, discussing badgers with Terry Nutkins on the Really Wild Show. Instead, he dangled for our drawing pleasure. But we massively enjoyed it on his behalf. And it turns out, the mums were dab-hands at doodling tallywhackers, so they might have found some artistic merits in Berlin, if we'd given them some crayons.
Afterwards, we headed to the Old Bengal Bar, which had put together a terribly sweet menu of special cocktails, illustrated with slightly-demented pictures of my fiance and me, post-engagement.
We stuffed our chops with heroic amounts of steak, which pleased my friend immensely because - as she earnestly explained to the table - she was "menstruating very heavily."
There's something deliciously Joan Collins about staying in a London hotel when you live in the capital. And since my mum and two lady-relatives had tottered over from Devon, I booked the four of us rooms at the delicious, Hotel Threadneedles in the heart of The City, which provided service worthy of Alexis Carrington. So we tottered back through the rain like a Mary Poppins army, brandishing umbrellas the staff had thoughtfully given us.
At the risk of getting all Alex Pilizzi on your asses, allow me to wax a little lyrical about Threadneedles, which provided the most delicious coop a hen could wish for.
It's a gorgeous, five star boutique hotel dating back to 1856, which is brimming with character. It used to be a Victorian Banking Hall, hence the stunning, stained-glass dome presiding over the marble lobby.
And we were massive fans of their sexy little touches, like the Bath Menu: Champagne, Rose Petal Cream and strawberries for the ladies and Cognac and almond biscuits for the chaps. We also applauded their Movie Menu of hot butter popcorn, Cola and ice cream to shamelessly gorge in your room. It certainly beats a sorry-looking chocolate on the pillow. If you're going to leave confectionary on my linen, make it a big, bastard tiramisu or get out.
I wanted to tickle the bellies of the staff, when they introduced us to the Honesty Bar on our return. A wonderfully cute touch which is rarely seen in London hotels.
Threadneedles appreciates the fact that many guests' limbs are like broiled asparagus the following morning, when they've formed a meaningful relationship with their duvets, so they provide guests with a late check-out on weekends. Many hotels leave you cursing the invention of toast and wishing a horrible demise for Tony the Tiger, as you stomp out of bed to angrily devour their disgustingly early breakfasts.
But, ever-sensitive to their sleepy and possibly gin-soaked guests, they provided us brekkie in their Bonds Bar and Restaurant at the infinitely more respectable hour of 10:30am.
A massive whoop for their Full English, which featured the indispensable, black pudding nucleus and laughed in the face of the previous night's creamy, goldfish bowl cocktail.
Although, it was too soon after scribbling the darker side of The Really Wild Show to stomach the sausage.