Stag versus Hen

Leaving the big, dirty, stressful, noisy (blah blah blah) city, I am heading South.

The blond lady next to me does not have much to say. She stoically accepts being the centre of male and female attention in the train, just because she is made of inflatable plastic. Her name is Lisa. She is the involuntary companion of the groom-to-be sitting in front of me. She is the celebrity of the train. Everybody looks at her, wants to touch her or take a picture with her.

And her? Like a true celebrity is completely apathetic. Not that she has a choice…

The groom is covered in plastic too. In an attempt to give him graceful curves, he has a pair of generously sized boobs, round bottom and an afro wig to add some exotic tint to the curves’ effect. All is cheery, loud and smells of alcohol, the cheap kind… beer and some more beer.

Just at the point that the stag group’s excitement about the groom’s plastic tortures died down a hen group enters the train. And it all turns pink.

Now plastic Lisa has competition. The real "flesh and bone" Lisa (how unfortunate name coninsidence!), bride-to-be, surrounded by giggly teasing ladies. No plastic there. At least no visible plastic. And their alcohol is more sophisticated, bubbly wine (and approach to life I’d say) and gin and tonic. True Ladies.

Both parties are immediately interested in one another especially after realizing that they are both heading to the same beach town in the South of England.

I am in the middle of it all. I keep quiet but… inevitably my transparency does not last. I end up being something like a hostage and a referee silmutaneously.

And all this time I keep wondering. Is this really fun? Or am I just jealous I am not part of it? English pop culture intrigues me. But I never know if this is good or bad.

It’s all plastic… it’s fantastic?