I’ve only ever been on one full-blown hen weekend, and I ran away before it was over, an existential crisis having swept over me in the middle of the night as I washed my hands with a penis-shaped bar of soap (it was apple-scented, which somehow only made things worse).
So I rather liked the idea of Henpocalypse!, in which five women depart to a cottage in rural Wales for the purposes of pink debauchery, only to find themselves trapped there, possibly forever, by a population-decimating pandemic caused by crabs (NB I mean crabs of the eat-with-mayonnaise-and-chips kind, not the sort that live in your pubic hair). If the average hen weekend is purgatory, the seventh circle of hell is surely one from which there is no prospect of escape.
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