The month of May doesn’t gently tiptoe into your calendar.

May barrels in wearing a tiara, one shoe, a leopard-print sash, and an inflatable penis named Barry.

Almost every weekend from here until late Summer, the dance studio transforms into a vortex of shrieking, prosecco-soaked celebration as hen parties, milestone birthdays, and “she’s just got out of a bad relationship, and this is her era!” bookings fill the timetable.

Hen party season is now FULLY FERAL!

Across the land, cities brace themselves as herds of drunk hens descend like glitter-drenched locusts during harvest.

No session is safe.

No timetable sacred.

No nightclub left unscathed.

 ✨ YOUR ROLE (Whether You Like It Or Not):

• Dance Teacher
• Cheerleader
• Ringmaster
• Emotional Support Counsellor
• First Aid Provider (for the one who lost her shoes at 11am and has been walking barefoot round the city ever since)
• Referee for the passive-aggressive spat between Stacey and Lauren that started in Wetherspoons at 1:40pm

 ✨ IT’S NOT JUST ONE PARTY - IT'S FOUR. BACK-TO-BACK.

By the time you hit Saturday afternoon:

• You've reset the playlist three hundred times.
• You're teaching the same burlesque walk for the umpteenth time, with varying degrees of group chaos and commitment.
• The glitter is airborne.
• Your voice is cracking from enthusiastic shouting over Beyoncé and communal group screeching.

 ✨ TYPICAL ARRIVAL BREAKDOWN:

• They were told to arrive 10 - 15 minutes early.
• They show up 12 minutes late in a hot pink cloud of chaos. Matching cowboy hats, tiaras, fake veils, and half-drunk bottles of plonk.
• One has already lost their handbag.
• Two are mid-argument about whether Lucy did or didn’t say something passive aggressive in the WhatsApp group.
• The bride-to-be/birthday girl is sobbing with joy. Or heatstroke.
• They all dry-hump each other with the inflatable penis.
• Seven of them desperately need yet another wee.
• One forgot their emergency bottle of water.
• One has shown up in full fishnets and heels and is READY TO SERVE.

They are a walking group chat.

You are now the group admin.

✨HEN-SPEAK TRANSLATION GUIDE:

• "Have you got a toilet?" = Yes. Just one. It's now a therapy booth, wardrobe station, crying corner, and possibly forever haunted.
• “We just need a quick wee!” = a minimum of 3 separate bathroom trips every 20 minutes, staggered, like a conga line of cackling and fanny jokes.
• “This is gonna be soooo epic!” = someone’s about to try a floor move in 6-inch heels and a sash that says ‘Bride or Die’.
• “We’ve had just a few little drinks!” = two bottles of prosecco, one Jägerbomb, and a regrettable cherry sour incident

 ✨THE ENERGY IS CONFIDENT vs. CONFUSED vs. WILD!

• They're not listening.
• They're spinning - a lot.
• Someone is recording it (with a full commentary) on Instagram Live.
• Someone else has face-planted with an expensive feather fan.
• They love it.
• They adore you.
• They call you a goddess/legend/“the sexy teacher lady” depending on their prosecco levels.

 ✨THE COSTUME MOMENT:

There is always a moment when you hand out boas, gloves, corsets, and props, and the collective shriek threatens to take the roof off.

• One will wear things as intended.
• One will put it all on backwards.
• Three will use the feather boa to whip her mate.
• All of them yell at least ten decibels higher when you hand out the nipple tassels.
• All of them will lose an item you’ve given them within 30 minutes, and yet all within that one room. Gone. Forever!

Feathers everywhere.
Your studio dance floor - unrecognisable.

The toilet area - awash with spilled wine, ripped tights, and an empty vape.
Your sanity? Hanging on with eyelash glue.

✨BIRTHDAY PARTY EDITION:

• Different vibe. Still feral.
• More passive-aggressive karaoke energy.
• Higher chance of a homemade “This is 40, Bitches!” t-shirt.
• Two guests take it VERY seriously.
• One stands in the corner holding prosecco and muttering, “This is mad, this.”
• There’s always a surprise male attendee, one lady in leopard print who is the life and soul of the party, and someone’s aunt who ends up having the best time of her life after initially refusing to take off her cardi.

 ✨ THE HEATWAVE HAS ENTERED THE CHAT:

• The studio fans? Useless.
• The windows? One opens half an inch if you swear at it.
• You? Teaching in full-face make-up and hairpiece, while slowly simmering like a sweaty, showgirl stew.
• The hens/birthday gaggle? Melting. Loudly. With pink feathers stuck to every surface.

✨SURVIVAL KIT:

• Deodorant and body-spray. For everyone.
• An MP3 playlist that can’t be hijacked.
• A spare pair of everything.
• One glitter-free zone for emotional recovery.
• A backup plan for the inflatable that’s popped.
• Strong coffee or wine. Possibly both.

✨OVERHEARD: #TrueStory

• “Are we strippers now?! I feel like we’d be good strippers. Let's be strippers”
• “Don’t tell Steve I touched that.”
• “Oh god, I think I’ve pulled something, but I look sexy, so it’s fine. Another cocktail will sort it.”
• "Tracey - don't let me text my ex when I've opened that Baileys later!"
• "We should do the classes. Let's all book on the dance class next week. We'll f*cking smash it, girls!"

✨THE AFTERMATH:

They leave.

A screech of laughter, dropped phone chargers, and a dramatic “BYEEEE!” shouted from the entrance hallway.

They're off to their next conquest - a cocktail-making masterclass (where two will steal the ice bucket for their Air B&B, one will fall off the bar and end up in A&E for the rest of the weekend, and another will ‘befriend’ a questionable bartender named Carl).

You?
You are left … alone.

The silence is DEAFENING.

Your ears are still ringing from 90 minutes of communal 'singing' to “Single Ladies”.
Your knees ache from seven consecutive floor moves you didn’t plan to demonstrate far too many times.
You have lost ten pounds in sweat, dignity, and emotional fortitude.

You sit in the car and disassociate for 45 minutes.

No music.
No movement.

Just staring into the void, letting your brain reboot.

Then eventually … Right. Time to drive to the next studio - the next group booking is in at 6pm!

I love them.

I fear them.

I’m definitely charging "danger money" next season.

Think you could handle this?  Or better yet - want to BE the chaos?
✨ BOOK FOR A PARTY SESSION NOW, and unleash your inner legend!

Boss Lady - Lara Gothique

Founder, Curator, Choreographer, Swamp-Witch, and Slightly Feral Producer of The Velvet Burlesque™

© Lara Gothique - Velvet Burlesque™
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