It had me at “crab measles”, to be honest. Even if that doesn’t strike you as the perfect name for a virus capable of wiping out the entire male population, you will still enjoy Henpocalypse!. And you should certainly try, as it will be good for you – but a barrier will likely forever remain between you and it. It’s a bit like how, if you aren’t a cradle Catholic, you will never quite understand why Mrs Doyle waiting all night, every night, by the light switch with a tea tray in case one of the priests gets a thirst on him at any point is so very right – and so very funny.
Anyway, onwards to the apocalypse, as written by Caroline Moran and not quite witnessed by her boozed-up party of five because they are holed up in an isolated cottage in Wales for a hen do. After a chaotic ride down from their native Birmingham, during which there is virtually no dialogue other than raucous screams and drunken laughter – accompanied by chief bridesmaid Shelly (Callie Cooke, nailing the stressed-big-sister vibe that attends the role) smashing into another car and driving away hastily without giving insurance details to its uptight owner – the party and the plot get going.
