Hen party debts fuelling boom in organ sales

THE spiralling cost of pre-marital celebrations is prompting Britons to sell their organs.

Wedding planner Donna Sheridan explained “There is rising pressure to put on the sort of violently debauched stag or hen party that could warrant a primetime slot on BBC3.

“Overseas extreme sports excursions, boutique paintball and visits to bars where cocktails are served in vintage gravy boats have left thousands facing financial oblivion.

“Hosts persuade guests to pay more than they can afford, promising the party of a lifetime – a meaningless expression made poignant by the consequent increase in desperate backstreet organ sales.”

Bride-to-be Nikki Hollis said “I just can’t believe my selfish bitch bridesmaids have all cancelled on me for the big day because they’re undergoing dialysis.”

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Single White Lady, by Jane Austen

I was giddy with joy when the Jane Austen society managed to prize my gold and turquoise ring back off Kelly Clarkson’s woefully chunky fingers.

But there once was a time when Miss Clarkson looked set to finish me forever, driven to jealous insanity by what I can only assume was poor diet or perhaps syphilis.

I first met Miss Clarkson at a fund raising gala hosted by the lithe Mr Sumner, known to his tribesmen companions simply as ‘Sting’ which in their language meant ‘rectal pus’. All of high society was in attendance – from the bawdy Welsh spinster, Ms Church, to portly landowner Sir Elton John.

Miss Clarkson cut a lonely figure, her poor diction and bouts of social impropriety betrayed centuries of tuber fed inbreeding; guests gave her a wide berth for fear of catching impetigo. But I pitied the poor wretch, whose bulbous nose and mottled forearms were not completely without charm. I asked her if she wanted to move in to my townhouse.

Some nights later, I was getting ready to go out to tea and I couldn’t find my favourite stole. As a last resort, I held my nose and ventured into Miss Clarkson’s room. To my chagrin, I found it in her dirty laundry pile (which stood as high as my shoulder). The whole carbuncle was saturated in what I can only assume was illegally home-brewed cider and the stole was utterly bedraggled.

When I got to the dinner party, Miss Clarkson was already holding court, wearing my turquoise ring and telling everyone about how easy it was to write Sense and Sensibility. When I challenged her, she threw my dog out of a top floor window.

For the next 100 years, Miss Clarkson continued to steal my identity, relentlessly clawing her way to high society – that is until now. All one needs is a quick nod to Alan Titchmarsh and £150,000 appears as if by magic. The ring was brought home, and all was made right.


Miss Clarkson went on to pen a hit album inspired by her addiction to cat biscuits. The critical notoriety it brought garnered the affections of a certain Sir Elton John, who asked her to move in. Ms Church recovered from an almost ruinous episode of incontinence and bought a very pretty hat. Mr Sumner had a much welcomed moment of clarity, dyed his hair orange and lived out his days as his character from Dune, which was the most marvelous ending anyone could have hoped for.