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While I battle the sticky floor and bits of broken glass that litter my path to the bar, I watch my sister and Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen dancing like someone is poking them with electric cattle prods. I’m pleased to see they look carefree and happy.

There is a lot of braying going on. Grown men, wearing neon-coloured mankinis, are treating innocent bystanders like myself to an intimate glimpse of their hairy chests and bums, which are covered in an assortment of barcode and Welsh dragon tattoos. It is highly unappealing not to say unhygienic, but what is abundantly clear is that they are playing the world’s loudest rugby-themed drinking game. By the looks of them, the game started twelve years ago and is still in full swing.

‘I love men with thick necks, Gav,’ I hear my sister saying. She is hanging from a man wearing a lilac-coloured bra and knicker set. It appears to be made of industrial-strength stretchy lace and he is punching the air in celebration.

I shudder and take a step back from the heaving throng, who have now turned an area of the bar into a dancefloor.

I much prefer a tall, long-legged man myself. My mind wanders to Oliver. I knock back my drink, and order three more cocktails.

While I wait for Ava and Maria-José-Inmaculada-Carmen to finish dancing, I slip into a nice little fantasy where Oliver has just come over with a bottle of Crystal and is dangling the keys to his helicopter at me, when, before I can dart away, one of the hairy beasts called Jimbo throws an arm around my neck. He winks lasciviously and waggles his appendage at me.

I unpeel his arm and watch as he starts doing what I assume he assumes is a routine from Magic Mike, using a dirty bar cloth and a cocktail umbrella stuck between his teeth.

‘No thanks,’ I say, turning back to the bar.

He throws his head back and howls with laughter. ‘Squinty! I’ve got a live one here, mate! Gorgeous knockers, mind.’

Absolutely charming.

‘You have such a beautiful way with words,’ I yell back as he yanks me to him so that I can enjoy the view of his hairy chest from up close.

A thunderous cheer goes up around the bar and I discover that these male strippers, behaving for all intents and purposes like posh lads, are, in actual fact, posh lads. They are a professional Welsh rugby team full of heroes, newly arrived here to celebrate their recent cup win by dressing in slithers of Lycra for two whole weeks. We quickly learn that they have also been out for a vindaloo, which apparently tapped into their natural competitive streak, and now several of them have recently experienced an explosive rear end discharge.

Their manager must be so proud.

My sister and MJ, as she insists on being awkwardly called by me this evening, dance over to see what the fuss is about. I take this opportunity to slide out from the headlock.

‘That’s my sister,’ Ava says, pointing at me. ‘She’s a very successful life coach. And this is MJ. She’s her… company director. And I’m an influencer!’

MJ and I exchange a guilty look.

‘We can come clean tomorrow,’ I tell her. There’s no need to overegg the pudding. We’ve had all the confessions we need for one day.

‘And you’re all invited to come on our excellent coach trip next week!’ Ava yells.

A huge cheer goes up and before we know it, the rugger boys are pushing glasses of prosecco into our hands and booming out things like ‘Jimbo has massive balls!’ and ‘Go Team Tits!’

If they weren’t constantly replacing our empty glasses with full ones, we would probably have scarpered by now. And even though I have been thrown wildly about on the dancefloor and have managed to fight off numerous gigantic wandering paws, I am relieved to be more successful at avoiding their advances than my sister and MJ, whom I have spotted locking lips with the two hairiest of the group. Urgh. And now there are tongues being flapped about.

I take out my phone to capture this glorious moment, lest we all forget. In my drunken state, I fumble with the buttons and end up taking a few accidental video clips of my sister’s desperately poor lifestyle choices. I take a selfie of me with Ava in the background for our parents. I think they would love that.

The next thing I know, the rugger boys take it in turns to show off, lifting people off the ground and spinning them round above their heads to hoots of laughter, starting with Ava. Then we are herded into a roped-off VIP area where we are treated to some champagne and a long and detailed account of why Rugby Union is better than Rugby League. MJ has brought all the Hens with her, and they are so ecstatic they have draped themselves over a rugby hero each.

‘I love this song!’ Ava suddenly shouts at us, jumping up and spinning around. ‘Come on!’ she yells, throwing her arms above her head.

MJ and I jump up. ‘Who is it?’ I shout above the music, joining in as we gyrate as if our lives depend on it. It has been years since I last went out dancing.

‘No idea!’ Ava yells back to us. ‘But I never want it to end!’

‘Me neither!’ I yell, slinging my arms around both of their shoulders. We all beam ridiculously at each other. And just for a moment, everything seems perfect.

* * *

A while later, we prop ourselves up on stools to take a breather from the flashmob dancing. It’s like we have become best ever friends with all the ladies from the hen party and all the rugger boys. We are like one huge hairy family. I have been sorely mistaken about the rugger boys. They couldn’t be more charming, and their skimpy outfits are a hoot and not at all offensive. And they are all heroic and handsome.

Ava has been taking millions of selfies with them, especially Squinty, the captain, who is seriously good-looking and quite debonair despite the scarring, the black eye and broken nose bandage.