Strippers (the non-wallpaper or paint variety)

Some years ago I'd irregularly visit a local club where a stripper would appear prior to egg internationals. They were always bawdy affairs where punters in various states of drunkenness would leer at an artiste as she humiliated herself in return for a relative financial pittance. I always found those events to be rather unseemly and disgusting, but continued to endure them to further research human behaviour.

The routine was identical at each game: the scantily clad lady would perform a 10-minute tease before a whipround was conducted. She'd then reappear starkers. The amount raised determined the level of indignities she was prepared to suffer at her own hands and with audience volunteers. She'd do all sorts of shocking activities, or so I was told as I always averted my gaze during the second part of their act by examining the ceiling's artex pattern.

On that particular date the place was jam-packed so likely England provided the opposition. Those occasions always attracted strangers, many of whom looked unsavoury. Anyhow, she emerged wearing a skimpy bikini and nowt else to shake her body bits in the faces of men as she weaved amongst the tables they were sat at.

Suddenly someone shouted "show us your piss flaps" from somewhere farther back. "I know that voice," I thought. I turned to see a group remonstrating with a person, the culprit was Sludge. He was being jostled and pretended to be suffering sudden knee pain as I came to his rescue. (His favourite ruse when in a panic is to feign a coronary by clutching his left breast while making terrible gurgling noises. That one's reserved for when he's in a big round and his turn to head for the bar is imminent.)

The tight git slinked away to hide in the bogs as a committee man was seen holding a collection tray. It was announced a record amount had been raised. The stripper reemerged from her dressing room wearing nothing other than a satisfied grin. She was carrying a baseball bat and an enormous cucumber which she wasn't going to utilise as makeshift drumsticks. Once she dispensed with those her minder asked for volunteers. Sludge had already removed his shirt, exposing his stinking vest, in anticipation of that request. She said something to the heavy who promptly bundled the miscreant back to his seat.

He was thrown out soon afterwards for propositioning the elderly stewardess.

He’s a right rotter is our Sludge!

It all sounds perfectly feasible apart from

Quote:

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... as I always averted my gaze during the second part of their act by examining the ceiling's artex pattern...

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There is a reason why Organ is this forum's resident expert on artex!

Would that be the old 21 club. At the end of city road,

Haha. He hasn't changed one bit.

This is sexist and very degrading to women