A couple of weeks ago, I had the honour of visiting an old friend of mine in Bristol for his birthday. For the sake of protecting the innocent, I will call the birthday boy Wes, and his girlfriend, I dunno, Jodie. Having arrived in Bristol after a fairly torturous two and a bit hour drive where my sat nav (a homicidal item of electrical hardware that is repeatedly trying to kill me, or at least make me attempt suicide by driving off a cliff), took me the majority of the way into Somerset, before finally heading north through country lanes so thin that even the badgers have to pull in to let each other pass, Jodie and I went to buy some Champagne and went off to meet Wes. Incidentally, when we left their flat, I had left my car keys on their table only to come outside and discover that I had left my windows wide open. Trying to do them up only set off the car alarm, which, of course, I could not switch off due to my keys being in their flat! I mention this, as it was sort of typical of the day thus far. Getting a bus into Bristol was an education for someone who had not set foot on public transport for quite some time. Did you know that you don't even get your own driver! Having leapt off the bus at some suitable point, totally lost, but assured by Jodie that we were still in the same county, despite having travelled for forty or fifty generations, we wandered into the centre of Bristol. Now I would be the first to admit that I am a country lad by heart, and not mad keen on cities, but Bristol was pretty cool. We had not walked more than two hundred yards before seeing a fox wander across a roundabout, where it had been hiding and living off the homeless and hopelessly drunk for years. It looked fat!
Having met Wes in some sort of pub, and shouted at each other for quite a while over the noise, we wandered off to have a crack at the champagne that was nestled discreetly in Jodie's bag. Sat somewhere near water of some genre, we reminisced and drank the fizzy giggle juice until we had to move on: bladders were being worn very full this season. Having got the idea into my head, it was decided that a strip club was definitely in order, as neither Jodie nor the birthday boy himself had ever set foot into one before. Having found a place, that may or may not have been called 'Wildcats' that did a fantastically reasonable twenty quid nude private dance, we sauntered in and took up some drinks. How fucking expensive, talk about a cash cow, and I don't mean the bird in the waistcoat who had a face like it had caught fire and someone put it out by dropping a building on it. Over the whole weekend I spent more money on drinks in that bar than anything else. Still, nice collection of poon, and just as we collected our drinks, a table freed itself up next to the pole and dance area. Wasn't the biggest table in the world, but then again, the dance floor was no leviathan either, being, as it was, just about the right size for someone sat at said table to catch a tantalizing stiletto heel in the eye. From this point on it was difficult to work out who looked more disoriented, Wes or Jodie, although the smart money was on Wes.
During the first young lady's attempt on the pole to slash me across the cheek with a perilous 'cross knee release', a move that even the South African police have banned, citing that it was 'a touch out of order', poor old Wes didn't even have a look at what was on offer. He occasionally glanced up, but seemed a little disorientated to find what was there when he did. Meanwhile, I was trying to find out from them both what sort of girl would be appropriate, both for Wes's enjoyment, and Jodie's satisfaction that he wouldn't be so enjoyed that he would flee Bristol with a dancer and live on Fiji raising squirrels and existing off the land. Eventually, after probably another round of drinks, they had both decided on the girl that was gonna be obligatory for the continuation of the strippy type ritual. Now, unfortunately, we had got ourselves stuck on a table that was to all intents and purposes, under the stairs. We were not getting the attention we deserved as any lass wanting to approach us had to either bend double, or kneel on the floor.
Wes's dancer of choice was free, available, and looking for 'mister right'; at least 'mister right amount', and, using a trick picked up from Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam, I invited her to join us. Incidentally, not really much of a trick, and it works with all whores gooks
gold diggers ladies looking to easily manage their careers in an easy-going manner that doesn't interfere with the intangible flow of the evening: you simply pop a folded twenty/fifty in the palm of your hand, clearly displaying the fact that it is a twenty/fifty and shout 'hey there, would you like to join us!'. Works a lot better than its predecessor: 'hey bitch, you dancing, or fucking, or just plain fucking right off?' which doesn't always have the same positive effects. Although fuck me it's funny!
Having lured the girl into sitting cross-legged on the floor under the stairs with us, we all explained by shouting, and undoubtedly spitting on her, that it was Wes's birthday and that Jodie was his gf and wanted to join them. The tits and arse wrangled them the price of thirty for the pair of them and led them off to their private room!
Now, being left alone at the table gave me a chance to properly take in my surroundings and explore the whole idea of the pole-dancing/stripping experience. Now, from what I know from strippers that I knew in Southampton, they actually pay to come to work, and keep the money that they make. Some places charge them a percentage of their evening take, and some don't. Each of the girls there had a look in their eyes that you only usually see in the eyes of starving Indonesians, hopeless salesmen (like Gil from the Simpsons), and crack addicts. The main difference was that in there as well was a spark of intelligence, almost without fail missing from the above list. The look is one that you can see when the owner knows that they have to make the money, or they will have to put up with a lifestyle change. When you are talking about a starving person, then often the money is the difference between life and death, with a crack addict, feeling like life or death, and for a shite salesman, the difference is having a wife and house and not. Now I don't by any means believe that any of them would starve to death if they didn't flash their twats at people three nights a week, and I'm certainly not suggesting that they are crack addicts, so that kinda leaves the shite salesman metaphor. The distinction being the lifestyle change would probably not be as dramatic, but nobody likes having the nice stuff taken away. Now there are people out there who would say that the girls are motivated by many different and admirable things, such as it makes them feel sexy and appreciated, or it keeps them fit, or that there is a shared sense of femininity, but my guess is that it is all bollocks. The girls never want to be on the podium, as that keeps them from earning a quick twenty quid in a private room. They have the hungry look of a cat in a room full of infirm overweight gerbils carrying little rucksacks full of whiskas jelly. This is why lap-dancing places can become boring very quickly if you are too sober or too cynical. As a bloke there, you are the piece of meat, and although you think that you are being the hero, sitting enjoying a cold beer, having a cigarette (bollocks, alright, no cigs. Fuckers!), watching some young lass parading her spadge for your delight and delectation, you are being fucked yourself, paying for something that if you weren't such a loss, you'd be getting for free somewhere else.
Luckily, before this line of thought could get too depressing, Wes and Jodie returned from their dance. Laugh, I thought I'd piss myself! Jodie was pretty cool calm and collected, as was Wes, except that he had, what they call in Full Metal Jacket, the thousand yard stare. He downed his drink pretty swiftly, and didn't make eye contact for a while, as if his mind was elsewhere. He looked like someone who was trying to remember if he had left the gas cooker on with a candle in the bedroom, with a hard-on. Jodie obviously enjoyed the experience, and Wes certainly looked happy, if not just a little shell shocked. Sadly, it took me quite a while to find the lass for me. I have extremely high standards, as I feel that it is a disgrace that I should have to stare up their cock pocket whilst they relieve me of my hard-earned, when surely it is more logical that they should be paying me for the privilege of checking that they are not diseased. I turned down an eight foot black Amazonian warrior on the grounds that...well, shit, gross! Although, didn't phrase it like that. As everyone well knows I am no racist and a lover of everyone, no matter the creed or colour. But shit man, nasty! If I stood on tiptoes, I could have just about sniffed the fluff in her belly button. Besides, last black girl I went down on was a little on the hairy side: it looked like a kebab dropped on a hairdresser's floor. That experience probably tainted me a little to lean away from the jungle fever. When I finally found a young athletic lassy who I felt would be acceptable to allow her to rub her nipples across my mouth, we disappeared off to our room. I have to say, she was quite delightful. I would have quite happily invited her home to meet my mother. Ten minutes and twenty quid later I adjourned back to our table, overall pretty happy with my choice. Fantastic little pair of teenage thrusters, looked like they were held up with hooks, and a panty hamster like a mouse's ear, with not a trace of muff fluff to spoil the view. I returned to our table and supped away at the drinks in the same fashion that the club supped away at my wallet, but on the plus point the bouncer gave me a cap which he then refused to let me wear?!? I wore it backwards on the journey home though, as one more drunken chav tosser didn't really stand out too much in Bristol!
I did have some pictures to post with this, but I can't find them, which is probably good. The rest of the evening was a blur, as was the journey home the following day, apart from racing a Range Rover Vogue SE down the 303 then the 34 at about 125 MPH. Fuck me those things can certainly move when they want to. He didn't dip below 110 the whole time I was behind him, and that was about forty miles. Oh yeah, and when I got home I realised that I had a flat, so while I was a woodlouse pube away from doubling the national speed limit, I had a front offside flat! Well, you just gotta laugh.
Peace out!
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