Wednesday, July 29, 2009

My Ample Muse

I noticed today, over at Thought Experiments, that Bryan complains that his muse has finally deserted him. I know the feeling. I lost my muse (and her knife) to the Romanian military when Gabby joined their Afghan campaign. It left me at my lowest point since 2007 when I came back from my back injury after lifting that glandular traffic warden during the foolish ‘Fireman’s hose’ routine (since banned by Bangor Town Council).

This time, the loss of my muse happened when I was far from home. I probably wouldn’t have gone on if I hadn’t had the ladies of the Russian gas pipelines to keep happy during my six month stripping tour of Siberia. I’m not suggesting that this is the solution for all bloggers who find there’s nothing to write about but, if you’re happy to oil yourself up, I see no reason why others shouldn’t follow in my thong steps.

You just have to know that when one muse departs another will take their place. Happily, I’m now on the other side and I’m in that good place I talked about yesterday. My current muse is a 21 year old brassiere model called Kat.

Thong on!

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Long Time No See

The juice of many pineapples has oiled these thighs since the last time I wrote this blog. But, as you know, I’ve been travelling, rarely staying long in one place, and surviving on the contents of my thong. It has been exhausting and I’m glad to be home with time to respond to the legion of fans who have been writing to ask after the top male stripper in North Wales.

Well, the Thonglateer Extraordinaire has just finished a successful tour of Russia’s oil fields, while here in the UK my public profile is on the rise again. I’ve been asked to appear in the next Cadbury’s TV ad where I’ll be dancing around a pole with a large bar of extra chucky chocolate tucked down my purple silk thong. If you find that hard to visualise, just hum Leonard Cohen’s ‘Paper Thin Hotel’ and you’ll have the atmosphere about right. Cadbury believe it will be a great career boost for Len and they are already talking about my hips as the next set of dancing eyebrows.
I wish I could say that my home life has been as successful as my career but my personal circumstances have changed somewhat since last we spoke. Sadly, Gabby is no longer with me. Having decided that Bangor didn’t offer the right career opportunities for a woman who hoped to rise high in the Romanian military, she’s now in Afghanistan, patrolling Helmand province on behalf of NATO. From what I hear, she’s enjoying herself enormously and the Taliban have already learned to fear her blade.

Losing Gabby was tough at first but the Chipster doesn’t let a little rejection stand in his way. I’m not one to gloat but meet my new girlfriend! Kat is 21 and, due to her ample cleavage, she has a made a successful career modelling brassieres.
We met only a couple of months ago when I did a little modelling on behalf of a famous mail order catalogue. I remember the moment quite well. I was making something of a scene in front of an art director who’d had the audacity to tell me how to wear a moleskin thong. Kat had heard the row and had come over from the other set where shooting had been held up due to a problem of pert nipples among some of the other models.

I looked at Kat’s brassier. Kat looked at my thong. It was love at first sight. Kat has helped me forget Gabby and you might even say that I’m now in a better place emotionally, spiritually, and in terms of cup size.

She’s a lovely Somerset girl but her dream is to travel to North America and trace her Eskimo roots. Being part Inuit, Kat spends one night a week teaching local women how to make bone needles and presents lectures on how to skin a walrus.

Kat does spend lots of time in London but I can always see her by thumbing through the lingerie section of the J.D. William’s Autumn/Winter collection. I know she does the same, spending her long hours in her London flat tucked up with the Kmart catalogue, the page folded down on their range of thermal thongs.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Boris and Johnson

I've never understood the reason why somebody might want to go and stand in a wet field and listen to some outdated rockers screaming their lungs out half a mile away. However, I've still decided to offer my services to this year's Glastonbury festival. With a low number of big name acts, I understand that the punters aren't buying up tickets as they normally do at this time of the year. Perhaps they can't hire the helicopters or they're all out of green Wellington boots and hunting sticks...

Whatever their reason, my new Rolling Stone's inspired routine is sure to bring them back. 'Two Stones in a Pouch' is perfect for a festival venue and it's certain to delight even those at the back of the crowd whose vision is obscured by golfing umbrellas, inflatable sheep, and the effects of hemp cigars. Not only do I attract a large following to my gigs (I'm big among Welsh traffic wardens), I'm also easy on the environment. Not only is my coconut oil biodegradable but it's friendly to small animals. My new pair of pet squirrels are testament to the fact. Never will you have seen two such well oiled critters.

My squirrels? Oh, you probably don't know about them. They are Red Squirrels and I call them Boris and Johnson. They also form part of my act. Gabby managed to catch them in some woods near Bangor and in six weeks she'd hand reared them. I suppose the word 'broken' is a more accurate way of describing the process. After forty two nights of screaming at them and making them suffer sleep deprivation, they were finally domesticated. Their training too much less time and now I can run around on stage with the pair of them nestling in my posing pouch. I've even dyed myself down there to make a matching threesome, though I've not gone so far as to follow Gabby's suggestion that I call it Alvin and dress it in a small sweater. That idea was ludicrous. After all, a squirrel is not technically a chipmunk.

Speaking of ludicrous ideas: as inspired as my new act undoubtedly is, I won't be taking my squirrels to Glastonbury. That would just be crazy talk and you'd think I'd lost my wits. Honestly: who has ever heard of squirrels performing at Glastonbury? However, if you're in the Bangor region, we'll be performing at the Green Dragon Tavern tomorrow night.

If you come along, don't forget to bring some nuts and throw them at me on stage. It will make for a nice spot of role reversal.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Chocolate Chip

When Gabby poked me with the end of a broom this morning, I knew it was time for my triumphant return to the world of blogging. There were too many things that needed to be said.

'Chip, you get out of bed right now!' she scolded as she pressed the handle into my right buttock. 'You dirty dirty man! Dirty!'

I could see the reasons for Romanian disgust. I'd gone to sleep a little too quickly last night and the thick chocolate mousse that covered a good deal of my torso had hardened in the night; and I hadn't had chance to explain any of this to my darling partner.

The 'why' had been my first successful booking since I went dormant a few months ago and began to pile on the pounds. Last night, I performed at the Green Dragon Tavern with the world première of my Oompa-Loompa strip in which I begin dressed in white overalls and with an orange face, and end up rolling around in a inflatable pool filled with chocolate. It's less Dahl and more Dalí with a touch of the Béatrice Dalle once I get my underwear off.

How the women of Bangor loved it and loved me. Such had been my success that two hours at the bar had left me totally drunk and with only the wits to get back to the flat. When I got home, around three o'clock this morning, I crawled into bed and fell into a deep and blissful sleep.

Now everything is explained and I'm washed, I can say it's good to be back and such a relief to be taking off my clothes again for a living. A full pouch last night has paid off months of debt as well as doing so much for my self-esteem. For a few weeks in January, I even had trouble finding thongs to fit me but I can assure you that everything is now normal down there. Ship shape and Bristol fashion, as they say, except, of course, there's nothing down there that's shaped like a ship.

Just a large stealthy submarine with a full compliment of hip thrusts that are fully armed and aimed in your direction.

As for this blog, I hope to be writing more often. I'm starting work on a most interesting project that I might just share with you...

Sunday, January 06, 2008

The Things I Hope To Happen in 2008 Meme

Tagged by Trixie, I'm forced to break away of my exercise routine that is helping me to rapidly lose weight. For my first post of the New Year, here are the eight things that The Chipster would like to see happen in 2008.

And forgive me if a couple of them are very self-serving...

1. A certain book to be published in the Summer leaps to the top of the book charts where it stays for months as the whole county snaps it up, making one modest writer immodestly wealthy.
2. I find an literary agent interested in my comedy.
3. I manage to break out of the debt trap and earn a living (even if it’s moderate) doing what I’m happiest doing: writing things to amuse others.
4. The Other Richard Madeley manages to break out of the debt trap and earn a living doing what he enjoys doing: writing things to amuse others.
5. I find the passion to resume blogging.
6. The government realise how foolish it is to mistreat teachers and abandon all the foolish policies that keep the nation’s educators working until nine o’clock every night.
7. I learn to drive and abandon the bicycle from which I nearly fell under the wheels of a car this evening.
8. Leonard Cohen / Tom Waits / Nick Cave bring out a new album or Andy Kaufman stuns the world by revealing that he never died / Steve Martin returns to performing stand-up.

I hereby tag: Ms. Baroque, Dave Hill, Richard Madeley, Mopsa, and Nige.

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Big Chip Dale's Christmas Message

I’ve been away for so long, I wanted to prove that I’m still here in Bangor, living the high life. Actually, things have been pretty grim. Gabby never stops complaining that I do nothing but sit in front of the TV and watch ‘Deal or No Deal’. She says I’ve let myself go.

I admit, there might just be a small fraction of truth in that, but I also like to think that I’m the same old Chipster. I’m just going through a period of self-discovery. The only bad thing to happen in my life is that I can no longer fit into all my favourite thongs. It’s now over three weeks since I abandoned the thong in favour of grey brushed cotton tracksuit bottoms.

Anyway, enough about me. It’s Christmas Day and I wanted to thank all of you who have taken time to read Chip Dale’s Diary in the last year. Will The Chipster be back in the New Year? I haven’t yet decided if I will. It depends on my financial situation and the amount of work I can get between now and then. To be honest, I’ve lost my regular bookings. People tell me it’s a slow Christmas, which I have to believe. Then again, life is slow these days. I thought stripping was a hard way to make a living, but it’s easier than writing.

This is Big Chip Dale, signing out until the New Year.

Have a great Christmas, and don’t eat anything I wouldn’t eat.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Two Fakes

If you ask me to name my favourite of all Orson Welles’ films, I wouldn’t say Citizen Kane. Not that I want to dismiss what’s widely (and rightly) regarded as his masterpiece, but there’s another film that’s much more fascinating, less well known, and far more characteristic of the arch-trickster who once made a large portion of America believe that Martians were invading. That film is F for Fake. Yet to describe it as a film is to misrepresent it. It’s more of a documentary, though that isn’t quite right either. It’s perhaps better described as an oddity. There really is nothing quite like it.

It’s about illusion, scam, trickery. Welles the magician steps before the camera to act as our guide through the world of forgery. Cheaply made and, for years, hard to find until its recent appearance on DVD, it’s the story of two forgers, one, Elmyr de Hory, working in the art world, and one a writer, Clifford Irving, who famously forged the official biography of Howard Hughes. Not only is it an example of how Welles used film to tell great stories, it is also a reminder that fiction is somehow more compelling than fact.

All this came to mind this weekend when I sat down and watched The Hoax, another film about forgery, this time dealing with the story of how Clifford Irving came to write the most notorious unpublished biography of the twentieth century. Based on the Irving's account of events, it stars my least favourite actor of all time, Richard Gere, yet it’s among the best films I’ve seen all year. How I equate the two facts, I’m not yet sure. I’m certain, however, that it stands as a testament to his performance, so worthy of an Oscar nod next year.

Gere doesn’t even look like Gere. This isn’t a film about good looks as much as the illusion of piety. Pretty soon, I’d forgotten all about those annoying swaggering performances he consistently turned out in the eighties. He was simply the talented novelist facing ruin when his career is derailed by critics. Finding revenge in a book proposal for the biography of the most reclusive man of the century, Irving’s one small lie soon becomes the biggest hoax in the history of publishing as publishers greedily offer him more dizzying amounts for ‘the book of the century’. He drives the film as Irving’s grip on reality begins to slip.

Set in the 1970s, The Hoax is pertinent to a modern world awash with hoaxes. What gives Clifford Iriving’s story an extra edge, however, is that it is played out against the broader picture of Howard Hughes’ relationship with the Nixon administration, Watergate, and the perpetual willingness of people to believe what they want to believe.

It’s out on DVD in this country in February, but if you go to any American retailer, it’s available now. Irving’s ‘biography’ of Hughes is finally being published next year. I, for one, can’t wait to read it.

Friday, December 07, 2007

Happy Birthday Tom!

A reminder from Nige, who happily shares this momentous day with the great man, that Tom Waits celebrates his birthday today.

While you're enjoying my favourite of Tom's middle-period songs, the world's biggest self-confessed Waits fan is going to write off the rest of the day and watch 'Big Time' in celebration.

One of Those Meme Things

I don't normally go for these memes but at least it's got me writing something and has cheered me up a little... Thanks to Reading The Signs for this.

A ~ Available? For parties, hen nights, and poetry readings. Reasonable rates.
B ~ Best friend. Oh, Gabby. Of course it’s Gabby.
C ~ Cake or pie? Cake. Lemon meringue. Actually, at the moment, I’d prefer flan. Keep things simple. Cheese and onion.
D ~ Drink of choice: Water. It's God juice and good for you!
E ~ Essential thing used every day: what else but my thong?
F ~ Favorite color: Black.
G ~ Gummi bears or worms? What the hell is a gummi bear? For that reason alone: worms.
H ~ Hometown: Bangor.
I ~ Indulgence: Lunch when we can afford it.
J ~ January or February? February.
K ~ Kids and names: It’s probably a good idea but not for me at this time in my stripping career.
L ~ Life is incomplete without: a collection of thongs.
M ~ Marriage date: Ha!
N ~ Number of siblings: One.
O ~ Oranges or apples? Apples.
P ~ Phobias/fears: Snakes, frogs, public nudity, failure.
Q ~ Favorite quote: ‘Brace yourself Brenda’.
R ~ Reason to smile: none at the moment. It’s all pretty bleak.
S~ favorite Season – Spring.
T ~ Tag three people: Must I? Okay, Fictional Rockstar, Elberry (since he claims to be back blogging, let’s make him suffer), and Richard Madeley (because I just like making him suffer).
U ~ Unknown fact about me: I’m not really a stripper… No, only joking. I’m really a hugely successful man of letters and have lectured at Cambridge. Okay, I’m six feet two inches tall.
V ~ Vegetable you don't like: the guy at the local supermarket who packs the bags. He had some kind of accident involving metal piping… He’s pretty gone most of the time but seems to have it in for me. He deliberately digs his nails into my fresh fruit.
W ~ Worst habit: snapping the strap of my thong when bored. Just… like… this…
X ~X-rays you've had: once on my back when a traffic warden fell on me during a show.
Y ~ Your favorite food: pasta. I love pasta!
Z ~ Zodiac: Libra. Two hanging cups perfectly balanced just about sums me up.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

The Chip Dale Guide To Handling Birds

Gabby informed me that we’re not having Christmas this year.

‘You want Christmas, you go have fun with blogging friends. You go with Dick Middlely, The Dirty Referendum, or The Fractional Popstar. Gabby not doing Christmas. We all out of turkey.’

This was news in the shade of the unexpected and with distinct highlights matching my shock and surprise. I picked the remote control from my lap and muted the lunchtime news. ‘Out of turkey?’ I repeated. ‘But what’s happened to Henrietta?’

‘Henrietta’s gone,’ said Gabby. ‘Escaped.’

‘Escaped? You’ve been rearing that turkey for the last six months just for our Christmas meal. She couldn’t have just fled!. Not when we’re so close.’

‘She gone. She jump fence and run away.’

‘Jumped the fence?’ I protested. ‘But she could barely walk. I’ve not seen breasts that big since I visited Richard Madeley’s website and realised that he’s started to post porn.’

‘Henrietta gone and Gabby not know what to do. I grow turkey. Biggest turkey I ever grow. And I looking to cutting off head. Now, what am I to do? Gabby very, very disappointed.’

I sat back on my chair. In the last few weeks, it had slowly begun to shape itself to my immobile torso as my malaise rarely shifted me before the TV. Moping might be a more accurate term for it. Only this was different. This was perhaps the news I’d been waiting for. This could put mustard back in the Chipster’s thong.

‘Well, I’m not going to accept it,’ I said as I slapped my thighs and stood up. ‘I’m going to find Henrietta and I’m going to rescue her.’

‘You find turkey?’ laughed Gabby. She threw herself down on the sofa and propped a cushion under her head before she picked up the latest edition of ‘Choke Holds’ magazine that had arrived in the morning’s post. ‘You go find turkey, then I sit here and read.’

‘And when I do rescue her, I’ll bring her safely back here so you can chop off her head.’

Gabby waved away my promise. ‘Turkey gone. It eaten. A fox get it.’

I nipped to the bedroom where I put on an insulated thong and my waterproof vest. As soon as I reached the door, Gabby came running.

‘You really do this for Gabby?’ she asked, suddenly full of eagerness.

‘I’m doing it for my Christmas lunch,’ I said.

She patted me on my chest and ran back into the living room. When she returned, she had a gift for me. ‘Be careful,’ she said as she pushed a large knife into my hands. ‘If you find Henrietta, you not let her peck you. Chop off head before you get hurt.’

I took the knife and was about to slip it under the narrow band at the side of my thong. Then I had second thoughts. ‘I not going to get arrested for carrying a weapon,’ I told her as I concealed the knife down the spacious pouch of my winter thong, ‘but there might well be charges of gross indecency before the night’s out.’

The obvious place to start a turkey hunt was at the last place the bird had been seen. The allotments were unusually quiet when I arrived there around three. It was a brazenly cold afternoon, with a stiff breeze cutting across the open patch of land. My nipples were hard and tingling, like two sensors set to white meat as I began my search around the turkey enclosure. It was there that I noticed some heel prints in the soft mud that ran to a small gate that led to the series of small cottages that sit to the rear of the allotments. It seemed a bit too obvious a lead but I thought I’d check them out first.

The garden of the first cottage overlooks Gabby’s allotment and belongs to an old doctor who retired from the profession some years ago, about the same time as he was struck off the medical register. As far as I knew, he still lived there with his sister. It took me no time to get around to the front of the house and ring the door bell. Moments passed before it opened to a dark crack.

‘Yes?’ asked a soft voice from within.

‘Oh, hello,’ I said as a pair of wizened eyes came peering out to greet me. ‘I’m looking for a bird…’

‘A bird?’ said the voice. The door opened a little more and a little old lady wandered forward and began to peer at my groin. ‘What on earth are you wearing, young man?’

‘It’s a thong,’ I said.

‘A thong? It doesn’t look very warm.’

‘Oh, it’s very warm,’ I assured her. ‘Very spacious too. Can you believe there’s a weapon packed in there?’

‘A weapon?’

‘For the turkey,’ I said. ‘That’s what I’ve come for. My girlfriend owns the allotment at the bottom of your garden and our Christmas turkey seems to have gone missing. I was wondering if it might have escaped over your fence.’

She gave me one of the oddest looks I think I’ve ever received. ‘And when you find this turkey, you’re going to kill a turkey with you weapon?’ she asked and pointed to my thong.

I shrugged. ‘That’s the general idea,’ I replied.

She waved me after her. ‘The turkey is out back. Let me go and get my glasses. I want to see this!’

Sure enough, Henrietta was sitting in the rear garden, trapped by four sides of trellis fashioned into a makeshift pen.

‘It was my brother,’ whispered the little old lady as she emerged from the house. She’d wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and a pair of glasses now rode the smooth incline of her nose. ‘He’s been watching that turkey grow all year,’ she continued to explain. ‘He’s rather naughty, I’m afraid. I told him he shouldn’t steal it but he said you wouldn’t notice.’ A she smiled, yellowing false teeth moving uneasily on thin gums. ‘Now, I believe you promised to show me how you’re going to kill a turkey with that “weapon” of yours.’

‘I was planning of cutting it’s head off,’ I said, though now I had found Henrietta, I didn’t think I had it in me to do the wicked deed.

‘Chop off its head?’ asked the old woman. ‘I thought you were going to bash it unconscious. I was quite looking forward to watching you giving it a good bludgeon. Mind you,’ she laughed, ‘it’s so many years. I can’t remember what a good “weapon” really looks like…’

To be honest, I think she was a little senile. She wasn’t making a word of sense. I pulled out the knife and held it up to the light.

‘Just a standard carving knife,’ I said. ‘The handle’s a bit fancy but nothing too modern. Surely you have knives like this?’

The woman looked confused. ‘Oh,’ she said, and touched a hand nervously to her throat. ‘I… well…’ I thought a blush illuminated her thin makeup from beneath. ‘Perhaps you should just take back your turkey,’ she said, her manner changing from enthusiasm to casual indifference, as though she didn’t want me around any more. ‘I’ll make sure my brother doesn’t steal it again.’

‘You can tell him from me that he needn’t go stealing it,’ I replied, not liking this change of mood. ‘I’ll make sure we save him a breast. After all, it is Christmas and there’s more than enough turkey for all.’

As I led Henrietta past the front door, the little old lady reappeared again.

‘Oh, young man,’ she said. ‘You never told me your name.’

‘Chip Dale,’ I replied. ‘And the turkey is called Henrietta.’

She waved me over to the doorstep. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing like stuffing at Christmas, so when you do cook your turkey, you must use this.’ In her hands she held out a small box of Paxo. ‘It goes wonderful with meat.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ I began to say but before I could finish, she grabbed the front of my thong and shoved the box of Paxo down the pouch.

‘Very spacious,’ she cooed. ‘And like I said, there’s nothing that can beat a little stuffing at Christmas.’