A Stand Up Chipster

I had one of those life-changing moments last night and, oddly, it had nothing to do with my genitals.

For the first time in my life, I had to face a hostile audience; a rare occurrence in the life of a man with a reputation as a fine thonglateer. But I think you’ll understand what I mean when I’ve fully explained the circumstances of my little epiphany.

It was, in all other respects, a normal Monday night. Bangor town centre was simmering away on the gently heat of the packed nightclubs and busy taxi ranks. And there was certainly nothing out of the ordinary when, on the stroke of nine, I arrived at the Green Dragon Tavern, my kitbag packed from base to zip with a world-class selection of thongs.

As normal, I went straight to my changing room behind the stage. It’s there that I like to shower, limber up, and generally get myself centred for my act, which last night I was due to perform at ten.

It’s my custom to leave it until the last minute before I make my way around to the side of the stage, so by the time I got in place, the tavern was in semi darkness. I could dimly make out the crowd, chattering away as I moved to my usual spot, front and centre, where I proceeded to wait the few extra seconds before the spotlight would pick me out and my act would begin.

There’s always a buzz of excitement knowing you’re about to get seriously naked in front of a room of strangers. The adrenaline rush is like no other I know.

Except, it’s never quite as big as the rush you get when you realise that somebody has made one huge mistake.

I was standing there, holding my plumber’s wrench in my hand and balancing an old sink plunger on my head, ready to pout my way to the front of the stage, when the lights suddenly came up. I froze for a moment as I read the sign across the stage floor.

‘Comedy Club’

Instead of finding myself in front of my usual Monday night ladies, I was standing before two hundred sassy comedy lovers of both sexes ready for a night of stand-up.

I think I can be excused if my hand loitered on my zip for a moment longer than normal as I wondering how to get myself out of this embarrassing predicament.

Should I get snapping my thong or should I try to tell some jokes full of gentle observations about our shared social mores? The last time I made a mistake comparable to this one, I chose the wrong option. It had been at a wedding reception and I spent an uncomfortable night in jail until the whole matter was resolved the following morning when the bride’s mother dropped all charges and returned my thong intact.

And that’s why, tonight, I lowered my wrench and walked up to the microphone.

This is a fairly accurate transcript of what I said:

Good evening, Bangor!

[Polite applause]

So…. is there anybody from Wales in the audience tonight?

[Silence]

You… you won’t believe me when I tell you this, but I came out here to take off my clothes.

[A solitary whoop from the crowd]

Hey, I will if you will…

[A lonely cheer]

No, no, honestly. I’m not actually a plumber, if that’s what you were thinking. There wouldn’t be anything funny about my being a plumber, would there now?

[I was oblivious to the fact I was still balancing a sink plunger on my head]

No, I’m a stripper. I take off my clothes for a living. My name’s Chip Dale. You might have heard of me. I’m the Thongoleer Extraordinaire.

[More polite applause from the crowd. They must have indeed heard of me, but then again, who hasn’t?]

Well, it’s a living, I suppose, and it makes things interesting when I fill in my tax forms.

I always like to answer those questions they ask me about my supplemental income. ‘How did you earn this extra money?’ I usually include photographs wrapped in a thong. And ‘How was this money paid?’ I find this one harder to answer. How do I explain how a five pound note was pushed between my buttocks by a nurse in Wrexham high on Bacardi?

But the great thing about being a stripper is you get to have some really useful things lying around the house. I have all the plumbing equipment, which always comes in handy when there’s a leak. I’m can’t say I’m much use with a monkey wrench but I can do naked cartwheels while my girlfriend changes washers.

Well, now I’m here, I might as well talk about something that’s been bothering me for a while.

Do you ever wonder how we ended up with this government?

[Loud whoop…]

I know I didn’t vote for them. Which means it had to be one of you…

[Slightly guilty sniggering]

Okay, own up. What possessed you to put a cross next to the name of people that go about invading places? I don’t even put a cross next to those boxes on supermarket questionaries that ask me if I want to be entered into their prize draw. And invading places has to be a whole league bigger than winning a year’s free groceries.

Now we’ve got a Labour government, I’m not going to be like everybody else accusing them for invading our privacy. You don’t know if they’re listening…

And I wouldn’t say they’re corrupt, though I did see Gibraltar on eBay the other night.

And they’re so odd looking… It’s like all government posts were filled on a first come first served arrangement with the local job centre. If Gordon Brown hadn’t taken charge of the nation’s purse, he’d be the new caretaker down the town baths. Not so many warnings about an extra two pee in stealth taxes but extra warnings about stealth peeing in the deep end.

And what can I say about John Prescott? You know at school there was always a slow kid in the class? Teachers always made them milk monitor and they always won the awards at the end of the year for best kept locker? Doesn’t that explain why we have a Deputy Prime Minister? ‘Okay, John, could you collect the glasses now the cabinet meeting has finished? No John, put that away. Nice little boys don’t try to sharpen those like a pencil… John, please take you hand from up my skirt. No, it’s not a tent.’

Of course, I’m a Liberal Democrat myself.

[Laughter! The first of the evening!]

I get to take part in political debates yet I can never be held accountable for anything that ever happens. The only thing I worry about is a well hung parliament. We Lib Dems aren’t used to having real power. I worry it will go to our heads and we’ll make crazy demands. Menzies Campbell is already talking of asking for a rerun of the 1964 two hundred meters final.

Okay, I’m getting the signal that I’ve got to stop. I have people to go and flash. You’ve been a wonderful audience. My name’s Chip Dale.

Good night.

[Polite applause]

And with that, I made my way back to my dressing room where I changed back into my normal everyday suit and thong.

When I got home, Gabby greeted me at the door and was soon screeching with delight at my story. Only at the end did she confess that she forgotten to pass on a message about the cancellation of my act because of a comedy evening.

I couldn’t be angry with the poor poppet. Tonight has taught The Chipster a valuable lesson and I’ll never look on my plumber’s outfit the same. It’s a memory of the night when I realised that stripping is one of the easier art forms and that I should stick to what I’m good at.

I’ve been Chip Dale. You’ve been a wonderful audience.

Good night.

Odd Jobbing

Well I’m back!

It’s been a long old day, spent fully dressed in crowds, and I’ve not got long to explain what I’ve been up to. Gabby's immigrations officer has given her tickets for the theatre and she thinks it will broaden my tastes to watch some Ibsen. Apparently Ibsen is very big in Romania where he's considered a rioutous laugh much like the French consider Jerry Lewis. To be honest, I’m not really up for a night at the theatre but I am full of hope that Bangor’s Community Theatre Group have the talent to put on a good show. Last year’s panto wasn’t too bad at all and since they so clearly mastered Jack and the Beanstalk, I'm intrigued to see what this Peer Gynt is all about. If it's anything as good as Jerry Lewis's Nutty Professor, I think I'm in for a fun packed evening.

And at the very least, I can be sure it will be very different to how I spent my day.

If you’ve seen the news, you’ll have heard about these new security cameras the Home Office are considering installing in Britain’s high streets. You know the things: broad coverage of shoppers, with full zoom and pan functionality, and they can also see through your clothes. Apparently, they’re all the rage abroad.

Well, today was all about The Chipster making a few honest pounds by starring in promotional videos for these cameras. I can’t tell you any inside information except I spent hours dressed in a rather fetching suit and I walking around Birmingham. I went up and down every main street, stood in bus queues, posed as I looked thoughtfully at my watch, signalled taxis, read the newspaper… All the typical actions of your typical commuter/terrorist. All the time, high above, cameras were following me, peeling back my clothes to reveal the fake gun strapped to my naked inner thigh. I’ve seen the pictures and I look wonderful naked and hairless. I’m sure they’ll be a huge success in the better looking parts of the country.

However, I don’t know if I’m all for using technology to undress. I’m a bit old fashioned in that respect. I like to do things the manual way. Zips and buttons have never let The Chipster down and I trust that they never will. I’m also not so sure the government will be able to get these cameras past the stripper unions. Our membership are very protective of our skills and it would be tantamount to stealing our livelihood.

Right, my dear little Romanian songbird is screeching from the car. I have to get moving. Ibsen and Bangor's finest part-time thespians awaits.

The Gift

Gabby had a present for me today.

I woke up groggy, my mind ticking with memories of another bad night in Holyhead. Women’s faces teased me from the darkness, hands wandering over my thoughts until my flesh crept under the vague suspicion that the whole thing had been a mess of cosmic proportions.

It was about as much as I could do to splash water over my face, wrap myself in my towelling dressing gown, and try to replace the bitter taste of almonds in my mouth with the bathroom’s false fragrance. By the time I had shaved, Gabby had set a table out on the balcony of our flat.

I pour myself a glass of fresh orange juice in the kitchen before I stepped out into the fresh morning air. Looking down on Bangor’s harbour, I thought even the waves were beating a quick retreat at the first touch of the cold stone walls. Only the distant mountains seemed at ease with these winter days, sipping from the edge of a sky of blue with bright clean Curaçao.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked.

I gazed down at the box that was sitting squarely on the spot where I usually put my breakfast. Above the top of edge of the box, two eyes watched me with no little indifference.

‘It’s a dog,’ I said.

‘Cutest little puppy in all of Wales,’ said Gabs, grabbing the animal and pushing it to her cheek like she was powdering her face.

‘I don’t want a dog,’ I told her.

Romanian eyes turned teary.

‘But look how cute he is!’

I sipped my drink. I was in no mood to argue. There are many different types of bully in the world.

Stuck In Holyhead

I was in Holyhead last night, rubbing myself silly in one of my favourite little venues in North Wales, and all was going alarming well until halfway through my act when I began to think about the moral case for privacy.

It was an odd thing, to be sure. There I was, about to put my spuds and sausage on show yet again, but also considering the question of privacy from a rationalist perspective. I doubt if Spinoza could ever have found himself so thong tied, faced with such a strange conflict of interests. But there you go... It was more than enough to disturb a man, I can tell you, and not for one but two reasons.

First of all, it’s not at all like The Chipster to be so unprofessional when he’s snapping elastic for the ladies. I prefer to keep my mind on what I’m doing. But perhaps the crowd was too small for a Friday night or I felt uncomfortable wearing a particularly cheap poker dot thong. Whatever the reason, I soon found myself asking: does our right to privacy really mean that much?

And that’s when the second thing to disturb me came to mind. It was the thought that few people seem to care much about privacy these days, or if they care, they only care about those issues that catch the media headlines. Nobody considers championing those other moments of privacy that this government would so happily take from us.

You might suppose that a man given to taking his clothes off for money wouldn’t value his privacy all that highly but you’d be wrong. Being at home with my body in its natural state, albeit with a slight moistening of baby oil, is precisely what makes me understand what privacy means to us all. I think about it more often than the rest of you. I cherish a little more highly that which I give away so cheaply. Or perhaps its just that mine is one of those minds drawn to metaphysics whenever my thong gets too tight.

It was yesterday’s conviction of the News of the World reporter who tapped the royal phones that made me begin to realise how little we, as individuals, appear to care about our privacy. We hide our most personal telephone recordings behind four digit codes, easily hacked by anybody with the know-how. We install wireless routers in our homes but few of us bother to set up the security and passwords to prevent outsiders from getting access to our private network. We carry camera phones with us wherever we go, taking more and more reality from the private and into a public realm. And we’re so blasé about our right to space or to our private moments in the day that we’d happily submit to a identity card scheme and databases for our DNA.

Yet programmes such as Big Brother make it so evident that it is the little moments in our lives that actually make us all who we are. I'm now watching 'Face' from the A Team brushing his teeth and it's fascinating viewing. These are our simian moments, when we hunch our shoulders and drag our knuckles on the floor. They are the spaces in busy pretension-filled lives when we finally reveal to ourselves who we are, dripping with toothpaste and private doubts.

Privacy is like that. It is a place where we can each hide away the things that aren’t for public consumption. We all have big secrets we fear might be discovered but we also have another side to our private lives which is just as vital. Big Brother performs an important function by showing us a world where we are not allowed to be human without paying a consequence. It reminds us of a world where everybody knows when you’ve rearranged your underwear, picked your nose, or broken wind. It is a world where one person's petty animosity towards another becomes an international incident.

So we might all talk about the high and noble reasons for protecting our privacy. We might scorn those that bug telephones of the rich and famous. But let’s not forget those people who seek to take away our private time, who wish to see us on camera for an increasingly large portion of our lives, who wish to punish us for the petty, uneven, ugly sides to our natures.

Imagine a world when a man is but a scratch of an itching buttock away from public humiliation.

That’s the thought that struck me as I danced tonight in Holyhead.

And then all the ladies screamed with delight.

A Reaffirmation

My god! The Chipster nearly bust a thong when he heard that John Reid has said that the sentencing guidelines were ‘reaffirmed’ and ‘not changed’.

So what is he effectively saying? Not that the government have just started to let paedophiles out of prison but they’ve been doing it for years and, just in case anybody had forgotten that this is the government policy, they’ve just given everybody a heads up.

Tonight I’m going off to Holyhead where I’ll doing my prison warder routine. I let everything out…

Just thought I better ‘reaffirm’ that point.

Pit Shafts For Paedophiles

I’ve just spent my morning working myself into a sweat at my regular gym here in Bangor. But for once, it wasn’t the exercise that got The Chipster’s oils running. I’d gone about five miles on the treadmill when two of the gym’s regulars arrived and occupied the running machines on either side of me. That’s how I found myself wedged into a conversation about the current crisis in Britain’s prisons.

One of the runners, an ex-miner, began by suggesting that the country should convert many of the unused coal mines in Wales into secure units for sex offenders. He called it his ‘Pit Shafts For Paedophiles Plan’. Both his friend and I were a bit sceptical at first, until the miner carried on and described in great detail how it was cheaper than using the RAF base that John Reid currently proposes. These mines are unused, take up very little surface land, are out of the public gaze, and although they stretch for miles and miles they are already escape-proof. The only complication is that every offender would have to be given a canary but, other than this, he said that it is just about 'a perfect plan'.

Now as you know, the state of Britain’s prisons is something that leaves The Chipster lying awake in bed at night worrying. Not even Gabby’s soft singing is enough to lull me to sleep when my mind flits about considering the problem of incarceration. I don’t know... Perhaps, for some unknown reason, the poor girl’s singing makes me think I’m in prison. But whatever it is, I find myself wondering if we’re not locking up too many people for minor offences and leaving too many dangerous men at large. What even constitutes a minor offence in the eyes of the law?

Not so long ago, a pensioner went to prison for not paying her council tax. I thought it an outrage and volunteered to stage a nude protest outside the prison. Today, I hear a man convicted of downloading 200 images of child pornography has escaped a prison sentence because the judge, John Rogers, QC, said he had to consider instructions passed down to him from the Home Office. To make matters worse, this is a Welsh story. The offender in question is from Penygwdwn in Blaenau Ffestiniog. I think you’ll agree that it’s a terrible condemnation of the penal system and that's the reason I’m now offering to stage a nude protest outside the courthouse.

But The Chipster also wants to pose a hypothetical question.

A town has only one jail cell. A town meeting is called and the people have to vote as to which of the two local criminals is to be sent to prison. They can arrest the local thief, responsible for a spate of burglaries, or the man known to possess a large collection of child pornography. Which would the townsfolk collectively choose to imprison? Which would make the most people feel safe in their beds at night? The man who has committed property theft or the man who in a sense hasn’t committed a crime against a person but whose actions suggest he might well be capable of something far more serious in the future?

Which do the people choose? Where is the greater good served?

And be careful how you answer. Don’t make me stage a nude protest outside your place of work.

The Chipster's Sad

He's bought himself a new Sony Vaio laptop and it has a dead pixel!

Is there no justice in the world? I've owned three laptops in my life and they've all had dead pixels. Luckily, this is one of the dead (i.e. black) variety, not the type that are stuck on red. But still, when will I ever own a laptop with a perfect screen? I know a should have bought an Acer... But I loved my old little Sony, which also had a dead pixel. And I wanted to love this one too. Is it possible to love anything that isn't perfect?

Gabby says that she thinks it looks cute, like a beauty mark... But bless her befuddled little Romanian brain, she's in love with me and wouldn't know what imperfection looks like.

On British Blogging, Tinned Peaches, and The Easy Option

What makes a good blog?

I’m a virgin when it comes to blogging, so feel free to ignore the way I thrust my pelvis forwards and backwards as I think and write. Besides, I’m sure blogging has no connection to the world of male stripping and it would be foolish to imagine that thong size has anything to do with it. As far as I can see, everybody involved in British Blogging seems to be fairly relaxed, nice people. Respectable too. And nobody ever ever looks at their readership figures! We all live in bliss in this happy virtual world. The Chipster has the worst and best blog in the country. As do you. As do all of us. It works like that, right?

But what am I supposed to do now? How does this blogging malarkey really work?

Regularity

Gabby tells me that I have to update once a day with some wry little anecdote of our life here in Bangor. I can see how this might work. I should thoughtfully consider and polish each line as carefully as I might slowly run a finger down the zip on my garage mechanic outfit. The ladies like that… But my darling little Banshee tells me that many of her Romanian friends update half a dozen times a day with random little musings about pretty much anything. This, I guess, is just like as I might throw off my Superman costume with no thought to the tease of the strip. The ladies only like me to do this when they’ve had a bit too much Rum and Coke and have a taxi waiting.

So the question is, fellow thongaleers: What’s more important to a blog? Quantity or quality?

Many blogs don’t update for days on end. Others update every few hours. But if you lead the life of The Chipster, you’d never have time to read these outpourings of inner monologue. And I don’t want to become the sort of person to bore you with:

'Have you seen the price of a tin of peaches in syrup these days? I’ve just been to Tesco and I’m appalled at how many you get in a tin and for sixty nine pence! Anyway, I’ve created a button for us all to post on our blogs so we can campaign for a reduction in the price of tinned peaches.'

There then usually follows sixty nine comments agreeing that the price of tinned peaches is too high and discussing the economic significance of peach sales to the UK economy and whether Tony Blair is stocking tinned peaches in some warehouse in Kent so he can have cheaper holidays in the regions where tinned peaches come from.

I’m sorry. I’m getting a bit agitated. My oily fingers are beginning to slip from the bloody keyboard.

Content

Which brings me to the question of content.

I’m a busy man. There are many many women in Bangor who rely on my services. So, I’ve been wondering how can the Chipster fulfil the desires of so many hundredweight of hormones whilst also satisfying his blog’s insatiable craving for content?

And then, this morning, I woke up with a bright idea. I could turn this blog into one of those places that don’t bother trying to do anything original! For all of twelve groggy seconds, I thought to myself: take the easy route, Chipster, old boy! Who doesn’t enjoy pictures of naked chicks? And when I run out of pictures of naked chicks, I could post the occasional bit of YouTube video. You know: babies doing funny tricks, serious tobogganing accidents, people settting their pets on fire, last night’s TV, a healthy big of voyeurism. It’d be sure to bring in the punters. Greatest blog in the world!!!

I told Gabby about my idea and she gave me one of those Romanian silences involving high pitched notes you can’t actually hear but make your teeth ache.

So, tomorrow, I’ll have to think of something new to write about. The Chipster won’t be choosing the easy way out. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. He’s a man of principle. It’s like that bit in my escapology act when I’m tied naked in a mail sack full of otters. Those a proper shackles, locks, and otters I use. And it takes me so long to get out, I sometimes wonder if the end result is worth all of that trouble.

Perhaps blogging and stripping aren’t that dissimilar after all.

The Question of Iraq: A Stripper's Perspective

People are already coming up to me in the street and asking: Chippy, are you really just a one trick pony? And I have to tell them: yes, yes, I think I probably am only a one trick pony. My trick is to make ladies swoon and what a trick it is! And as for the bit about being like a pony, we’ll there are things that bless those of us born with the Dale genes…

But I think I see what you’re all getting around to wondering is whether Chip Dale will be a success in the world of blogging. What makes him tick? What’s his opinion on the big issues of the day? When will he be launching his own TV channel covering Westminster politics but from a nude angle? Well, all this will come in time. Funding has to be put in place. Baby oil ordered in bulk. Negotiations are already under way to bring Donal Blaney from 18 Doughty Street to my little studio above the ladies' hairdressers in Bangor. We’ll see what we can do. Watch this space…

Regarding the big issues of the day, I think you’ll find that I’m a man with strong opinions on most things. Take Iraq, for instance. You should know that The Chipster hates the idea of war. He’s a thongmonger not a warmonger. But he’s no quitter either, even if it does mean not living up to his Lib Dem roots. I watched the State of the Union last night and I found myself thinking about how the problems of Iraq resembles the life of the nightclub slick hipster. Many has been the time I’ve looked on a room full of drunk beauticians from Rhyl and thought to myself: I really don’t fancy getting naked in front of them! But what choice did I have? To run away would have made things much worse. Bangor or Baghdad: withdrawal might easily spark civil war.

‘But Chip,’ I head you cry, ‘can a Welsh stripper really support the idea of our keeping forces in Iraq?’ Well, I’ll tell you. Exotic dancing has taught me many things and the greatest is the lesson of ‘containment’. Keep everything in its own pouch and you can be sure things will be okay. There’s no use letting our forces go flopping about all over the place! It’s no good for anybody. The situation in Iraq may be bad at the moment, but to withdraw troops would leave those poor people to face even greater problems in the long term. That is not The Chipster’s way.

Do I Use The Word 'Thong' Too Much?

I was talking to my FRIEND, Iain Dale, just the other day, asking him if he thought I used the word ‘thong’ too much in my everyday speech. Iain paused a moment and said, as quick as a flash because he's smart like that, that he thought… Oh, well, perhaps I shouldn’t tell tales of FRIENDS. You know… those people who don’t intend to sue a man for every thong he owns.

You can tell that the Chipster is in fine fettle this morning and Bangor has never looked more lovely. I’m sitting typing in nothing but my favourite pair of T Backs while Gabby’s gone off to London to buy herself a new voice box. She’s so precious but what else could I do for my little Romanian petal? I'm being a bit too generous, perhaps, but freedom feels so bloody good when you know you won’t have to flee to Romania chased by the Tory blogosphere.

Many thanks for the many emails of support I’ve received. It took me all of five minutes responding to both of them last night. It’s good to know that there are so many secret thong wearers out there. The Chipster has had to enable comment moderation though. It’s my blog and it’s my right to delete comments when they don’t fit with my policy. If you want to talk about underpants, jockey shorts, or god forbid, boxers, then go elsewhere. I recommend Bloggerheads or Guido. And if you could all see some sense and vote Lib Dem, then the Chipster would be most grateful. Remember: it’s the only party with truly progressive policies such as free body oil on the NHS.

Now that I feel reborn, I know I should say something about contemporary politics and the heady world of Westminster. Unfortunately, the batteries running low on my laptop and I’ve still to read the morning papers.

More later, my string gusseted brethren.

I Am Not Called Iain

The streets of Bangor are ominously quiet this evening. The stench of public humiliation mixes with the sweet fragrance of female hormones gone awry. In many a home tonight, the ladies of the town lament my non-appearance at the Green Dragon Tavern. I sit here, waiting for the phone to ring. I’m sure there are powerful forces watching me work.

It would appear that the Chipster may have offended his famous namesake, Mr. Iain Dale (no relation). Now the world of Welsh exotic dancing is in turmoil and Gabby is crying in the corner of the room. She thinks this will have a bearing on her application to stay in the country. I just fear that I'll have to flog my collection of valuable thongs on eBay to fight a court case. What am I to do? Are the any lawyers out there who could tell me if I have a leg to stand on? And no, madam, *that* is not a leg. I am only a man in a thong. A big loveable man in a thong who never meant to hurt anybody.

Gabby, bless her little East European heart, says she’ll help smuggle me into Romania next time she goes there on tour with his sister, but I don’t know if I want to leave my wonderful Wales. Have you seen the quality of Romanian thongs? I’d rather rot in an English prison.

Looking at the design of my blog and that of Mr. Dale’s famous site, I was shocked to see some similarities. Coincidence follows me around so much. First there was this bloody facial resemblance I have to He Who Must Not Be Named, and now this! I’ve spoken to the cheap little bastard who built my webpage and he now admits that he was inspired by Britain’s top blogger. Knowing that I’m the country’s top Lib Dem stripper, he thought it a good idea to pay homage to a Tory blogger. What did he call it? Cross pollination? I could smell whisky on his breath. And he calls himself a Welshman!

I’ll have to sleep on this tonight. In the words of Julie Andrews: tomorrow’s just a thong away. Thanks for the support from those that emailed me. I’d just like to assure everybody that I’m no Iain Dale. Nor am I a sock puppet. And I am most certainly not somebody called Glyn Davies.

You can guess as long as you like but I am the real Crispen ‘Chip’ Dale. I just don't know for how much longer...

Thong on!

Oscar Tips Golden Thongs

As one of Wales’s top entertainers - Tom Jones claims he sells more records but I know who the ladies really appreciate - I often get privileged insider knowledge about the film industry. Being a very generous man (and read that how you like), I don’t see why I shouldn’t share my Oscar tips with you.

This year, all the smart money is going with Helen Mirren. The Chipster’s tip: Put all your money on The Queen. I don’t mean that literally. And I don’t mean thrust wads of cash down the front of Her Majesty’s dress. I mean bet a some notes on The Queen winning a few gongs at the Oscars. Mirren has never won an Oscar but she’s living with the top Hollywood honcho who directed Ray and as Gabby always says, living with a successful man is bound leave its mark on a woman. I’ll definitely be tucking a little something away for Helen. And for Gabby too. She’s such as sweet thing…

For best film and director, I wouldn’t be surprised if Scorsese finally gets the nod. In my opinion, he’s not yet made the definitive Scorsese movie involving a hot male thongman from Bangor and his Romanian girlfriend caught in a passionate romance while chased by the Welsh Mafia. But it’s also getting boring waiting for him to win an Oscar and if they don’t give him it this year, he might as well come and retire in Bangor instead.

Eddie Murphy might be the surprise winner in the Best Supporting Actor category. The academy will probably want to reward him for the fact he never made a fourth Beverly Hills Cop movie. The Chipster’s second top tip: Eddie Murphy should make a fourth Beverly Hills Cop. The third one was so terrific! I’ve never seen a strip joint captured on film with such realism.

For best picture in a foreign language, I expect Efter brylluppet will win. They make good films in Denmark and good bacon too. My instincts tell me this will win. I know nothing about the film but my favourite thong smells vaguely like bacon. It is obviously an omen.

Afghan Opium

My thong must be prophetic. This morning I posted a story about my horse tablets and then the Chipster spots this report in the Telegraph.

Doctors are suggesting we use the Afghan poppy harvest to produce painkillers for the NHS. Sounds like a very reasonable idea. What’s the point in invading a country unless you grab its best resources? And to be honest, from where this thong is sitting, we’ve had nothing out of Afghanistan. Where are all the camels we were promised if we liberated them from the Taliban? A bit of opium has to be worth all the pain, sacrifice, and trouble.

It seems to me that the government don’t know how to negotiate. When I’m on stage and a lovely lady pushes five pounds down my trunks, I don’t immediately whip them off for her gratification. I tell her that for five pounds the Thongmaster will only gyrate his slick hips for her. We’re talking serious cash for the ‘full liberation’ and the government should adopt the same policy. For the UK to give Afghanistan the Full Monty, they should hand over their whole poppy harvest and a fleet of camels. Anything less than that is an insult to Britain and hardly made it worth our getting oiled up.

The King of Thong’s Medication

Ever since I came a cropper beneath nineteen stones of a falling traffic warden that night at the Turntable Taffy's Disco in Llandudno, the Chipster has been taking some pretty strong medication to keep the pain at bay. I’ve known injuries like this to end some dancer’s careers but no matter how much you say you won’t be egged into doing something stupid, the plummeting punter is still one of great hazards of the professional stripping circuit.

Consider the situation: a room full of excitable ladies, heavily influenced in their behaviour by all the neat paraffin they’ve been necking all evening. Throw in The Chipster, oiled to his best sheen and wearing only a black leather thong. Well, you can’t stop the ladies asking you to pick them up and hold them to be lifted above your head, can you? And you know the Big DC: I can’t let a lady down, can I? Heart as big as… Well, enough of that.

The tablets I take are big enough for horses. Seriously. The surgeon who operated and fixed my back told me that they use the same medication to dope race horses and it’s that level of professionalism which makes me feel so bloody of the NHS. I might be doped up to my bloodshot eyes but I know a good thing when I see one. And the NHS is most definitely a good thing despite all of Tony Blair's tinkering.

Just the other day, we were doing some step aerobics when Gabby went over on her ankle and I had to take her to A&E. They had her bandaged up in no time. Very sweet about it to and I knew the nurse from some of the local Lib Dems meetings. But do you want to know what was really great? While I was there I came up with a brand new routine I hope to try out this week. You have to picture the darkened nightclub, packed with punters. I’ll come on stage, single spot picking me out dressed in a white coat and carrying a clip board. I come centre stage and say to the audience ‘Pass me the tongues, matron!’ Then I pause. Look to audience and add: ‘Did somebody mention thong?’ Then I whip out my old fella. Bloody instant classic act. And all down to the NHS.

Big Brother: A Welsh View

Friends, I want to talk about something very serious for a moment. There are times when a man has to put his love for thongs and nubile Romanian chicks to one side. I want to talk about racism.

As a seriously well-endowed Welsh Liberal Democrat male stripper, I’ve had to put up with so much ridicule and bullying in my life that to tell you all my troubles would make you wonder how I’ve managed to survive to the ripe old age of 23. I’m proud of my nationality and I know that those who wish to condemn me for that or my lifestyle are narrow minded bigots. They know nothing of the great nation of Wales and even less about the honour to be found in the world of exotic dancing.

What most perturbs me the most is the display of petty racism that’s marked this series of Celebrity Big Brother. It is a reminder that not all of us live in the same tolerant nation that allows me to bring in over forty grand a year just from what the ladies stuff down my pouch every evening.

As much as we might condemn such displays of ignorance, the issue goes to the heart of this nation. We are rightly appalled to see grown adults behaving like schoolyard bullies, yet our own government controls the media with the same spiteful ways. To stifle dissent they manhandle their own party supporters out of conference halls. They browbeat journalists who dare question the government’s credentials. If we are to judge from the behaviour of the female contestants of this year’s Celebrity Big Brother, we have the government that this nation deserves.

The Chipster says: there is no place for racism in this country and, if people don’t like it, well they can just bloody-well bugger off to where they came from.

Getting Naked

The Chipster’s heart stopped for a few minutes today. I read the news that the Tories are thinking of introducing ‘naked streets’.

Thongtastic! I thought. Halle-groovin-luiah! We might begin to have a fair system in this country where a man is judged by his body and not by his wallet or the car he drives. No longer would we be allowed to hide our flab behind clothes. We would be forced to show off exactly what we’re doing to ourselves. It would herald a new kind of democracy where people took pride in themselves. And in a nation that finally sees the wonderful results of exercise, the Chipster would be a king among men.

I asked Gabby what she thought of the idea and she didn’t seem impressed at all. She told me they’ve already got something like this in Romania. What a progressive country it is! But all those nations out there seem to appreciate their bodies more than we do here in Wales or even the UK in general. I have Estonian relatives myself so I imagine that’s where I get the genes that gave me such a bloody fabulous body.

It was a shame that I had to ruin my afternoon by reading the whole article. That’s when I understood that the plans had nothing to do with widespread nudism but removing markings from the nation’s roads.

Clearly, it’s not as good an idea as the one I’ve already outlined. The Chipster’s plan would save so much money in the NHS that we could fund free tanning sessions for every person in the country. I’ve already rang up my local MP so don’t be surprised to see my idea appear in the next Lib Dem manifesto.

Ships At Sea

Because I have to look after my bod, I’ve spent the morning in the gym. Nothing makes me feel better than getting well pumped; nothing, that is, except the buzz of the crowd on a Saturday night. Taking my clothes off and showing off my perfect body is heaven to the Chipster.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this except to say that as I was working my thighs on the Stairmaster, I was watching Sky News and heard about this beached cargo container ship. The say there’s a good chance it will spill thousands of gallons of oil into the Irish Sea. Naturally, I was concerned. I remember 1998 when that Greek cargo ship went down in the Med and took UK’s supply of body oil with it.

Of course, I was relieved to hear that it’s only engine oil that they’re worried about and the only threat is to the British and Irish coastlines and the ecosystem. You probably think I don’t care about the environment but put it like this… It only takes ten or so years to clean up a coastline but do you know how a friction burn can last a lifetime? I once knew a dancer who didn’t oil up before a performance and lost half a buttock when he rubbed up against a party of secretaries from Rhyl. Those nails tore him to pieces where if he’d been wearing his oil, they would have slipped right off him.

Here endeth the Chipster’s lesson for today.

Wales From The Air

Spent my Sunday high above Wales. In my time away from the public eye, The Chipster has got himself a pilot’s license. There’s nothing I love more than getting away from the world and flying my little two-seater naked above the hills and valleys.

Did I mention I get naked? That’s because I’m the only fully licensed nude pilot in the UK. Well, there are a few that work for Ryanair but that’s not so much a choice as the cheap bastards not paying for uniforms.

And as I was soaring above Wales, looking into England, I realised how lucky we are on this side of the border. Exotic dancing hasn’t got the same sleazy reputation as it does in England. Here you can be whatever you want to be. Did you know that Plaid Cymru was the first political party to have a position on thongs? Not that I’m one of those Welsh Nationists, you understand. The Chipster is liberal with a capital L.

I vote Lib Dem at every election and do the occasional fundraiser for the party here in Bangor. I once did my cowboy routine with my six shooters blazing and I ended the routine by whipping off my leather pants and showing everybody I had a picture of Charles Kennedy on one cheek and Paddy Ashdown on the other. They loved it. But that’s Lib Dems for you: they love a good exotic dance so long as the body oil is organically grown and fair trade.

The Chipster Speaks

I’ve already had a pile of emails asking me about this blog and a lot more asking me to buy Viagra which I can tell you the Chipster doesn’t need. However, he does want to answer all of your questions and tell you more about my life as Wales’s top exotic dancer and thong collector. But in between anecdotes, I won’t have much to tell you. Life of a male stripper isn’t exactly a fun packed adventure 24/7. That’s why I also want to use this blog to comment on the day’s news.

Take this whole business about cash for questions. You’d think that it doesn’t have much to do with the world of professional thongaleering but you’d be wrong. Last year I was working a hen party in London when who should pop out of the crowd and stuff something down my g-string but Cherie Blair!

‘Come on big boy,’ she screamed. ‘Show us your stuff!’

Well, I’ve got use to that kind of demand and then ten pound notes that get thrust down my thong. What I didn't expect was to be given a promissory note for a seat in the House of Lords.

You’d think this story is a one off but a couple of weeks later, I was doing my usual spot at the Green Dragon Tavern here in Bangor when who walks up to me and tries to touch me up for a baronetcy but that bloody Ruth Turner! I had to tell here: the Chipster doesn’t wiggle his thong for no government.

Mine is an independent thong.

A BBC Thong Contest

The Chipster has been back in London today for an audition at the BBC. They needed somebody to play ‘Well-greased Male Stripper 2’ and you’d guess that they thought the Wales’s top exotic dancer was just about perfect for the part. Unfortunately, my audition didn’t go too well when they asked me to read some words off a sheet of paper. I told them I didn’t do that sort of thing. That’s when they asked me what exactly I did do so I showed them by whipping off my thong. And they say that the BBC is liberal!

As the security guards escorted me out of the building, I bumped into David Puttnam. I shouted to him, ‘Oy! David Puttnam, producer of such films as Chariots of Fire and Midnight Express, you haven’t got any good film roles for a man with the country’s biggest collection of thongs? How about a new version of Tarzan? I’ll provide all my own body oil.’

He gave me a wave and walked off chuckling. I like David. One of life’s real colourful characters but if you see hear that he’s about to produce a new film about the King of the Jungle, you remember who gave him the idea.

A Home Office Fiasco

I see that John Reid admits that there have been mistakes with the implementation of the new Home Office computer system that keeps track of Britain’s exotic dancers. It would appear that there are lots of us missing, mostly those that come into the country from abroad.

But the Chipster has to ask when will the Home Office get things sorted out? We exotic dancers have been persecuted for years and it’s about time we were given equal protection in the law. It’s not as though we’re out to hide away from people? You’d think that the police would find it easy to spot people with a habit of stripping off, covering themselves in baby oil, and jingling their floppy parts at the general public?

But that’s the kind of unfair treatment we men of the thong get from a Labour government.

My Girl

Since I’ve been away, I’ve been fully oiled up by my old friend Cupid. That’s right: the Chipster has found love!

This is a picture of my girlfriend and, before you ask, I know she isn’t from Bangor. In fact she’s Hungarian, or Romanian, or Estonian. I can’t remember which but she’s a really lovely chick and just a little bit cheeky. I met her at my local chiropractors where I was having my back treated. She’s thrown her hip out doing the hokey cokey so we immediately clicked. Quite literally, our bones were just clicking and cracking. We laughed ourselves silly at the noises and that’s when the Chipster realised he was in love.

She was also really cool about my professional life. She doesn’t mind my going out to work every night, wiggling my hips and occasionally flashing my wang. That’s the kind of open-minded girl she is.

We’ve done an interview with the Bangor Gleaner and I hope we’ll be doing some TV together soon. Can’t say too much about it but the BBC is doing a programme about unusual relationships in Wales. So far it’s a choice between the two of us or a man from Swansea who lives with a swan.

The Bangor Norse God Is Back

Hey there fellow greasy hipped slicksters! Chippy Dale here and welcoming you to my new look website.

So, you might have been wondering what I’ve been doing since I disappeared last year, well sorry for the lack of updates. You might have read in the papers that I injured my back at a hen night. It was all my fault and I looked a bloody fool! Chippy Dale just can’t say no when a big chick wants lifting above my head! Compound fracture but everything is okay now but I’m only begun to wiggle my hips in the last couple of weeks.

But now the Big Chip’s back!!!

Hope you like the new look website. I paid a good friend of mine here in Bangor to fix me up with a blog of my own and here I am. To be honest I wanted more images of my naked torso but as Lewis says, why let them see the goods when we want them to pay for the privilege. Can I recommend Lewis to you. If you need a website building, Lewis Davis is your man.

I’ll be down in Bangor town centre tonight. See me live at the Green Dragon tavern where it’s ladies night! Everybody’s welcome and you can see my new routine involving tubes of toothpaste! I'm not going to give the game away but I get just a little fresh with the ladies!