Blame It On The Bald Girl

It all went terribly wrong last night.

It began when Gabby decided to have a haircut. Bless her little Romanian heart but she doesn’t quite understand the music industry. As soon as she saw that Britney Spears had cut off all her hair, she wanted the same. It took her fifteen minutes in the bathroom and she came out looking not unlike a youthful David Carradine but with the bust of the older David Carradine. I expected her to hit Bangor and look for trouble in some seedy bar where she might profess to hate violence before kicking every shade of juice out of the local Hells Angels. She didn’t. She just went to the kitchen and made herself a salad before settling herself down in front of last week's Dragon’s Den on the Sky+ box.

From that moment on, my night descended into the stuff of farce.

I had a show to do and I got to the club at nine, only to find the stage door locked. I went around the front but I was immediately recognised by a drunken crowd of female rugby players who forcibly stripped me naked. It was a terrible ordeal and I was lucky to get away wearing my skin. I fled into Bangor town centre as naked as the day I was born and took refuge in 'Crag's', a nightclub owned by a friend of mine. Unfortunately, Monday night is ‘male only’ night and when I mean ‘male only’…Well, the sudden appearance of the naked Chipster was treated as a cause for great celebration and I had to flee again, this time chased by men drinking pink cocktails and having far too much resemblance to the late Freddy Mercury than can be good for anybody.

Luckily, there are few things as fleet on foot as a naked stripper and I soon outdistanced them all. With the impromptu chorus from ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ fading into the distance, I ducked down a dark alley. That’s when I decided that there was nothing else for it but to make my way home.

You might not be aware but there’s no actual law in the country that makes it illegal to be naked. The laws are all to do with intention to commit offence, so I never once thought I’d be arrested. The police turned up five minutes later and detained me on the suspicion of lewd conduct.

It was only after they caught up with me again (there’s nothing as fleet on foot as a naked stripper except for a police car) that they explained they were only intending to take me home. Apparently, the whole of my adventure had been spotted on CCTV, uplinked to the national network of police cameras, and watched around the country to the great amusement of the nation’s constabulary. Eventually somebody had taken pity on me and ordered a car out to pick me up. No doubt the police will release a video and DVD in time for Christmas and I won't see a penny for all my troubles.

The officers gave me a lift home and I was met by Gabby crying in the lobby. She didn’t seem at all concerned that I was naked and escorted by two officers of the law. She’d seen the latest pictures of Britney and was off out to buy herself a blond wig. By that point, I was past caring. I asked the officers to take me back to the station, where I was sure to find some sanity among the drunks and addicts. They refused, leaving me no option but to run back out on the street where I danced, jiggled, gyrated, and thrust my way into a night in the cells.

I’m back home now but my Romanian is still bald and I have a £100 fine to pay.

And some of you tell me that I have an easy life.