Christian Charity

On most days, if you managed to grab me when I’m out about town, you’d find that when it comes to making charitable donations, I’m as generous as my thongs are unfeasibly large in the crotch. I might run a mile when it comes to Comic Relief (and, I should add, that's an unsponsored mile) but I’m always happy to do my bit for the lesser known charities.

You might remember that I was one of the founding members of the Erotic Dancers For Donkeys appeal. I’m proud to say that we saved one of Rhyl’s oldest creatures from the knacker’s yard and he can still be found painfully carrying sticky children for mile after mile up the sands here in North Wales. I also once did a sponsored nineteen hour thong marathon to buy the minibus which the local scout master subsequently used to ram raid the local off-licence during a drunken night out on the town. You might say that I helped him get his ‘criminal damage’ badge.

So, Charity is The Chipster's lifeblood, which is why, during an idle few minutes last week, I sorted through some of my old costumes. Even when I retire an outfit, they tend to be still as good as new. There may be a little bit of spoilage from all the body oil but not so much that they’re not wearable for everyday use. And since they’re all ex-stripper stock, every idem of clothing has the added advantage of having elasticated seams, easy to put on and even easier to take off.

Every six months or so, I’ll donate a few costumes to the local church, who are always quick to pop around and take them off my hands. I like to think that it’s the church’s way of saying that it has finally abandoned its outdated opposition to Lyrca, and between you and me, these charity donations have done the mischievous side of my nature no end of good, especially seeing the good Reverend Hope wearing my old black raincoat around town. It once use to feature in my 'Secret Agent' routine – the one involving the camera with the telescopic lens – so whenever I see him on a rainy day, I’m tickled in most unusual and slightly heretical ways. I don’t think it could amuse me any more, even if I thought of him wearing a dog collar and thong.

Today, the vicar’s wife came around before the evening service to pick up the bags of clothes I’d decided to donate. We’d gone to look at them in the spare bedroom where we got to discussing the price the church might ask for a pair of bright magenta hot pants I’ve worn only once. That’s when Gabby burst into the room and accused Mrs Hope of being Amy Winehouse.

Yes, I thought that a little odd, too, but clearly the poor girl had been reading yesterday's entry in this blog and due to her poor grasp of the English language, had assumed I was having an affair with a heavily tattooed singer.

‘You raven haired temptress!’ spat Gabby, impressing me with a couple of new words of English and the poetic use to which she put them. ‘You come steal Chippy. You not get away! You tattooed bãşinar!’

And if you learn nothing else today, you can at least assure yourself that you now know the Romanian word for ‘farthead’.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mrs. Hope, full of that crispy Christian confidence you get when you know you’ve got full holiday insurance for the afterlife. ‘Who exactly are you?’

‘Me?’ asked Gabby, stabbing herself with a finger. ‘I am Gabby. Pretty Girl. Singer of hokey cokey!’

Mrs. Hope laughed. ‘And what, pray tell, is hokey cokey?’

Well, Gabby wasn’t taking such as insult sitting down. Nor was she for taking it standing up either. She took it flying through the air, grabbing Mrs. Hope by her throat before swinging her to the bed.

It was a truly terrible scene to watch from the safe distance of my hiding place behind the wardrobe. A fight developed between the vicar’s wife and my Romanian and, in its ferocity, it rivalled those battling gypsies in From Russia With Love. If I’d still had my secret agent costume, I might have taken the James Bond role and leap in to protect Mrs. Hope. But I didn’t, so I couldn’t. Besides, I noticed that Mrs. Hope was holding her own – technically holding a good chunk of Gabby’s hair – so I was tempted to see how it developed. In a way, it was a battle between rival theologies and I was interested to see which one God would favour this time.

Indeed, I wouldn’t have got involved at all if Gabby hadn’t managed to pull off one of those moves she’s learned from all the Jackie Chan films she watches late at night. She ran up the wall and did a back flip over Mrs. Hope who crumpled beneath the weight of our favourite Romanian export. That’s when things got out of control. Now with the upper hand, Grabby attempted to rip the poor woman’s blouse off, demanding see a tattoo of Lembit Opik riding a snake.

My mind went cramp with the fear that Gabby might actually win and that I might also be stuck with a pair of maroon hot pants. I knew I had to act. Even Oxfam won't take maroon hot pants.

I grabbed my Romanian buttercup by her left leg and dragged her from the room and straight into the bathroom where I deposited her in the bath and turned the cold water tap on full. The room immediately began to fill with steam. I quickly nipped out and strapped the door shut with my belt wrapped around the handle and tied to the radiator.

Mrs. Hope was easier to calm down. She was still in the spare room, clutching a sponge-sized piece of Gabby’s hair.

‘So sorry about that. It was a case of mistaken identity,’ I said, holding up my now beltless pants with one hand. ‘I don't suppose you've heard of Amy Winehouse?’

She hadn’t, and if I’m honest about it, didn’t seem to care to learn a thing about her.

In the end, I managed to placate Mrs. Hope with a few extra items of clothing. These Christians are very forgiving, but I warn you to never believe a word that they tell you.

Anybody can be bought off with a couple of fur lined thongs.