Monday, March 12, 2007

The Welsh Thong Awards

Gabby astonishes me. She looks like your typical Romanian pop star until she’s had that one drink too many. Then she becomes their answer to a burning tanker loaded with butane driven into a primary school for the deaf.

On Saturday night, we attended the Welsh Thong awards, which is an annual event where those of us in the field of exotic entertainment get to pat each other on our slightly greasy backs for another good year of hip gyrations, wiggles, and generally giving plenty of air to our genitals. We got there early because, I'll be honest, I wanted to take in every moment of the occasion. It’s not often you get to be voted top in your profession and it might not happen again.

It would a bit of an understatement to say that I looked like a God like in my white top hat, bow tie, white tails, and formal black thong. Gabby looked good too but let’s face it, people were there to see me. Which is probably why she hit the bar as soon as we got there.

Brought up on strong vodka and whatever else they brew from potato peelings in those Romanian villages, she handles her drink better than any Welshman since the late Richard Burton. I wasn’t too concerned about her drinking, even when we began to mingle with the other guests. She was charming as ever, playfully snapping every g-string she could see, and her delightful laughter could be heard far across the hotel and out into the car park beyond.

All was going pretty well until nine o’clock when I went up on stage to accept my award. That’s when I made my speech, which was well received in almost every part of the hall.

"Fellow Thonglateers. It’s been a good year for stripping. Which makes it a genuine honour to be standing up here, fully clothed for a change, and to accept this, my second Welsh Golden Thong award. I want to thank everybody who has come to see me perform and to all those who voted for me. I want to especially say a word of thanks to Neil Kinnock. Without him, I wouldn’t be standing here. Neil, you’re an inspiration for all men who want to wave their wangs in the air!

You know, with so much war and suffering in the world, it’s good to know that oil can be put to a good use. So I accept this award for all those that had fought so hard to secure the oil fields in the Middle East. Without them, our spuds would chafe!"

Thank you and thong on!

Pretty good speech, I thought. Or I did until I went back to my table and found Gabby staring at me. Of all things, she’d taken offence at that remark I made about spuds. She thought I was making fun of her habit of hoarding potatoes. She looked livid and as people were began to congratulate me, I could see that my dear sweet Gabby was thinking of a way of ruining the moment. And when Ben ‘Wigwam’ Tailor, probably South Wales’ biggest thonglateer, came over to wish me well, she decided to act.

She jumped up from her seat and launched herself at him. For a moment I didn’t know what she was going to do, but in a flash, she’d snatched off his thong and ran up on stage.

Ben laughed it off and soon everybody was smiling as they watched Gabby begin to sing her number nineteen hit, the Hokey Cokey, whilst waving Ben’s thong in the air. I can’t be sure all the lyrics were original as she was by this point slurring her words, but I know she hit every note like a true professional. In fact, you’d have been pressed to notice that many of the lines were off colour and involved a long list of what we men of Wales can do with our potatoes.

Eventually, she calmed down and to a huge round of applause jumped off the stage and went running for the bar. That’s where I found her, rolled up in a ball behind the curtains, having succumbed to a deep alcoholic sleep.

Once he had his thong back, Ben helped me carry Gabby to the car and I managed to get her home. She slept for most of Sunday and, eventually, an extremely contrite Romanian songbird woke up about eight o’clock last night. I assured her I wasn’t angry, promised I wouldn’t mention this to any immigration officials, and promised that the whole thing will be forgotten.

So, for the sake of Welsh/Romanian relations, I want you to forget all about this unfortunate incident. Gabby’s a good girl and doesn’t deserve many of the tough breaks she’s had in life. And if you happen to bump into her in Bangor today, just be kind to her.

And, for Christ’s sake, don’t mention potatoes.


rilly super said...

hmm, I fear that relationship has had it's chips, and even though you accused me of a bad pun earlier I know what a hot potato this issue can be so I won't give you the roasting you deserve and we'll say no more about this awful incident of balkan baiting dear chip

Chippy said...

Damn, now I'll have to install the obligatory drum/snare sounds for all those puns too. Will this bad punning never end? It's making me feel a bit 'put-upun' ['THUMP CRASH'].

You see, that's how it's done.

Jeremy Jacobs said...


mutterings and meanderings said...

If you can't mention spuds, what does she call you ... French Fry??

Chippy said...

Thanks, Jeremy. You can always be relied upon. Are you really that keen on seeing my demise?

M&M, she calls me Chipster, which I guess is part of the problem. She just can't get potatoes off her mind. It really is a tragedy. I should think of changing my name...

Jan Tregeagle said...

Have you perhaps considered spud gin? It is a rather efficent way to go blind and what she can't see she can't hit (probably).

It also tastes like petrol so it should be perfect for the refined Eastern European palette.

Chippy said...

Spud gin? Now that's the kind of information I find useful. You see, I've been wondering why Gabby has been stockpiling these potatoes and that could be a reason. Now I come to think about it, I wouldn't be surprised if she hasn't got a still somewhere. And she never allows me to share her mineral water. She's very careful about that.

I think I'll need to investigate further. I'm suddenly convinced that the poor misguided girl has got into bootlegging!