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.

Stripping Into the Void

I mentioned yesterday that I’ve been called a nihilist but I didn’t have time to elaborate. I want to make it clear here and now that The Chipster just won’t stand for it! I didn’t even understand the meaning of the word until I looked it up in the dictionary. But now that I do, I think I should answer the charge before this rumour spreads around Bangor and all the establishments where a man can legally strip become hostile to the Chipster.

After all, such accusations have been know to ruin the career of many a male exotic dancer. I can see that you don’t believe me but that’s only because you don’t know that Charlie ‘Two Ducks’ Wheeler was never allowed to strip again after he declared himself a Kantian. German philosophy doesn’t go down well with the stripping community, and when questions of nihilism come up, as they quite often do, then we have to be quick to stamp them out.

The reason I have to be so forthright in my rebuttal is because nihilism goes to the heart of what we men do as strippers. What is nihilism if it’s not a naked man standing on the edge of a stage, staring out into the darkened auditorium, and then throwing his last shred of dignity away in the shape of a slightly oiled thong? Isn’t that just the perfect metaphor for the nihilist’s creed? We are men who casts aside all our meanings in favour of the gaping voice of non-meaning. When your John Thomas is exposed for all the world to see, you tend to realise how little meaning there is in the world.

It’s a slippery slope in more ways than the oily one. That’s why running from the stage is so important to use strippers. We could walk off stage and with the amount of oil that’s usually on the floor, it would make a great deal more sense. But we run because we have to. It’s declaring to the world that we aren’t nihilists. That we do believe in life and its meaning. We run from the stage as if to say ‘I’ve got a comfortable pair of underpants back in the changing room and I’m going to put them on.’

You see, you just can’t allow yourself the luxury of being a nihilist if you’re a stripper. Nor is there a place for moral relativism when you’ve got naked cartwheels to perform. Have you ever seen a man practising moral relativism perform naked cartwheels? No. Precisely. And do you know why? It’s because it’s an impossible combination to perform.

So, just remember all of this the next time you want to call me a nihilist.