'Twas A Thumb

First of all: that picture was clearly of my thumb.

Secondly: it is now pink again.

And thirdly: I’m sorry if it’s been quiet around here today. I’ve been busy out-Archering Lord Jeffrey. Not only am I a handsome devil in a thong, I’m a literary rival to the great craftsman himself.

I woke up with the sunshine lighting the fine golden skin of my naked torso and I felt inspired to do something artistic. With barely a word to Gabby who was busy gutting a chicken in the kitche, I set off early for the coffee shop where I spent the morning writing ‘the novel’. I’ve also bought myself a black roll-necked thong to make me look the part and with the laptop open before me, I did the whole Ernest Hemingway thing: nouns, verbs, a few adjectives. Wonderful!

I soared past 20,000 words. Already I see it as bearing some similarities to Umberto Eco’s ‘The Name of the Rose’, only set in the modern day and with more gratuitous nudity. I’ve also considered titles: ‘The Name of the Pose’ being the best I’ve come up with so far.

After three hours and a dozen cups of coffee, I felt even more like Ernest and fancied trying my hand at a little bull fighting but, lacking a little bull, ended up just chasing a Labrador around the market. That was marvellous too.

Writing is the loneliest business. It’s nothing like stripping, where you get the most immediate feedback. It also wore me out mentally and I had to unwind with an afternoon spent working on a new routine at the dance studio. I use the best studio in town and work with the best in the business. Terry, my choreographer, looks like John Terry but moves like Grace Kelly. He also knows more about the art of undressing than any man alive. He was trainer to the great Ernie Hackinshaw, aka The Swing King. It was Terry who invented the invented the rhythmic hip thrust where a dancer swings his undercarriage like a pendulum. He’s done for genitals what Lionel Blair did for tap dancing.

The new routine is based on the phrases of the moon and, as I imagine you can guess, involves the stripping in mystical patterns. It’s a bit like Old Moore’s Almanack but with more buttocks.

I’ll try to pop by and update you some more tomorrow but I’m attending my weekly class where Mrs. Rust has promised to introduce us to Shakespeare. And before you say it: I’ve already heard all the jokes about my shaking my spear during the lesson.

A Romanian Compromise

I’ve just dropped in to report that Welsh / Romanian relations are as strong as ever. It’s been a morning of clearing the air and making new resolutions, at least half of which I intend to keep.

I had to promise Bangor’s chief bootlegger that I’d to try to take more of an interest in her hobbies and she agreed to go easy on the fermented spud juice. The only compromise I’ve been forced into making is to agree to go with her to one of her night courses at the local community college. That's where I've been all morning. Fighting my way through adolescents, filling in application forms, picking up my reading list. It was a world I’ve never seen before and, though it pains me to admit it, I quite enjoyed myself.

To be honest, I didn't expect to come back with a reading list. I was hoping for something a bit more manual. After a long argument where I tried to explain the benefits of learning how to become a plumber, Gabby demonstrated the very good reasons (they had knuckles) why I should join her Literature for Beginners course. I don’t mind that too much. Reading a few books can’t be that difficult and, as I’ve said in the past, we strippers tend to be a literate bunch on account of the long hours we have to wait between performances.

My only doubts now are about the books on the course. The list is longer than my arm and I’m a bit worried that there are no classics on there. There’s not a single Tom Clancy or Frederick Forsyth, for example. Not even a Stephen Leather or Jack Higgins. Instead, I’ve just been to the local bookshop where I had to spend a quite ridiculous amount of money on a copy of W.H. Auden’s poetry, which judging from a quick glance, is a bit light on terrorists, lacking in gun fights, and in fact, anything to keep a Welsh stripper interested. I mean, I have to ask you: do you think the guy even looks like a proper writer? Where's his U.S.S. George Washington baseball hat or his shooting jacket? He's not even smoking a cigar while posing with a high powered rifle.

Anyway, this afternoon we’re off to buy the rest of the books. I’ve reached the point now when I'd even settle for a Jeffrey Archer.