Happy Birthday Big Chip Dale

Rather hard to believe, isn’t it, that this dapper young Goth with slight acne and a mild fungal toe infection would later become the Welsh stripping sensation known as The Chipster? And it all seems so many years ago now. Long before I damaged my spine lifting that overweight traffic control officer at her hen party. Long before I met Romania’s answer to Combat Barbie. And before I began to tell you all my stories here at Chip Dale’s Diary. Not all of you have been with me along the way, so I think it falls to me, as the longest serving resident, to be the first person to wish myself a very happy birthday.

Happy birthday, Chip, old sport!

Since it’s my birthday, I’m sure you’re all wondering what to get me. Perhaps you’re thinking of something in fur, large in the pouch, and with a couple of straps the width of dental floss. Well, you can forgo the expensive gifts unless the seats are in leather and it goes from nought to two hundred in nine seconds. Can money buy love? Well, I suppose it can if you happen to play in the right of midfield for Manchester United. However, here are Chipster Central, I want simpler things. A few comments would be nice but some success beyond my stripping career would be even better.

I’ll be out of communication range for much of the day as I’ll be hosting a little drinks party for a few friends at the local. Feel free to drop in if you’re in the area. Not only will you get to meet some of the biggest names in Welsh thongdom but, of course, the drinks are on me!

Thonglateer Extraordinaire Chapter 1, Part 3

Eventually, my relationship with Flora waned and we went our separate ways. We had, by that stage, got to know each other on a very intimate level, though with the python always in the room I’d say the sex was good but not great unless you were into wildlife. The end slithered into view once I told her that there was one too many pythons involved in our relationship. She took it as an insult to her pet. I just claimed it was justifiable pride in my body.

Now the years have eased the hurt, I can see that so much of my success is owing to Flora. Without Flora, the stripping phenomenon known as The Thonglateer might not have happened. Flora was the first person to teach me that stripping is an art. Some argue that wiggling your hips and waving your genitals at an audience doesn’t take that much skill. The same people have never tired to make a living out of it or they’d know how easy it is to take an eye out. The physics involved in matching your hip thrusts to the natural swing of your testicles would make Einstein pale. Not that I suggest that Albert ever waved his pipe at an Austrian audience but I think you get my drift, if not my swing.

Stripping isn’t easy, even for a young man born without a single natural inhibition. You might even say it was more so until Flora who taught me that the tease is more important than the nudity. For the rest of my skills, however, I owe a huge debt to the second important person in my professional life.

‘You must have a mentor,’ said Flora after she’d come back off stage one night shortly before we parted forever. She was naked and the glitter of stardust rode the sweat slaloming down the twin inclines of her breasts.

‘I have you, don’t I?’ I said, helping to uncoil the python from her shoulders.

‘I can’t teach you everything,’ she answered as though bothered by my presumption. ‘You need somebody who knows the ins and outs of male dancing. Here,’ she said, thrusting a piece of paper in my hand. ‘Go to him. He’ll teach you everything you need to know.’

The name on the paper was that of Tony ‘One Eye’ Buchanan, one of the old school dancers who had fallen out of fashion with the rise of the techno-strip. Flashing lights, the return of disco beats, and advances in smoke machine technology: they had all led to a new breed of dancer who replaced those who still practised the traditional form of the strip. Men like Buchanan had fallen foul of the new tastes. A man had to have something more than a couple of glittering baubles. I hadn’t heard of him in many years and doubted if he was still alive. I was sure his baubles no longer glittered.

A day later, I said goodbye to Flora at Bangor station and headed south to Cardiff where I intended to find the greatest stripper in living Welsh history, the ‘king of the testicle swing’, Tony ‘One Eye’ Buchannan.

My search didn’t begin well. On a damp, unbecoming morning, I was mugged outside Cardiff station and had my belongings taken from me. I had tried to fight back but it was another hard lesson. Knowing how to strip like a karate master doesn’t mean you can fight like one. Two guys roughed me over, took my notebook full of ideas, as well as three pairs of my best training thongs. It took all of my resolve not to drop my shoulders, walk back into the station, climb on a train, and return to the safety of Flora. But something in my heart had been stirred by the very thought of being taught by a stripping legend. Picking myself up, I checked that I still had my money rolled up in the security thong I always wear on long journeys, and with the scrap of paper still lodged in the deepest corner of my pocket, I set off, walking to the outskirts of a grey and unwelcoming Cardiff.

It took me three hours walking through the rain before I finally reached the house. It was a huge disappointment. Standing on a dingy corner at the edge of the city, the house was more like a mausoleum in a city of crypts. It resembled the home in the TV show ‘The Munsters’. In the wet murk of an afternoon in early Autumn, the house carried foreboding as though it were a mere undercoat to the more overt threats it possessed. I wondered if this was what became of all the great men who personified dying forms of art. Had all the great silent comedians retreated to similar decaying houses in unvisited corners of cities?

A pizza box packed against the gate leaked old cheese and grease over the hinge but did nothing to prevent the yawn of metal as I pushed the gate open. I walked up the overgrown path, my feet sending a brown ale bottle rattled across the concrete before it rode the cushion of lawn’s unmown edge.

The door opened before I reached it.

‘Who are you?’ shot a voice.

I barely recognised him. A grey vest, a body that had grown slack with age and abuse. His six feet six inches were no longer the embodiment of male power. They were a testament to how tall men can sometimes dwindle horizontally. He was stick thin, the flesh nagging his bones like wraps of wet cloth.

‘Are you One Eye?’ I asked.

He looked at me with his bright blue instincts shining bright in the dying light. ‘Nobody had called me that in nearly five years,’ he whispered. His voice recovered with a lean spring to volume. ‘What do you want? I ain’t doing gigs any more, if that’s what you’re after. And I don’t care how many bottles you’re offering me this time. And if you come again, I’ll report you to the RSPCA and tell ’em what you’re wanting me to do to those poor donkeys. I won’t do it again, I tell you. I won’t do it again!’

‘No, no,’ I said, hastening to explain myself. ‘Flora Betteridge sent me. I’m Chip Dale. I want you to teach me to become the best stripper in Wales.’

The figure wavered as he examined me.

‘How old are you, son?’ asked One Eye, finally, his mouth in slack lipped amusement.

‘Seventeen,’ I said. ‘I’ll be eighteen in October and I want to be ready.’

‘Ready?’ he laughed, revealing teeth once perfect but now chipped as though they had been chewing on bottles for too many years. ‘You want to be ready for what?’

‘Ready for the ladies,’ I answered truthfully. ‘I’m going to dance for them on the night of my eighteenth birthday and I want them to know that I’m already the best stripper they’ll ever see.’

The skin on his arms rippled as he laughed.

‘They’re tear you to pieces, son,’ he said and moved to close the door. ’Go on. Clear off and don’t come back wasting my time.’

I stepped forward, full of that indignation that had sent my old career’s teacher to a life in Bangkok brothels. ‘If you won’t teach me,’ I said, ‘I’ll dance on my own. It might take me years and I might make mistakes, but I’m going to learn to dance the old way. And I’m going to become the best stripper in Wales.’

He leaned on his door and sucked air between a gap in his teeth. ‘Sheesh,’ he said. ‘You know I was one considered the best dancer and you have the guts to come to my door and tell me that!’ In a single motion, he pulled a set of dentures from his lower gum and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He then rubbed the teeth clean on his vest as he inspected me. The teeth returned to his mouth with an audible liquid sigh. ‘You’re too damn cocky to teach.’

‘I can be humble,’ I said. ‘But if you won’t teach me then I’ll…’

He waved down my protests and looked to the street. It had started to rain again and my already wet clothes had begun to repel more moisture.

‘Come on inside,’ he said. ‘If I’m going to interview you, we might as well be comfortable and dry. You like pizza?’

‘I’m watching my weight,’ I said, thinking it a good thing to say.

‘You’re full of the right answers, aren’t you kid?’ said One Eye, closing the door behind me and pushed me on through the house.

‘So, you’ll teach me?’

He stopped and gaze me the eye as though taking my measure. ‘You might have something about you,’ he said and nodded me through to the front room.

The interview was the oddest I’ve ever had in my life. It took place in One Eye’s living room, a museum to the old days of male peelers, as we men of the thong were known in the old days. Bill posters were tagged unevenly on all the walls and over the windows, and various props of the stripper’s trade littered the room. The were workman’s helmets, cowboy outfits, a full set of plumbers tools. A faded Zorro mark was hanging from a mirror frame, and a Red Indian costume was moulting in the corner of the room where it would die now that Rain Dance routines are no longer considered acceptable in the days of the modern Native American.

A full length photograph of One Eye, mid strip, caught my eye, hanging above the fireplace as if providing evidence of what this shambling mess of a man had once been. His hair having thinned and gone grey, One Eye had lost nearly everything that had once made him the dream of every Welsh housewife. Only his eyes remained, those bright blue pools that rarely showed warmth but had convinced so many women that he was the answer to all of their dreams, if only for a night.

‘Sit yourself down, Chip,’ said One Eye, settling himself in a seat in front of a large TV screen. ‘You like The Bill?’

I said that I didn’t own a TV.

‘Best show on the box,’ he said and smiled as though waiting for me to add something. ‘Well, you’re not here to talk D.C. Lions, are you? You want to be a stripper and you want old One Eye to help you. Is that right?’

‘I want you to be my mentor. I want you to teach me everything you know.’

‘And what would I get for doing you this very great service?’

I felt in my thong where I had five hundred pounds. He seemed to misinterpret my gesture.

‘You’ve come to the wrong place if you’re into that sort of thing, my lad,’ he said. ‘I’m always been one for the ladies and nothing else. Not even donkeys, though the money was good and I was a little drunk…’

‘No, no,’ I said, pulling my money from my trousers. It was the only money I had in the world and looked so miserable in the glow of his TV screen. ‘I can pay you, if that’s what you want?’

‘Money?’ he laughed and raised his hand to the room. ‘Why would I want money? I’m happy with everything I’ve got.’

‘Then teach me and prove that you did it right all those years,’ I said, inspired by the room and the posters. ‘If you teach me, I can show the world that there’s still room for men who can dance sexy and don’t need smoke and mirrors to entertain the ladies. I can prove to the world that baby oil and a plumber’s wrench is all that it takes.’

He nodded as I gave my speech and at the end of it he reached down to the side of his chair and brought out a bottle full of clear liquid. He pointed it at his lips, paused as he noticed me watching him, and them casually tossed back a swig of what I later discovered was vodka. He immediately yawned and his eyes began to water.

‘You have to know what I want before I agree to teach you,’ said One Eye his lips pulled tight into a grimace. ‘You understand this isn’t going to be easy? I ain’t no schoolteacher. You live here with me. I work you hard. You learn hard. And then when you’re done learning, you work to pay me back. You work to tidy this place up. Make it look respectable again.’

‘You want me to do your housework?’ I asked, feeling insulted that the skin that I had worked so hard to keep tender, even during my geological days, would be jeopardised by manual labour.

‘If you want to be the best dancer, you’re going to have to work for it. And I’ll be wanting you to fix my plumbing. And any odd jobs. The roof needs repairing and then there’s the drains that need cleaning.’ He laughed as the disgust began to register on my face.

‘You think that’s a bad deal?’

‘It doesn’t sound good,’ I replied.

‘Well if you think that, you got no right to claim to be the best stripper in Wales. How do you think you can strip like a plumber if you’ve never worked as a plumber? You think you can take off your clothes and look like a grocery delivery man if you ain’t delivered groceries? No you can’t. It’s impossible. Not until you’ve gone out and walked the beat can you even begin to pretend to be a real policeman.’ He nodded his head. ‘I’m going to teach you, Chip, and by the end of my training, you’ll have wished you took some easy job working in a bank. You’ll come to hate me but when I’m done with you, you’ll be the best male stripper in Wales or my name ain’t Anthony ‘One Eye’ Buchanan.’

Late Night With The Chipster

Contractually, as you know, I’m not allowed to reveal myself fully to you on this blog. There are some things I have keep back for the live show. That means there are no pictures of my famous Neil Kinnock routine, no video of my thrusting hips or swinging genitals, and definitely no shots of me sans-thong. This leaves with a predicament when it comes to new visitors. If they don’t live in Wales, they probably haven’t heard of the Thonglateer Extraordinaire. They won’t have attended any of my sell-out shows. They won’t have experienced the smell of pineapple oil drifting from the stage before I come running on to the theme tune from The Persuaders.

It’s partly why I feel it’s imperative that I finish my autobiography as soon as possible. People who haven’t experienced the Chipster live should at least know about his remarkable rise to the top of his profession. They should understand my charity work, my political work that should have rightly been rewarded with a place of that list.

I understand, therefore, why Non-Working Monkey should doubt my claim that I’m the biggest name in Welsh stripping. If only she had done a little research on the internet, she’d have found countless stories of my nude exploits. I really shouldn’t have to wake Gabby up at half-past one in the morning, just so she can come and snap a picture of me in the living room. But for once that’s exactly what I’ve done.

Gabby was not happy.

‘A******g monkey?’ she said. ‘You want picture for a ******g monkey?

‘It’s not a real monkey,’ I replied, my cap literally in my hand.

‘I should ******g hope not,’ she replied. ‘You want to hold banana while I take picture?’

I explained about the contractual reasons why my banana couldn’t shown, even for a monkey.

She snatched the digital from my hands. ‘I take******g picture but then you let Gabby sleep. I up early in the ******g morning. Cheeky Girls go sing at hospital for sick children.’

‘Then make sure you sing them the hokey ******g cokey,’ I said, sourly striking the pose you see in the above picture. And as you can also see, I even made a banner just to prove it was tonight and for Non-Working Monkey.

For some reason, Gabby took the picture in black and white but since I only discovered this after she’d gone to bed, I figured I’d post it as it is. Not only is it more artistic this way, it saved me the trouble of rousing a previously roused Romanian. If any of you like the shot, I’ll be having 8x10 glossy photos made up, available at the usual place at the usual rates.

Thonglateer Extraordinaire

Because I’ll be busy for the next few days as I sit and stare unblinking at a computer screen, I thought I’d keep the blog active by offering you all a sneak peak at my latest opus. It’s called ‘Thonglateer Extraordinaire!’ and I think it’s the most honest account of life on the North Wales stripping circuit. It also happens to be my autobiography.

Gabby is the mastermind behind the book, and she’s even designed a cover for it in anticipation of our flogging it all my gigs in the next year. The first chapter covers my early life and the training that goes into becoming a successful man of the thong. Today, I’m posting the first part of chapter 1.

Thonglateer Extraordinaire!
By
Chip Dale

Chapter I

The Five Mysteries of One Eye Buchanan

I’ll mention it only once so we don’t have to mention it again: yes, I know who I look like.

I’m sure it’s as much a curse to me as it’s a blessing to him. But believe me when I say that I know nothing about the Liberal Democrat’s policy on second homes in Wales and I’m also certain that Lembit Opik doesn’t know the first thing about indulging female fantasies involving pots of home-made raspberry jam and a plasterer’s trowel. Or if he does, I’m sure he keeps it out of his manifesto promises.

Which just backs up the point I’m making: I’m not him and he’s not me. I mean, if I was him, would I be stripping for a living? Okay, perhaps I would. I really can’t say. I’ve not met the man. But I do know myself and I know the path I have taken to become the most successful male stripper in Wales. And if that’s the story you want to hear, then you’re in luck. That’s the story I’m about to tell.

The path that led me to my start on the Welsh stripping circuit began one October night in the nineteen eighties when a baby was born with unusually well-defined abdominal muscles and a delight in shaking his unreasonably large genitals at all the nurses. There, you might say, the legend was born and I’ve hardly changed since. I’m still covered in baby oil, only now the nurses are often drunk, it’s usually Friday night at the Green Dragon Tavern in the heart of Bangor’s town centre, and instead of my blanket, I’m to be found swaddled in a plumber’s outfit or dressed like a bare-arsed cowboy.

With the name Chip Dale, I suppose stripping was in my stars, or at least as far as taking your clothes off for a living can be said to be augured by an alignment of the spheres, if you’ll excuse the early and totally unwarranted descent to the double entendre. There are few jobs that a man can do in Wales when he’s blessed by fantastic good looks, a body sculpted from Italian marble, and a personality to match. The fact that I disliked underwear from an early age merely added to the unusual set of circumstances which led to my declaring to my family on my sixteenth birthday that I was moving to Bangor to become the best know thongman on the face of the Welsh earth.

For the record, I was christened Crispen Walter Dale. I normally tell people that my mother was inspired by the St. Crispen’s Day speech from Henry the Fifth but I intend to be nothing less than honest with you. I was actually named after the Crisp’n Dry adverts from the seventies. My mother had an addiction to fried potato snacks, which is probably why I was known from an early age as Chip.

My life as a stripper began in my formative school years. I’d always take longer than the other boys whenever we changed for gym and I remember the PE teacher once putting me on report for taking off all my clothes when we were only meant to be changing into our pumps to watch some actors perform Shakespeare in the gym. But that was me. I knew what I wanted to do with my life and I took every opportunity to prepare for it.

It was, I see now, an unusual decision for a young man to make but stripping was my calling and I could never betray it. I remember once being given one of those computerised career tests just before I left school. When my results came out of the printer, I was shocked to see that it had recommended veterinary work. I demanded to see the career’s advisor and I marched indignantly into his office to ask him why male stripping wasn’t an option. He just turned white.

‘Why would you want to become a stripper, Dale?’ asked the man in a grey suit and topped by a wayward combover.

‘Well, sir, I think I have what it takes.’

He ran a finger around his collar, looked nervously towards his office door and then slapped down his hair which had leapt up in apparent shock. Only then did he stand up and quietly close the door before leaning his weak back against the frosted glass which magnified the rattle in his chest.

‘And what do you think it takes to become a stripper, Dale?’ he wheezed.

‘A big personality, sir.’

‘A big personality?’

‘Oh yes, sir. A big personality and rhythm.’

‘Rhythm?’

‘To dance, sir. I don’t reckon you can’t be a male stripper if you can’t dance.’

‘I suppose not,’ he said, his throat suddenly sounding quite dry. He walked slowly back across the room and sat down at his desk where he began to sort career pamphlets for people wanting to work at the Bradford and Bingley. The poor man. I can see now that he was well out of his depth. I don’t suppose he would have known what to say if I’d gone in there wanting to become a nuclear physicist or a Bavarian bugle salesman. ‘Well, so long as you think you’ve got what it takes,’ he muttered finally and shifted his glasses on his nose. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t like to stand in your way, Dale, but you must understand that I can’t recommend this choice of employment. You never heard it from me.’ He briefly smiled and gave me a flash of tobacco stained teeth. ‘You’ve not considered office work? The Bradford and Bingley offer a very reasonable pension plan.’

‘Office work?’ I shifted uneasily where I stood. ‘I don’t think a big personality and a dexterity about the hips suit the Bradford and Bingley, sir.’ And as if to prove my point, I demonstrated the Chipster’s hip-swivel that would later become one of my signature moves.

‘So, you don’t like the idea of office work at the Bradford?’ he laughed, hesitantly.

‘Of course not, sir. I was born to strip.’

‘Were you? Well, good luck to you, Dale. We all have out crosses to bear and I can see that yours is bigger than most.’

‘You can say that again,’ I replied and gave him another thrust of my hips.

‘Yes, well, could you please stop that now?’ he asked, the slight flush that had reappeared on his cheeks now disappearing for good. ‘And I’d prefer it if our little conversation doesn’t go any further than this room. Wouldn’t like it said that I recommended a lad take his clothes off for a living.’

‘I quite understand. I don’t suppose you get many people coming in here saying they want to become a male stripper.’

He laughed and took off his pen top for no apparent reason before realising his mistake and screwing it back on.

‘No, no, you are quite unique, Dale,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘But so long as you think you’ve got what it takes I don’t want to dissuade you. To tell you the truth, dissuading people isn’t my job. I’m here to give you all positive vibes.’

‘Oh, I’ve got positive vibes, sir.’

‘I can see that, Dale. And good luck with them. Good luck with your big personality, your sense of rhythm, and your positive vibes. I can see that you’ve got what it takes to be… to be… er…’ He looked down a paper on his desk as he almost whispered. ‘A male exotic dancer.’

‘Of course, sir. I don’t suppose it does any harm having an enormous penis.’

He looked at me long and hard. ‘No, Dale,’ he said, with a look of utter envy. ‘I don’t suppose it does you any harm whatsoever.’

I was given special dispensation to leave school early that day and I never went back. Nor did Mr. Morris who I’m told arrived at the staff-room complaining of feeling unwell and went home soon after lunch. He was never seen again. Some say he retired to a monastery but others say he went to live in Thailand before he died after spending five years indulging in untold carnal delights. Some say he just back a Liberal Democrat. I don’t like to think my interview had anything to do with his disappearance, though when the nights are long and my spirits depressed, I often think of Mr. Morris, his grey suit, his combover, his weak chest. I wonder if the Thai air did him any good, or whether once touched by Chip Dale’s dream, he couldn’t live with himself. In a way, you might say that just the dream of being the Chipster had killed a lesser man.

The Bunday Times

I'd like to make it clear to everyone that the Chipster's buns are not pictured on page 46 of today's Sunday Times magazine (below). Great GranPapaPat is to be thanked for warning me about this potential confusion.

I'm now contacting my many sources inside the Welsh stripping community to see if we can identify this mysterious thongman. It's our sworn duty to protect such amateurs from themselves. No respected stripper would every be so bold as to stand on a table white attempting the asymmetrical hip gyration. And I can tell you that the position of his right leg is dangerously wrong. Such blatant disregard for stripping theory increases the chances of his developing serious hip injury later in his career.

I'd also like to apologise for not posting a thing yesterday. I fell asleep in the garden and what time I spent awake, I used to write out a full and proper account of my cousin's visit. I'll post it when it's done, possibly later today.

The Security Thong

It has taken me a day or two to get my head around the events of last weekend. I made allusions to them yesterday, but only now have I found enough slack in my storytelling thong to tell you all about a dire episode full of lust and lethargy.

If you recall the start of last week, The Chipster had suffered a miserable few days. His spirits bottomed out around Tuesday, but then recovered enough to expend the last of his energy in one mad night of exotic dancing for the ladies of Bangor. The weekend had meant to be one of rest. You might say I was in the mood for contemplation not gyration, but that’s no excuse for what a happened.

Yet in order to understand everything, you must first understand a thing or two about thongs. You must know, for example, that I have two types of underwear: I have my everyday thongs and my performance thongs. Even if you’ve got a trained eye, you’d be hard pressed to tell much difference between the two types of underwear in my drawer. My everyday thongs hang a little lower and have stronger stitching. Performance thongs are delicate things, meant to fly with precision. They’re the Cruise missiles of thongs: they can take out a target to a degree of accuracy measured by the inch.

Now, among the many types of everyday underwear I own, I also possess a few pairs of what I call my ‘security thongs’. Think of a money belt but in the form of a posing pouch and you’ll have the idea. They have a pocket sewn into the crotch, allowing me to keep my valuables next to my valuables. I rarely wear them but, with Gabby up in Birmingham, I had been feeling a little anxious about getting locked out of the apartment. That’s why I’d been wearing my security thongs all week with the spare front door key tucked into the gusset.

Now bear all this mind when I tell you about Friday night.

I had decided to make an early return to the Green Dragon Tavern. My back was feeling stronger so that by Wednesday, I’d even been dancing around my apartment, throwing off my clothes every time I heard a tune with a 4/4 beat. When Friday night came around, I bounced up onto stage at nine o’clock sharp and began to do an effortless routine. Rarely has my dancing been greeted with so many gasps and whistles. It took me twenty minutes to go from business suit to birthday suit. The only problem I’d had was earlier in the day when I’d forgot to pack a pair of performance thongs in my bag. When it came time to dance, I’d been forced to do my act wearing my everyday underwear. It’s not the first time and I doubt if it will be the last.

At the finale of my ‘Gunboat Diplomacy’ routine, I turned to the crowd and shouted ‘get ready!’ The room was immediately filled with female voices shouting ‘fire!’ and in one effortless motion, I dropped my thong, caught it on my foot, and launched it out into the darkness where it grabbed by a pair of welcoming hands. Before you could hear the gasp of astonishment from the crowd, I was off the stage, back in my dressing room and relaxing with a fruit juice and Kit Kat.

Unfortunately the thong had cleared the building by the time I remembered about the spare front door key still stuck in its hidden pocket.

That’s why I made my appeal on Saturday afternoon. And that was my fateful mistake.

In the early hours of Sunday morning, I was awoken by the front door opening. I groggily assumed that it was Gabby, home early after worrying herself silly about the hens I’d cruelly disturbed when I selfishly protected my heterosexual credentials by rejecting the offer of doped tomato soup from the poultry salesman who come onto me in a potting shed in the middle of the night.

I staggered from bed and opened the bedroom door, noticing through bleary sleep-soaked eyes that the clock said two thirty and that Amy Winehouse was standing in the hall.

Of course it wasn’t Amy Winehouse. It was the woman who looked very much like Amy Winehouse I’d met in the coffee shop a fortnight ago. Back then, she’d confessed to having a crush on Lembit Opik and seeing some resemblance, promised that she would be setting her sights on me. At the time, I’d run off, hoping to never see her again.

‘Hello lover!’ she said, and before I knew it, ran up to me and threw her arms around my neck. A metal tongue stud cracked into my teeth and something wet and wilful begin to thrash around my gums like a freshly landed trout.

‘Oh, Chip! I’ve missed you!’ she gasped as I applied leverage to her arms and slipped beyond her grasp. I couldn’t say a word. Tiredness clung to my body as I stumbled my way to the living room.

‘What are you doing here?’ I finally managed to ask, my mind still clogged with dreams trying hard to merge intimately with this nightmare.

‘Call me lover!’ she said and held up a hand. The spare key to the front door glinted in the darkness. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot about me! Oh, I only found the key this morning after you mentioned it on your blog. I’ve waited all day to surprise you. You are surprised aren’t you, Chippy, my love?’


‘Would you mind terribly if I asked you to leave?’

‘But I’m here for a night of lust!’ she cried and threw herself down on the sofa. ‘You promised me!’

I began to cry but they were the tears of a long yawn. ‘Well, that’s really quite wonderful but I really need sleep,’ I explained, thinking it better to avoid the issue of her sanity. ‘Lust is totally out of the question, I’m afraid.’ I nearly added ‘I only do it with the sane’ but I thought better of it and, besides, didn’t know if it was true.

‘You don’t like me?’

‘I’d like you if you left,’ I said, trying to smile.

My guest went pale but it could have just been the blood rushing to her hands which bunched into fists. ‘Leave?’ she howled. ‘Why would you want me to leave, lover? I’m here for you. All these years and we can finally consummate our love tonight.’

‘But I don’t even know you name,’ I said, turning on the lamp standing in the corner of the room. It pained my eyes buy cleared my brain. The weirdness of the dream levelled out to the normality of my reality.

‘Call me Esther,’ she said and peeled off her top. Lembit Opik gazed at me from the back of the snake tattoo that trailed across her shoulder and up her neck.

‘Well Esther,’ I said, thinking quickly, ‘if you’re so determined, who could say no? Perhaps we could have a drink before we get started. Loosen us up a bit?’

She followed me into the kitchen where I was searching out a bottle from the refrigerator. ‘Do you like wine?’ I asked, grabbing one of the narrow necked bottles we keep hidden behind the veg.

‘Oh, I love wine, lover!’ she said, wrapping her arms around my waist as I struggled with the cork to the bottle.

Five minutes later, she was back on the sofa and had already downed three glasses of the clear stuff with barely a drop touching her taste buds. I’d put on some music, if only to waste a few extra minutes, and the whole place was looking quite romantic.

‘What exactly is this stuff?’ she asked, finishing a fourth glass with a smack of her lips. Before I answered, I poured her another which was soon gone.

‘It’s potato gin,’ I explained as she finished.

‘Very good,’ she said.

‘It’s strong enough to take off your tattoos,’ I replied. ‘My girlfriend brews it.’

‘Your girlfriend?’ She laughed. ‘You have a girlfriend?’

‘She’s Romanian. Prone to terrible violence when crossed. You’re lucky she’s in Birmingham.’

‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be getting me drunk?’ asked Esther.

‘Oh, you’re beyond drunk,’ I assured her and stood up. ‘Are you coming to the bedroom?’ I asked. This was the moment when I would see if my gamble would pay off.

He eyes flared and she rocked in her seat. Then she just sat staring at her legs.

‘Why won’t they move!’ she moaned.

I said a silent prayer to Romanian moonshine.

‘You’ll be like that until the morning,’ I said, throwing her a cushion. ‘Just lie back and try to sleep. I’ll ring the police in the morning and we can sort this whole mess out then.’

‘You bastard!’ she screamed. Her eyes crossed and then closed. ‘You absolute…’

‘And God bless potato gin,’ I said to the shape, now unconscious on the sofa before I turned and walked merrily back to the bedroom.

In the morning, I made good my promise and rang the police who took a good hour to arrive but less than five minutes to take my guest away. They seemed to know her quite well and told me that they’ve arrested her countless times for causing a public nuisance by stalking celebrities in Bangor to appear in pantomime. I explained about the key, about her quite understandable fixation on Lembit Opik, and why she’d decided to sneak into my apartment. I also explained about the potato gin and how she would regain use of her legs in another twelve hours.

Gabby got back on Monday and I told her the whole story. She laughed about the whole thing over a glass of her moonshine. I even took a sip or two myself until my lips began to go numb. I really can’t remember much that happened after that, but as I always say: forgetfulness can sometimes be a virtue. I have the vaguest recollection that it involved Gabby singing her latest single.

Press Cutting

I’ve just got back after a day hogging the limelight here in Bangor. This morning, The Bangor Post finally ran an interview I did with them a few months ago. I knew nothing about it until this morning when the neighbour came knocking on the door and asked that I autograph his copy. Since them, I've signed hundreds of papers as I casually loitered in the town centre.

The story isn't exactly front page stuff (instead, they've led with Brown's budget and its impact on the town) but it is, nevertheless, a nice profile.

Anyway, I’ve scanned it and posted for you all to admire (click it to read it in full). Gabby says I look a bit menacing in the photo they've used and though I have to agree that I don’t exactly look my best, I think you can tell I was at a physical peak when it was taken. It also manages to hide my flowing locks.

You might also wonder about the lack of a thong in the photo. I'm disappointed too. They refused to photograph me wearing one on account of it being a family newspaper. I think you can see that I had to wrap a towel around my lower half. Not that I was going to complain too much. It was a cold day when they took that photo and I don't mind admitting that there was plenty of slack in my thong.

Finally, I'd ask you to ignore all the talk about my going in politics. This was interview was done some months ago and I went cold on the idea once the last Lib Dem conference rejected the thong motion I'd been supporting. If another party could adopt it, I might reconsider my position. Until then, I'm afraid to say that politics is not for The Chipster.

In Bed With A Pot Noodle

Can any sight give you more cause to feel pity than that of a ruined stripper with a painful lumbar region, lying in bed, having spilt a beef and tomato Pot Noodle down his front while trying so earnestly to understand the finer points of English poetry?

This sums up my Friday morning and it’s not the sort of life I ever though I’d ever blog about.

I know you’re only here for the tales of greasy thongs, the pole dancing, and my life among the aerobically sound ladies, and I can see why a few of you have dropped off, fearing that this blog has become the equivalent to a Samaritan drop in centre or those benches at the local indoor market that attract the madder kind of vagrant. Well, I’m only blogging about my life and at the moment, I’m forced to play the role of the invalid.

I still look bloody good in a thong though.

The doctor commented on as much when she came to see me this morning. She confirmed that I’ve aggravated my old injury caused last year by my lifting a nineteen stone traffic warden above my head. The good news is that she thinks that bed rest will bring about a quick recovery and she even thinks I might be dancing again in a week or two. I’m going to take it as my chance to get as much of my reading list read as I can.

Although the prognosis is good, this latest episode has only confirmed my doubts about the long term security of stripping as a career. I need another string to my bow, not least in order to earn a decent wage. I don’t see why a man with my skills can’t earn at least £100 a week, perhaps even more. It’s not much to ask for, is it?

To be honest, it was all put into perspective last night when I was watching the Comic Relief version of ‘The Apprentice’. The thought came to me again this morning when I discovered a wonderful new blog called Blockhead Magazine. Reading the Blockhead view of the show prompted me to think about my situation compared with the kind of money being flaunted by super rich celebrities.

The money being given to charity was beyond anything I have known or could imagine. A friend of Trinny Woodall’s agreed to donate £150,000 instead of the paltry £100,000 she’d originally promised them. We also saw John Terry and Ashlie Cole give something like £5000 each to see Anne Robinson put in some stocks.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, and I appreciate the sentiment too, but no matter how good the cause (and can there be any better than the lynching of Anne Robinson?) the flaunting of that kind of money, implying its insignificance, is obscene. A nurse or a teacher would earn £5000 before tax in three months or more and though it does a charity some good to see wealth being distributed their way, the sense that we’re living in a country that’s gone slightly mad is all too apparent.

It leaves me here, as my painkillers begin to wear off, to quote this Auden poem I’ve been struggling over all morning:

It’s no use turning nasty
It’s no use turning good
You’re what you are and nothing you do
Will get you out of the wood
Out of a world that has had its day.

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.

Music To Strip By

You find me a broken man today. I’m also a man left feeling completely battered by modern music. I’ve also ripped my throat. All three things are related.

Last night, my little Romanian songbird headed to London ahead of a recording session this morning. It left me at something of a loose end so I decided to apply a scorched earth policy to my iPod.

Being Romanian and being unbelievably gifted musically, Gabby is always buying new CDs which she insists that I copy straight onto my mp3 player. Over the last few months, dozens upon dozens of new albums have built up into a quite representative collection of what’s new and happening in contemporary popular music.

And I’ve managed to hate every over-produced minute of it.

You see, Gabby’s not the only one in this flat who thinks they understand music. I perform to music every night. My genitals can keep a beat better than most drum machines. My hips can spot a good song before Radio 1. Which is why I cleared my iPod and decided to start again.

It was late night opening at my local independent music shop where I spent an hour going through the bargain bin. I came back with dozens of albums from the sixties which cost next to nothing but were sure to push the Chipster’s buttons in ways mysterious to the likes of Beyonce Knowles and Take That. That’s how I found myself at the gym this morning, sitting on a rowing machine and listening to these lyrics:

The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in '68,
And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe.

Now, call me a melancholic old stripper, but isn’t this just perfect? I’ve been there. I’ve been cynical and drunk. I might not know anybody called Richard and I might never had the chance to bore somebody in a dark cafe, but I’m doing my best on this blog every night and I’m sure one of you has to be called Richard.

And even if you’re not a Richard, Ricky, or a Dick, the song gets even better. It ends with these words, which make me cry every time I listen to them.

All good dreamers pass this way some day
Hiding behind bottles in dark cafes
Dark cafes
Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings
And fly away
Only a phase, these dark cafe days.

Can I repeat my favourite bit again?

All good dreamers pass this way some day
Hiding behind bottles in dark cafes.

I have hid behind a bottle or two in dark cafes. It’s not a pleasant feeling. Joni Mitchell. What a woman!

I’m off to try to buy some more of her albums this afternoon and I’m even thinking of adding something of hers to my act. I’ll be the first stripper to take his clothes off to a bit of Canadian melancholy. It should cause something of a stir around Bangor. I understand she has a song about a Big Yellow Taxi which, let’s face it, sounds like it was written for me. I’m big. I’m a Lib Dem. I’m called Chip. I’m a Big Yellow Chipster.

The only thing is that in the future, I must remember to let my hips to the talking. Joni had such a profound effect on me this morning that I tried to sing along. Not only did I stretch my vocal chords in a direction where they didn’t like to be stretched but I caused a minor panic at the gym where they thought the fire alarm had gone off.

Joni Mitchell may hit notes that only a person wearing a tight thong should be able to hit, but not all people wearing tight thongs are advised to give it a try. Isn’t that an example of a tautology? I don’t know. As I said at the beginning: I’m a broken man this afternoon.

A Stand Up Chipster

I had one of those life-changing moments last night and, oddly, it had nothing to do with my genitals.

For the first time in my life, I had to face a hostile audience; a rare occurrence in the life of a man with a reputation as a fine thonglateer. But I think you’ll understand what I mean when I’ve fully explained the circumstances of my little epiphany.

It was, in all other respects, a normal Monday night. Bangor town centre was simmering away on the gently heat of the packed nightclubs and busy taxi ranks. And there was certainly nothing out of the ordinary when, on the stroke of nine, I arrived at the Green Dragon Tavern, my kitbag packed from base to zip with a world-class selection of thongs.

As normal, I went straight to my changing room behind the stage. It’s there that I like to shower, limber up, and generally get myself centred for my act, which last night I was due to perform at ten.

It’s my custom to leave it until the last minute before I make my way around to the side of the stage, so by the time I got in place, the tavern was in semi darkness. I could dimly make out the crowd, chattering away as I moved to my usual spot, front and centre, where I proceeded to wait the few extra seconds before the spotlight would pick me out and my act would begin.

There’s always a buzz of excitement knowing you’re about to get seriously naked in front of a room of strangers. The adrenaline rush is like no other I know.

Except, it’s never quite as big as the rush you get when you realise that somebody has made one huge mistake.

I was standing there, holding my plumber’s wrench in my hand and balancing an old sink plunger on my head, ready to pout my way to the front of the stage, when the lights suddenly came up. I froze for a moment as I read the sign across the stage floor.

‘Comedy Club’

Instead of finding myself in front of my usual Monday night ladies, I was standing before two hundred sassy comedy lovers of both sexes ready for a night of stand-up.

I think I can be excused if my hand loitered on my zip for a moment longer than normal as I wondering how to get myself out of this embarrassing predicament.

Should I get snapping my thong or should I try to tell some jokes full of gentle observations about our shared social mores? The last time I made a mistake comparable to this one, I chose the wrong option. It had been at a wedding reception and I spent an uncomfortable night in jail until the whole matter was resolved the following morning when the bride’s mother dropped all charges and returned my thong intact.

And that’s why, tonight, I lowered my wrench and walked up to the microphone.

This is a fairly accurate transcript of what I said:

Good evening, Bangor!

[Polite applause]

So…. is there anybody from Wales in the audience tonight?

[Silence]

You… you won’t believe me when I tell you this, but I came out here to take off my clothes.

[A solitary whoop from the crowd]

Hey, I will if you will…

[A lonely cheer]

No, no, honestly. I’m not actually a plumber, if that’s what you were thinking. There wouldn’t be anything funny about my being a plumber, would there now?

[I was oblivious to the fact I was still balancing a sink plunger on my head]

No, I’m a stripper. I take off my clothes for a living. My name’s Chip Dale. You might have heard of me. I’m the Thongoleer Extraordinaire.

[More polite applause from the crowd. They must have indeed heard of me, but then again, who hasn’t?]

Well, it’s a living, I suppose, and it makes things interesting when I fill in my tax forms.

I always like to answer those questions they ask me about my supplemental income. ‘How did you earn this extra money?’ I usually include photographs wrapped in a thong. And ‘How was this money paid?’ I find this one harder to answer. How do I explain how a five pound note was pushed between my buttocks by a nurse in Wrexham high on Bacardi?

But the great thing about being a stripper is you get to have some really useful things lying around the house. I have all the plumbing equipment, which always comes in handy when there’s a leak. I’m can’t say I’m much use with a monkey wrench but I can do naked cartwheels while my girlfriend changes washers.

Well, now I’m here, I might as well talk about something that’s been bothering me for a while.

Do you ever wonder how we ended up with this government?

[Loud whoop…]

I know I didn’t vote for them. Which means it had to be one of you…

[Slightly guilty sniggering]

Okay, own up. What possessed you to put a cross next to the name of people that go about invading places? I don’t even put a cross next to those boxes on supermarket questionaries that ask me if I want to be entered into their prize draw. And invading places has to be a whole league bigger than winning a year’s free groceries.

Now we’ve got a Labour government, I’m not going to be like everybody else accusing them for invading our privacy. You don’t know if they’re listening…

And I wouldn’t say they’re corrupt, though I did see Gibraltar on eBay the other night.

And they’re so odd looking… It’s like all government posts were filled on a first come first served arrangement with the local job centre. If Gordon Brown hadn’t taken charge of the nation’s purse, he’d be the new caretaker down the town baths. Not so many warnings about an extra two pee in stealth taxes but extra warnings about stealth peeing in the deep end.

And what can I say about John Prescott? You know at school there was always a slow kid in the class? Teachers always made them milk monitor and they always won the awards at the end of the year for best kept locker? Doesn’t that explain why we have a Deputy Prime Minister? ‘Okay, John, could you collect the glasses now the cabinet meeting has finished? No John, put that away. Nice little boys don’t try to sharpen those like a pencil… John, please take you hand from up my skirt. No, it’s not a tent.’

Of course, I’m a Liberal Democrat myself.

[Laughter! The first of the evening!]

I get to take part in political debates yet I can never be held accountable for anything that ever happens. The only thing I worry about is a well hung parliament. We Lib Dems aren’t used to having real power. I worry it will go to our heads and we’ll make crazy demands. Menzies Campbell is already talking of asking for a rerun of the 1964 two hundred meters final.

Okay, I’m getting the signal that I’ve got to stop. I have people to go and flash. You’ve been a wonderful audience. My name’s Chip Dale.

Good night.

[Polite applause]

And with that, I made my way back to my dressing room where I changed back into my normal everyday suit and thong.

When I got home, Gabby greeted me at the door and was soon screeching with delight at my story. Only at the end did she confess that she forgotten to pass on a message about the cancellation of my act because of a comedy evening.

I couldn’t be angry with the poor poppet. Tonight has taught The Chipster a valuable lesson and I’ll never look on my plumber’s outfit the same. It’s a memory of the night when I realised that stripping is one of the easier art forms and that I should stick to what I’m good at.

I’ve been Chip Dale. You’ve been a wonderful audience.

Good night.

I Am Not Called Iain

The streets of Bangor are ominously quiet this evening. The stench of public humiliation mixes with the sweet fragrance of female hormones gone awry. In many a home tonight, the ladies of the town lament my non-appearance at the Green Dragon Tavern. I sit here, waiting for the phone to ring. I’m sure there are powerful forces watching me work.

It would appear that the Chipster may have offended his famous namesake, Mr. Iain Dale (no relation). Now the world of Welsh exotic dancing is in turmoil and Gabby is crying in the corner of the room. She thinks this will have a bearing on her application to stay in the country. I just fear that I'll have to flog my collection of valuable thongs on eBay to fight a court case. What am I to do? Are the any lawyers out there who could tell me if I have a leg to stand on? And no, madam, *that* is not a leg. I am only a man in a thong. A big loveable man in a thong who never meant to hurt anybody.

Gabby, bless her little East European heart, says she’ll help smuggle me into Romania next time she goes there on tour with his sister, but I don’t know if I want to leave my wonderful Wales. Have you seen the quality of Romanian thongs? I’d rather rot in an English prison.

Looking at the design of my blog and that of Mr. Dale’s famous site, I was shocked to see some similarities. Coincidence follows me around so much. First there was this bloody facial resemblance I have to He Who Must Not Be Named, and now this! I’ve spoken to the cheap little bastard who built my webpage and he now admits that he was inspired by Britain’s top blogger. Knowing that I’m the country’s top Lib Dem stripper, he thought it a good idea to pay homage to a Tory blogger. What did he call it? Cross pollination? I could smell whisky on his breath. And he calls himself a Welshman!

I’ll have to sleep on this tonight. In the words of Julie Andrews: tomorrow’s just a thong away. Thanks for the support from those that emailed me. I’d just like to assure everybody that I’m no Iain Dale. Nor am I a sock puppet. And I am most certainly not somebody called Glyn Davies.

You can guess as long as you like but I am the real Crispen ‘Chip’ Dale. I just don't know for how much longer...

Thong on!