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.

Carpe Diem

Disaster.

As I write, the clock says it’s ten minutes past ten. If things had gone according to plan today, I should now be about to snatch the last inch of silk string hiding my modesty and reveal myself to Bangor’s late night crowd. I was due on stage ten minutes ago.

So what am I doing, sitting here and typing on my laptop? I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I tore a muscle this afternoon.

It happened when I was reading Auden. In fact, it happened because I was reading Auden. If I’d been reading any other book, none of this would have happened. I knew this education was a bad thing. I also blame Robin Williams.

It happened like this. Gabby’s still chasing up singing work (I know what you’re thinking but you’ve got to give the girl marks for trying) so she left me at home to get to grips with my literature assignment. I sat myself down and opened my brand new copy of The English Auden. I thumbed my way trough a few pages until I found myself a shortish poem to get me going.

After struggling for half an hour, mumbling the words as I read, I began to realise I was doing something wrong. don’t know much about poetry but I was damn sure Mrs. Rust wouldn’t have me mumbling. And that’s when I thought about Dead Poet’s Society, the film. It’s a great movie and one of my favourites until the guy from Robocop blows his brains out. That’s not important, though. What is important is that I thought about the film and decided that if I really wanted to understand my literature coursework, I really needed to read the poems aloud and, preferably, while standing on a table.

The only table I could do it on was the kitchen table but I’ve never been a man to let little details sway me. I climbed up on the kitchen work surface and began to read out the poem in my best literary voice.

And, do you know that it actually helped? The words jumped from the page and I could see their every meaning. It was like I’d just been awakened into a new and beautiful world.

Almost as beautiful as the pool of tea that I slipped in just as I was about to hit the last rhyme.

I fell from the table, cracked my skull against the dishwasher and my back against the edge of the tumble dryer. The pain was excruciating at first but eventually eased into a dull throbbing pain I knew only too well. I had aggravated the injury that kept me out of stripping for much of last year.

Yawn

Bit tired this morning and I've not got my typing fingers on. My brain was reeling last night after two hours of education so I didn't sleep well. Not got much planned this afternoon except take a look at this homework. Tonight I've a gig so there'll also be a good couple of hours preparation.

I'll type something meaningful when I've eaten.

Mrs. Rust

Whoever said that education is wasted on youth had clearly never met Mrs. Rust.

‘Literature is not a examinable subject,’ was the first thing she said when she strode into the classroom. ‘It’s a calling, a passion, a reason for opening your eyes in the morning and wishing to appraise the world afresh. It is, in short my people, a religion, and when you come into this classroom, I expect you to act as though you’re in church. I want you to bow your heads and put your faith in the beauty of words.’

Perhaps it was the way she descended on the room more than the words themselves, but my eyes began to well, even as I felt myself bow my head.

She had made what is known as an impression on all of us but on me in particular. There was something about this little woman that spoke to the ambitious student in me. She was probably the first woman in a long time I wanted to impress with something other than a thrust of my hips.

I know it’s an odd thing to confess. This was, after all, only my first taste of adult education, which immediately makes it sound more pornographic than it was. Mrs. Rust is short, greying, not particularly tolerant of other people and with an encyclopaedic knowledge of how to put a man in his place. She hadn’t been in the room for ten minutes before she told me off for fidgeting. I hadn’t the nerve to explain that I was trying to readjust my thong.

She then told us that she wanted us all to introduce ourselves, but before we began, she stood up herself and held up our set texts. She then proceeded to introduce each author as though they were in the room. She described their lives, their character, and their artistic struggles. It was all fascinating and made me feel not a little humble, especially as I was sat in the seat nearest her desk and it was me she asked in to continue the introductions.

How could I follow potted biographies of Auden, Dickens, Joyce, and Hemmingway and say ‘Hello, my name’s Chip and I shake my genitals for money’? It wouldn’t exactly inspire a teacher’s confidence and I’m not so sure my fellow students would want to sit next to me.

I had to say something and I seemed to take an eternity to slowly push myself to my feet. I could feel Mrs. Rust’s eyes boring into me. I felt my face flush under the scrutiny of the other students. Me, a man who has stood naked before thousands, feeling embarrassed standing fully clothed before a class of twenty.

Eventually, my knees locked and I was standing upright. I could delay my introduction no longer.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘My name is Chip Dale and I’m… I’m… I’m…’

I hesitate now to say what I hesitated to say then. But eventually words came and the terrible confession was made.

I said: ‘Hello, my name is Chip Dale and I’m a chartered manicurist’.

I know, I know… It made about as much sense when I said it. But my mind was racing, looking for something to say instead of the truth. After that, the rest of the lesson was easy.

We spent the first hour reading poetry and the second hour discussing just one of Auden’s sonnets. The last ten minutes were taken up by Mrs. Rust instructing us on how to complete our first homework project.

My task is to write an appreciation of any poem of my choosing. I can’t say it will be fun. My temptation is to dust off my copy of the Benny Hill Big Book of Dirty Verse but Mrs. Rust doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman to appreciate Mr. Hill’s wit. I'd even go as far as to say I bet she wouldn't see the beauty of even the funniest poem, no matter how many crackers the boy on the burning deck had in his pockets.

The Chipster's Out of the Office

I have to go and see a man about a dog. Actually, it's a woman and she owns the local bookshop where I'm going to buy the last few items on my reading list. This education is getting expensive. It better be worth it.

I'll post later.

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.

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.

Post Do Doings

I've had a great night at the awards celemony. The Welsh Thong Awards put on a good spread. Plenty to drink and lots of my kind of people. I've got a little tipsy and Gabby has disgraced herself petty badly with people in high places. I haven't got the energy to tell you what happened or at least not now. Food was thrown and too many things said... I'll tell you all tomorrow. Or maybe Monday. I think I'll be sleeping this off all Sunday...

No Longer Pink But In The Pink

I’ve finally had the extensions put in to cover the hair missing from my pony tail and while I was there, I had it all dyed back to it’s natural colour, though perhaps it’s a tone or too darker.

The result is that I’m cutting the mustard, as the saying goes, and all is well at Chipster central. It’s actually a blessing I’ve managed to regain my form so quickly. This morning, I had some good news. It’s been confirmed by the organisers of this year’s Welsh Thong Awards that I’ve been named the Top Thong for 2007, which as you will know, is one of the biggest awards in Welsh stripping.

This is a huge honour as it’s the second time I’ve won it. This time I feel like it is a real surprise. The first time I won, I'd worked so hard to establish my name in the minds of the judges, but with my injury last year, I’d not given it a thought. I’ve not even been doing the clubs that regularly. I understand that one of the judges saw my Neil Kinnock at the World Strippers Convention in Washington the other week and that tipped the balance.

Anyway, I want to dedicate this award it to everybody who has watched me dance in the last year but also to those people who have patronised this blog. Your support makes it easy for a man as humble as myself to slip off his clothes at a moment's notice.

The award ceremony is tomorrow night and I’ll be expected to give a speech, which will take some planning. It does mean that I also have to rush to get a suit ready and find my formal dress thong. I can't wait to see what Gabby will say. She loves these posh evenings when she can demonstrate how she can down a whole bottle of bubbly without spilling a drop. What a woman!

A Confession About A Mole

I recently sold a mole on eBay.

I don’t say this lightly or meaning to shock you. I say this as a matter of fact and as a way of absolving myself of a terrible episode which has blighted my conscience for many months. You might say I should have told you sooner, but I feel like we’re only just getting to know each other. I thought a thing like a mole might come between us. You might have thought the Chipster a little odd. You might have decided not to come back and visit him.

The mole actually belonged to a friend of mine and it had come into my possession after he suffered a serious grazing incident on the rowing machine at the local gym. I didn’t even know I had it until I came home and took my towel from my bag that night. We’d used the towel to help stop poor Thompson’s bleeding but, when I came to put it in the wash, I noticed that a small piece of Thompson had become stuck to the towel. Gabby wasn’t at all impressed. She’s seen worse things than a slightly bloody mole. Remember that this is a woman who wanted to slaughter a goat in our flat and she would have done so if I hadn’t come home and found her trying to hang the poor creature up by its hind legs from the shower rail. I managed to get the goat out of the flat and I led it to freedom on some fields just outside Bangor. The mole was a different story. That was something I decided to keep.

I kept it because, at the time, the news was full of crazy stories about the odd things that get good prices on eBay. I was in a particularly contrary mood so I went online and advertised it as a genuine mole as removed from Liz Hurley’s inner thigh. The fact that a few hairs were still embedded into the mole only seemed to add to the item’s authenticity to the eBay crowd. By the end of the first night, the bids had shot past two hundred pounds.

The whole thing was an unreal experience, especially when, a week later, it came to packing the mole away and taking it to the post office. moles are not easy things to wrap, and I used to much bubble wrap believing, I think, I needed to hide the real contents. You might say that guilt had a lot to do with it. The Royal Mail has probably delivered very few moles in their time and I tend to think that there’s probably a good reason for that. The postage alone came to nearly ten pounds once I’d insured the mole to the value of five hundred pounds.

It was all as a amusing as hell, and, as you can tell, profitable too, until a month later when the phone rang.

‘Is this Dale?’

‘Chip Dale,’ I said.

‘My name is Reed. You might remember you sold me a mole.’

‘Ah, yes…’ I said, my heart beginning to race. ‘Liz Hurley’s mole.’

‘Or so you claimed. Listen, I’m at Bangor railway station. I’m on my way to see you.’

‘Oh, but this really isn’t that convenient.’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes,’ he said and rang off.

What could I do? I wanted to hide, or at least not answer the door, but part of me knew I’d done a bad thing and I had to make ready for the consequences. Reed arrived in less than five minutes and he carried a little package tucked under his arm.

‘So,’ I said, prevaricating a little. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s about this mole,’ he said, placing the box down on the coffee table. ‘I’m an accountant, you see, Mr. Dale. And I have friends who are accountants and one of my friends is one of the best tax accountants there are. He does all the big accounts and he recently happened to be doing Liz Hurley’s tax returns. He mixes with all the stars and he’s never awestruck. That’s probably why he got around to telling her that I’d just bought one of her old moles. Well, you can imagine my friend’s surprise when she told him that she’d never had any moles removed and that she’s never had any moles at all.’

‘Liz Hurley said that,’ I asked and let out a slight whistle.

He smiled. ‘You see, my predicament, Mr. Dale? My whole collection of Miss Hurley’s moles lost their authenticity right there and then.’

‘Did you say your whole collection?’

He gestured to the box. ‘Nineteen, to be exact. Nineteen moles in mint condition.’

‘Nineteen?’ I repeated. ‘But I only sold you the one.’

‘There are many more sellers on eBay than your good self, Mr. Dale. A man who searches hard enough can find everything he wants on eBay. Cost me a small fortune but I probably now have the world’s finest collection of Liz Hurley’s moles that money can buy. But it leads me to a rather difficult question.’

I could feel the moment coming and I was thinking about where I’d left my wallet. I could see I’d soon be making a trip to the cash machine to rob it of the five hundred pounds this man had paid me for a piece of my friend Thompson.

‘I understand,’ I sighed and stood up.

‘You do?’ he said. ‘I mean, how could you? I’ve not asked you yet.’

‘Well it’s obvious isn’t it?’

‘Mr. Dale, you’re the first person I’m going ask.’

‘Ask what?’

He stood up to look me in my eyes. The moment was suddenly loaded with meaning, as though his question meant the world to him.

‘Will you act as a witness when I take this case to court?’

‘What case?’

He sighed and shook his head. ‘Miss Hurley has made a terrible allegation about the authenticity of my collection and I intend to see the matter settled in court. She must retract her statement. My collection is too valuable to allow these gross rumour to circulate. So, I ask you again, Mr. Dale. Will you stand as a witness?’

What could I say? I argued with the man for another hour, suggesting that he allow me to buy the mole back from him but all he could do was sit there and look vaguely superior. ‘That mole is the finest one in my collection,’ he said. ‘It’s the only one with one of Liz’s hairs in it!’

I wondered about confessing all and telling him about my friend Thompson and his accident with the rowing machine. In the end, I had to settle on dissuading him from expecting testimony from me. I explained that I would prove a poor witness on account of having all my life thought moles were disgusting.

‘I’d be a hostile witness, you see?’ I said and stumbled onto the one reason that finally convinced him. ‘You see, Mr. Reed, why would I want to sell one of Liz Hurley’s moles in the first place?’

He took my point, clapping me around the shoulder in a way meant to say much about the camaraderie between mole collectors. He left me that afternoon and I’ve never seen him again. I read in the newspapers that he’d tried to approach Miss Hurley at a movie premier only to be brushed aside by her security guards. The paper also reported that he had fallen into the road, where a box he was carrying had gone under the wheels of a taxi. That, I think, is what happened to part of my friend Thompson, stuck to the wheel of a London taxi cab.

There’s a moral to this story but I’m really not so sure what it is. Probably it’s something to do with being careful about what you buy off eBay. Then again, it could be about the easy money you can make if you have a friend called Thompson who has plenty of moles.

I really don’t know which. I think I’ll let you make up your own mind.