Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend by Phil Sloan

Author:Phil Sloan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Tags: recovery
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2013-06-10T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen: The Trail of a Snail Ruins Jeans Made of the Skin of a Mole

The eight of us join the short queue of people that are unsurprisingly, all well shifty looking gentlemen. All making a bad hash of looking like they really don’t want to be here, but they very obviously do.

We reach the front and ask the bouncer standing there in his regulation black bomber jacket and earpiece, what the full S.P. (starting price) is.

His reply must be the same answer he has been reeling off for months as he does not even pause for breath as he explains:

‘Right this is a lap dancing bar. It is £3 each to get in, £2 per drink and then £5 per private dance. The rules are very simple to understand. Number one, you do NOT touch the ladies. Number two, you do NOT proposition the dancers. You best believe that you will not be getting a ‘poke in the whiskers’ in this establishment. Number three, you do NOT touch the merchandise or there will be big trouble coming your way. We only employ the sexiest ladies and I guarantee you no munters on these premises! Gentlemen step this way.’

To be perfectly straight the fella lost me at the words ‘this is a lap dancing bar’ the rest of his spiel was a load of white noise, blah blah blah, with a threat of mindless violence if Captain Grope pays a visit! We get it. Look but do not touch. There is no ‘try before you buy’ policy in this joint.

We hand over three sheets each for the entrance fee and enter the club. As soon as we get through the door we notice one very small detail that ‘Mr I love the sound of my own voice’ has rather conveniently forgotten to mention. Unsurprisingly, the fella’s out-number the scantily clad dancers by about twenty to one.

The place is absolutely ram-packed solid with geezers who are all over the sexy ladies like bluebottles buzzing about turds. The club has certainly seen better days with a 1970’s décor of tack, disco balls, loads of mirrors and a carpet that is as sticky as quick sand. I am hoping this is due to the number of pints of ale spilt on it over the years and not stray bodily fluids.

One side of the place is a long bar that is about fifty deep, all hollering for lager, at the two over worked and totally pissed off bar staff standing behind it.

On the other side of the room is a small stage with a steel pole, where one of the girls is slowly peeling her kit off to applause and cheers from the leering punters. The way she is throwing herself around the pole really is impressive. Twisting round and round the silver pole in the centre of the stage and then hanging upside down legs akimbo, with not a stitch on, is certainly a skill worth learning. Maybe they should do a degree course in it.

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