London Strip Club, Humour, Satire,

Last Night I was at a seedy, but reputable strip club in Soho, London.

Women danced on the stage, wrapped themselves around poles, ground themselves into the laps of lecherous businessmen unwinding after long hours at the office.

I had a large Chablis and was sitting at the bar, peering up every so often at the naked women, with Steve, my ex Army old mate who was going through a bitter divorce.

His wife, Mandy, was divorcing him because he frequented too many strip clubs.

“It’s just tits,” Steve said. “It’s just ass.”

“I guess Mandy doesn’t see it that way,” I said.

“That’s because Mandy doesn’t have tits or an ass. Have you seen her?” Steve waved to the bartender for another refill.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Her tits are as small as chocolate marshmallows. Her ass is as lumpy as fetta cheese.”

“Yeah,” I said.

I always hated when Steve did this, found things to say about his wife just to bring her down, always belittling her not just to me but to her face. No wonder she was getting a divorce.

Now don’t get me wrong I love Steve, I do, but he’s a prick.

“Listen,” I said, wanting to get out of the conversation, not wanting to talk about Mandy’s fetta cheese bum, “I’m gonna’ go for a pee. I’ll be right back.”

I went to the Gents and saw that Nick bloke in there snorting some coke.

He didn’t look like the guy who I had last seen portrayed on Question Time and only that morning on Sky News. For one thing he wasn’t standing in front of No:10.

For another he was doing blow with a toothless hooker.

“Time to go,” I said,

Then he mumbled “I know!”