Get Them Off

The Bide-a-Wee in Bucksburn was Aberdeen’s go-to venue for strippers. The management brought them up from Newcastle, Wilma had been soberly informed when she’d made discreet enquiries of a local entertainment agency. Strippers in latex, strippers with snakes… You name it, they could source them. Sexy girls, the promoter said. Best in the business.

But it wasn’t girls Wilma was interested in. Wednesday was ladies’ night at the Bide-a-Wee. Her quest that evening was for something more, shall we say, macho.

Now, the compère – a Slick Willie in a too-tight tuxedo – flashed his toothpaste smile. ‘Tonight, ladies,’ emotionless blue eyes swept the audience, ‘we have a mega treat in store. Straight from the London Palladium…’ Pregnant pause to let this sink in, ‘…the Bide-a-Wee brings you the Biggie Boys!’

Aye, right, Wilma thought. For ‘Biggie’ read ‘Mr Average’. As for the London Palladium, the ‘Hull Hippodrome’ more like.

‘But before the boys strut their stuff…’

Wilma’s ears pricked. The main attraction would be scheduled last, that was the way it worked: a big name to draw in the crowds, the programme padded out with a comedy act to warm up the audience, a bit of local talent – whoever was available. And cheap. Wilma said a silent prayer this would include her man.

Her mouth puckered into a peeved moue. Here she was working her socks off while Maggie wasted time on that nutter from Milltimber. Once a snob, always a snob, she thought sourly.

The agency’s workload was supposed to be split down the middle. As the more academic of the two, Maggie would concentrate on their corporate clients: business that demanded scrupulous attention to detail and, above all, consistency. Wilma, with her gung-ho personality and short attention span, was happy to take on whatever else came their way. Pick and mix, she jokingly called this scatter-gun approach, but if she was honest, she enjoyed the variety.

After some early setbacks, mostly involving divorce cases, she’d opted to concentrate on fraud. The market was large, and growing. Time was, you wanted something, you earned the money to pay for it. Not anymore. This night’s subject was a case in point. Wilma had heard word that the claimant – a wannabe professional footballer feigning an ankle injury – had turned to stripping. She’d already drawn a blank in several pubs, hoped tonight she might get lucky. Wasn’t worth putting in more man hours if she drew a blank.

Listen to you, she chuckled inwardly. Proper pro!

Sure enough, on came the warm-up guy. Talk about warm! The weather outside wasn’t bad for mid-January but, packed solid with under-dressed women, the function room was like a sauna. Wilma could feel perspiration pooling in her armpits and between her thighs. A jaded sixty-something in a shiny tuxedo and patent leather shoes, the comedian cracked a quick-fire burst of old jokes and lewd remarks, his delivery so un-nuanced he might as well have been reciting the ten times table. Between knocking back their vodkas and Bacardis, the audience heckled and jeered.

Michelin Mike was introduced next. Mike was a roly-poly, as the name implied. Wilma knew all the jargon. She eyed his trembling layers of fat. They overhung a pair of tiny scarlet Speedos and two stocky corned-beef legs. Christ, she marvelled, the fella would have to be hung like a donkey for his equipment to be visible under that lot. Not that Wilma could talk about weight, not these days. She’d been that pushed this last while, her gym sessions had gone to the wall.

‘Show us yer willy!’ The trio at the next table could have been triplets, kitted out as they were in matching lurex tank tops.

‘Naw.’ The hen party behind her had already drunk a bucketful, the pink marabou trim of their costumes sticky with spilled Baileys, gauzy angel wings askew. ‘Fuck aff an bring on some real cock.’

With a nervous backward smile, Michelin Mike scuttled off.

Wilma yawned her way through a drag act. She’d had two late nights already that week, and the atmosphere in the function room wasn’t helping: a fetid amalgam of cheap scent, alcohol and sweat. Plus, she was bursting for a pee. That was the problem with drinking sparkling water with ice and lemon and kidding yourself it was vodka and tonic. She’d have liked to nip to the ladies’ but, sure as shit, if she did that she’d miss out on the action. Resolutely, she crossed her legs.

The drag act was followed by Tyrone, a triangulated body-builder with biceps so exaggerated he was a walking advert for steroids. Despite the promising bulge in his posing pouch, Wilma’s eyelids wilted.

‘And now,’ the slime-bag compère was back. ‘It is my great pleasure to introduce…’ Roll of drums.

Wilma’s eyes jolted open.

‘Aberdeen’s answer to The Full Monty. Our home-grown… Our very own…Ding-a-Lings!’

She strained forward in her seat. Watched as, one by one, five scruffy blokes shuffled onto the stage. Kitted out in jeans, ripped T-shirts and builders’ boots, they sported enough tattoos to camouflage an elephant. With bashful faces, they formed an untidy line.

Wilma fished in her handbag, checked out a photo. Bingo! Her guy was second from the left. She snorted. Puny specimen he was too.

For long moments the five stood, stealing sideways glances at one another.

From the audience there were wolf whistles, shouts of ‘Jordan’ and ‘Shane’.

The latter nodded acknowledgement. The former scratched his balls.

The music started up. The line lurched into a too-predictable routine. There were titters, the occasional catcall: ‘Give us the fuckin Chippendales.’

The women waited, inebriated and restive. Then, ‘Get them off!’ a voice screeched.

Off came the T-shirts.

Wilma reached for her camera. Leapt to her feet. Dashed off a few shots.

‘Off! Off!’ The audience rose as one.

With a series of staccato rips, the Velcro fastenings gave and five pairs of customised jeans fell to the floor.

All around, over-excited women were jumping up and down, screaming at the top of their voices. Wilma tried to get a clear sight of her quarry, but the crowd obstructed her view.

Dammit! She clambered onto her chair.

‘Christ’s sake!’ All around her, women jostled for a clear view.

The music grew louder.

The Ding-a-Lings were down to their Y-fronts now. Correction: Y-fronts and footwear.

Wilma sensed a stirring in her groin. Way before Uggs came into fashion, she’d had a proper fetish for big calfskin builders’ boots.

With a nicotine-stained forefinger the nonagenarian seated at the table to Wilma’s left adjusted her false teeth. ‘Poofters,’ she spat.

A gob of mucus traced a trajectory through the fetid air and landed on Wilma’s shoe. Distracted, she paused mid-shot, lost her balance and toppled sideways. There was a loud crash as the table tipped, sending drinks glasses flying.

To a chorus of four-letter words, Wilma struggled to her feet.

She looked towards the stage.

The Ding-a-Lings stood, open-mouthed, legs spread, hands cupping their privates.

She ventured a quick shufti over her shoulder.

Two beefy bouncers were threading their way through the throng.

Bugger! It was yonks since she’d been to a ladies’ night and she’d grudged the hefty entrance fee. Now it looked like she’d miss the main attraction.

Still, she rationalised, as she dusted herself down, she’d put in a good night’s work: that Ding-a-Ling bastard wouldn’t be pursuing his disability claim for much longer.