I was asked to judge a pole dancing competition on Wednesday. Honest.
Complete con. The girls had Midlands accents. Not an Eastern European in sight. I thought they'd be wearing clogs and crushing cabbages.
Instead, semi-clad women, covered in baby oil, gyrated inches away from me. Gosh, it's changed so much since our maypole dancing at junior school. Not one of them hit me with a pig's bladder.
Don't ask why they picked me, but if the dirty mac fits...
I just didn't know where to look. Thank goodness I had my copy of Caravaners' World, that's all I can say. Pretended to be browsing through that while an athletic blonde called Jo-Jo strutted her stuff. When she thrust one naked leg on my table I calmly removed Hula-Hoops from the packet and stuck them on her toes. She looked miffed, but had a lucky escape, in truth. I was going to take a bag of doughnuts into the club.
"Look, this one's a six berth with two chemical toilets," I told the nubile dancer, thrusty the glossy mag under her nose in a desperate attempt to take some of the searing heat from the situation.
She simply grabbed the publication and rubbed it over her glistening body, ruining the double-spread pic of the Kestrel Alpine - a four berther with walnut trim and superflush toilet system. I was hoping to hang that in my locker.
And baying businessmen thrust cash into the dancers' undergarments. I tried to unload the contents of our coppers jar, but the girl - a comely lass called 'Heaven' - got fed-up after ten minutes. And the weight of all that shrapnel made her fall over. And made her backside look very big. And lumpy.
I tried to think of something provocative to add to the chorus of encouragement from sweaty, affluent middle-aged men, but in the end decided on a rather meek: "Shin up it!"
"Can't you think of something a little more risque," laughed one excited bald fellow.
"Shin up it, you harlot," I corrected quickly.
They charge £100 to sit on your lap, apparently. What a mug I've been. I charged 25p to sit on me when I stood-in for Santa at the local youth club grotto.
I declined the 'lap service', on financial grounds, but asked 'Heaven' what she'd provide for £2.73 and a fast-food restaurant 'free burger' voucher.
For that, she promised she'd sit down: not on me, possibly not at the same venue, probably not at the same club, maybe not in the same country, certainly not this night...but she would sit down. And going to the toilet doesn't count. Driving home does, though.
Gosh, I hope she's got one of those wooden bead seat covers on the driver's side.
If that isn't the stuff adult fantasies are made of, I don't know what is.