AS I SAW IT

Half a pint and half a frontal

KATE WHARTON

The disc jockey—a young man with an old unpleasant face that possibly (but not much) has something to do with the endless would- be funny patter of his interceptions—puts on another record called, if I'm right (and it's very difficult in the confusion and crush to be right about anything), This is the Witch which heralds the strip artiste we've been hearing about now for the last half-hour. So far we've heard that she's sensational, very young and that she's possessed of a sensa- tional (that word again) pair of boobs. Next week so the DJ goes on (and now with a slightly apologetic tone in his abrasive man- ner), the strip is slightly older. In fact, he suggests, she's not as young as she might be—though not that old either. Amidst the frenzied noise of This is the Witch I think I hear him say that her name is Sally Gay or Sally Grey. Obviously the latter suits her better but is possibly too unkind even in the terrible surroundings of this new pub in Fulham whose star attraction is that it has strip every Sunday lunch-time.

Anyway, the predominantly Irish and col- oured faces on either side of me don't seem to mind that much as they hoist vast glasses of beer in hammy fists to rather wet mouths.

Either it's anticipation, heat or the fact that there are about 500 of us jammed all too close together but there's enough human sweat to irrigate the Sahara. Some types look as if they're almost crying in the dim red lights that hang low above us. There are a few sheepskin jackets about but mostly today's audience is dressed in today's version of shiny suit and brown shoes. What ties are worn are dark and respectable—even black.

Miss Barbara Young, this Sunday's artiste, is late. The young/old DJ lights yet another cigarette, which is about his twentieth in the last hour and tells a joke about British Railways. tips close to the microphone he breathes: 'Why do British Railways always have big trains and never any little trains? Because', he answers with a great crashing amplified laugh at his own wit, 'they always pull out in time.' Nobody else much laughs at this except for a bottle-littered table of four young men who've obviously been sit- ting there since the pub opened waiting for Miss BY.

This is the Witch having come to an end an even louder record is put on which seems to consist of people doing nothing but stamp their feet. I begin to feel dizzy but notice that others are now climbing on tables to get a better look at the diminutive stage below us. Face after face joins the serried ranks. Most of them are young, Irish, would-be trendy with sideburns in some cases dripping with drink and presumably not long come from another celebration—Sunday mass. Indeed, one of the locals informs me 'Sure, you can always tell when the 12 o'clock is over by the inrush here.' After Sunday mass the Sunday strip', I reply but his eyes are focused away down there.

By now the anticipation is quite awful. Faces are even more puffed, red, hot, shiny, blotched. Some hang almost upside down from wooden rafters in order to catch a tiny

glimpse of the tiny stage below. Others crane round the huge wooden columns that are pirt of the decor. Even the ventilating fan seems to be revolving , that much more frenetically. Sensing this the DJ calls for order. 'Let's have a little more room for the beautiful Miss Barbara Young', he says. `Push back on those behind you and give her a bit of space. Now, now', he adds with heavy playfulness, 'I didn't say it in the plural, did I? You naughty people . . . I hope you know what to do with your stuff- ing this Christmas The music changes and suddenly the same fanfare that normally heralds the Queen's opening of Parliament now heralds today's star attraction. Only instead of our royal sovereign it's the beautiful Miss Barbara Young standing there in white shirt, striped school tie (from where I am I can't see what school but hope, for private reasons, it's either one of two well-known ones), black sto-kings, black lace suspender belt and black high heels. The music changes again to a slirpy Hawaiian piece. Miss BY, who's a bit of a fatty, drops the plain black gown held on one shoulder (no scholar she) and wiggles her rather pendulous bottom up and down as she parades three feet in one direction and three feet in the other—the full extent of the tiny stage—in order to give all the boys an eyeful. More gyrations and off comes the tie which is chucked into a corner of the stage.

Anyway, to make a long story longer (which is surely what strip is all about) she next takes off her drip-dry-and-much-in-

need-of-a-blue-rinse-shirt and stands revealed in an awful lot of underwear by today's standards. Unfortunately there's a huge wooden pillar in front of me so that even though dislocating my neck con- siderably I can't see much of her next antics until she comes to our end showing a nifty pair of black hands glued to her bottom. Wow, wow. The faces round me look drowned in their own sharpness. Miss BY puts out her tongue and then turns (should I say wheels but that might be too exciting) to face a perfectly ordinary metal coat-hanger

hooked on the wall which seems to arouse stupendous passion in her judging by the way she writhes up and down. The black

hands are stripped off and stuffed in the mouths of two members of the audience (Are you sitting comfortably? That damn disc jockey is catching) and then she starts on the top half. _ Well, I suppose there's nothing like it in Kilkenny—which is why I might go to Kilkenny—but it all-seems to take a hell of a long time. Much of it goes on in a squatting position which is even more unfair as prac- tically none of us but the front row below can see what's happening. Still, the gentlemen round me seem very patient. A chap brushes past in a white polo neck above a dark sweater. Is he a priest now? If so, I'm prepared to argue that my presence here is pure penance. But no, sadly another look satisfies that it's not a dog collar—only a white polo neck.

The most beautiful Miss BY is almost there, The famous boobs are exposed and so is a

mighty round - tummy. Another contortion

(has the poor girl got stomach-ache I won- der for a second of considerable sympathy) and then all is revealed. There's a crash of music and the pub, loyalty itself, shouts its head off.

Twenty minutes later during which time the numbers have diminished but not enough for many to get a full frontal, Miss By is back doing her second !act'. Expecting her to do the same thing all over again I'm

surprised to find her this time dressed in a

blue sweater and God knows what skirt. Be moved down to the pit this time in the hope of getting a better view but obviously need considerably more research before I find the best place because now I can see scarcely anything. but two breasts and a slightly wearied face. However, since much of the se- cond act seems to consist of swigging an unidentifiable liquid out of a dark brown bottle—when she''S not pouring it over the famous boobs—it doesn't seem to matter.

Voices on either side of me mutter away : 'Is that supposed to be champagne?"No, of course it isn't. You don't get champagne in a dark brown bottle. It's probably Cyprus medium-sweet.' Why not vscn.?' queries a third voice. Halfway through the act when she appears to be doing something childishly obscene with the Cyprus sherry bottle, the bell goes for last drinks but the audience. half-consumed pints in hand, stays loyally -with her to a man—and the occasional woman. _ The DJ at close quarters looks extremely nasty and has such a cold calculating ex- pression in his young/old eyes as he watches the beautiful Miss BY that I begin to feel sor- ry for the oldie he has warned us of next week. At least BY, fatty though, she un- doubtedly is, has the advantage of youth. What about poor Miss Gay /Grey? Is some awful expanse of saggy, creepy female flesh to be paraded before those horribly lustless eyes? Ah well, I console myself, there's a chance that with his rate of smoking he'll be dead from lung cancer by then and feel relieved for the whole female sex.

,Craih, crash, crash and it's all over. BY goes 'off to collect it (in cash I hope) and we all move slowly out to the street to find a foggy day in Fulham town. Nearby the street names 'Bishop this'. 'Bishop that' testify to his worship's presence once upon a time if unfortunately not now. Which is a pity because who would not have liked to begin a piece with 'As the Bishop said to the beautiful Miss Barbara Young . . ,'?