Gabrielle #40 – The Most Glorious Strip Club in Britain

A short story made using words from reviews of strip clubs.

Some news for paid subscribers: I’m retiring God Forbid. The series has been running for over a year and I feel it has served its purpose, at least for now.

I’ll still be publishing flash fiction but it’ll be more experimental and prompt-based from here on. I’m currently working three jobs, but when I’m working less jobs I’ll also start putting out extra essays for paid subscribers. I suspect most of you are parting with your precious income to support that aspect of the newsletter, anyway, which I am grateful for.

I hope this will come as a fun little change but feel free to send any feedback, prompts, outrage or, as always, completely unrelated details of your own personal crises to the Gabrielle hotline: gabrielleultras@gmail.com.

For now, a short story made entirely with words I harvested from reviews of strip clubs in the UK – available to everyone.

All images taken from a video tour of an abandoned strip club in Bolton.

The Most Glorious Strip Club in Britain

This is the most glorious strip club in Britain.

Or, at least, the North West.

Full of hot girls from all corners of the world, very healthy looking, and the music is always jumping. They have a rude house mother who’s been there since the 90s. MASSIVE attitude problem, which I respect. She’s a cut above the rest.

It’s done up classy, like a luxurious hotel. No smear of distaste usually associated with gentlemen’s clubs. The dancers are as good as the decor and the regulars know your name. Man, I tell ya’, it gets better every time.

If Carlsberg made clubs, this would be it.

I turned up one day in December and never wanted to leave. It was a stag do, obviously. Jakoby was refused entry because he was wearing Crocs but, other than that, great night out with the boys. My small group of maniacs. Nathan is a sexy bastard, with his tan and stumble. No wonder the ladies love him! As a married man, I stuck to old school Tetley's at a cracking (city central price) of £4. Other premium lagers cost a bit more, I hear.

I sat down and watched the magic spells of the dancers slowly pick away fractions of my group, like Velociraptors hunting in the tall grass. Myself and various other males defended ourselves with our wedding rings and honour. Girls twerked on me. John nutted on his shoes and got really angry. My cousin had the time of his life even though he claimed to have spent half the night looking for the toilet. His bird found out he spent £350 on dances and he was proper in the dog house. I left thinking this is the place to be.

Now, me and the lads go after the match every time without fail.

Want to be the real you? Money talks. YOU CAN’T MOVE WITHOUT MONEY. Don’t come in drunk and alone and then complain about being hassled when you couldn’t wait for her to get her kit off. I suppose the barman pressured you into a pint as well, when you only wanted a water? Jokers. Strip clubs are one of the few places we can be men because we want to be men – not pigs, like some people think. Bring money, be cool, and have the night of your life. Spend your week’s wage and tell the mrs you were mugged.

Maybe one needs to be on hard drugs to enjoy the place, but I always have an excellent time – not only because of the worldies, but seeing older men, pleased and stroking. The big Polish bazoogas are nice and the thicc Latina is to die for. I was pleasantly surprised that there was disabled access. This is difficult to find in some places (when on the razz). Although I’m not disabled, it gives the sense that they care about their customers. Someone visited the other night with their assistance dog and I don’t know who was made to feel more welcome, him or the dog. The warmth is incomparable. Sometimes I go in around 12ish because they let me bring my lunch.

Shout out Kev the doorman, you are a legend my son.

Shout out Dahlia, who's stunning but also good craic.

Shout out Marcus. He makes the best Long Island in town.

Shout out to California, Sardinia, Romania, Czech, Carlisle!

Make sure to see Erica.

Other places I’ve been to pale by comparison. The girls are THIEVES. Once, at the Spearmint, I got bombarded by a Russian who wouldn’t take no for an answer then shoved her finger up her arse. Some are less like strip clubs and more like overpriced bars. £10 in to get harassed by a fully dressed woman. You’d see more in Wetherspoons. Two bottles of beer and a three-minute graveyard dance: soul destroying. I was deceived for 80 pounds for a striptease: incomplete. Had a better time dreaming I was drowning.

I remember this one illegal hovel with a few plastic mannequins and some poles. Extremely disappointing experience. Groups of middle aged men standing around waiting for young girls to leer at, irritated and smelling of BO. Dances only £20 but the girls barely do anything, just twirl around or sit on their phones and talk to each other. Plus the door staff think they have super powers and try to kick you out just for having a good time. I saw a group of 6 to 8 of them pushing out an elderly man for spreading his legs while sitting down.

“Scam and criminality!” the man (80) was shouting. “Tax fraud! Citizens fraud! Drugs! Police, please help!”

Left a sour taste, I’ll tell you. And they let in the Welsh.

But nope, not here. This place, the most glorious strip club in Britain, is special. The drinks are reasonably priced and the dancers can move and bend in ways that leave little to the imagination.

I came here and fell in love, three years ago.

One night I was searching for somewhere just to go and waste some time. I was vulnerable but my t-shirt was clean. It was quiet for a Friday. The ladies were top quality. One looked bored. I had a cheeky Peroni, about to be set on fire.

I saw a beautiful goddess dancing, full of tattoos. What fortune! I hadn’t been that excited since I had four Viagra and my ex tied me up and left me. I was mesmerised.

She was a diamond. A proper gem. A Persian/Moroccan stunner and one of the kindest souls. Very talkative, which relaxed me. The type of girl you can always count on. I feel safe and at home. We went for a couple of smokes outside and I could’ve chatted with her all night. She definitely had a naughty glint in her eye, which is probably even more noticeable when she’s not working. Simply put: naughty but nice. My angel of the North.

I spent a Sheik's salary in a couple of hours. She could leave to live it up on a private island off the proceeds of one afternoon. I leave with my wallet a bit lighter and no wishes left on the table.

They say that you can't buy happiness, but you can buy some lightly oiled flesh jiggled mere centimetres from your salivating lips. I achieved Nirvana in this club. This halcyon and reputable institution. God bless and keep safe everyone here.

“Goodbye, I hope you had a lovely time,” says Candy, who wouldn’t come to Maccies for Riley’s birthday that one time.

See you again, girls! Tell Tiffany to text me back.

BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE.