Last month’s cover photo of local icon, Tipper the Stripper, caused a mini-sensation with copies flying off the shelves. Read on…
On my deliveries, I met many middle-aged women who clearly knew him well. Venturing into the Idle Working Men’s, the snooker room so dark you could imagine being in a cave, a dozen or so regulars were in-situ enjoying the darkness and the company as one. The stewardess took a copy and studied the cover, licking her lips ever so slightly.
“I know ‘im!” she said, a sentence to be repeated numerous times around the village. “Is ‘e really a stripper? ‘Ow much does ‘e charge?” she asked still studying the photo intensely, holding it up in search of light, oblivious to Old Jack almost dying of thirst.
I had to confess I did not know if he really did do a turn nor what he might charge so left her to her thoughts. Down at the local business complex the receptionist was somewhat taken aback, her cheeks flooding instantly with colour like a dam of blood about to burst, a few almost involuntary flicks of her hair followed as she fixated on the picture.
“That’s so and so isn’t it?” she demanded as if participating in a line-up. “I know ‘im!” Yes, you do love, I thought, who doesn’t?
Any attempt to flog advertising space was a complete waste of time as she continued to gaze bog-eyed at Stripper. Further up the road a rather comely lady shrieked in horror, thinking I was handing out a funeral service.
“Tell me ‘es not dead? My little Gazzer!!!” I reassured here he was alive and well.
The Scruffy itself was bombarded with numerous mystery gifts addressed to “My Stripper”, packages stuffed with knickers older than the man himself. Our Jackie was caught rifling through them.
“I can barely get one leg in some of these!” she wailed.
I was worried that fame was going to his head as I arrived one night for a beer to find him sat at a table with pen in hand and a pile of Trumpits waiting to be signed. The immaculate blazer and polo-neck made him look like a young Ernie Wise as he clutched his free Parker pen from his senior citizens life cover.
Not everybody was happy; close confidant, fellow drunk and local entrepreneur, Jimmy Scaffold, was incandescent, almost accosting me and my co-editor Mick.
“He’s a fraud!” he bellowed, assisted by an afternoon down the village “He lives in LEEEEEEDS!!!”
I was shocked at the thought of an outsider being on our front-cover but it was true; The Stripper resides across the border in Pudsey. On behalf of all at Trumpit Towers, I issue an apology.
The Nob Eds were not enjoying all this attention and column inches commanded by this new phenomenon either. A protest was lodged by Greenfingers, already on his umpteenth pint of Johns Smiths Rough.
“’Ow come ‘es on t’front cover? I’m a champion!” he said, simultaneously coating me in his latest e-cig flavour, neutralising my Calvin Klein in an instant leaving me smelling like one of those car air-fresheners my Dad used to hang from his rear-view mirror in his Capri. Small wonder me and Our Kid puked all the way to Skegness each year.
Greenfingers has entered into several local competitions of late to exhibit his prize onions and, as a keen grower myself, naturally I was interested in his approach. Nearby, The Guvnor was listening intently.
“Don’t ask ‘im ‘es not got a ****ing clue!” he growled, cheerful as ever.
I thought this a bit unfair as any man who looks so consistently scruffy in The Scruffy – save for Homeless – must spend a lot of time on the plot, or losing the plot. Apparently, the onions are massive although we have no news of any prizes to date.
“As big as ****ing my belly!” chirped The Guvnor “But I‘ve slimmed down since you took the piss in that rag of yours!”
He attempted to cuff me around the ear as I ducked as if avoiding a Pat Cummins bouncer. I took this as modest forgiveness as The Guvnor refocused on his Carling and jumbo bag of crisps, seemingly content to let me maintain my seat in Nob ‘Ed Korna, the diet clearly going well. Perhaps I had finally made it to full Nob ‘Ed status?
Stripper took me to one side.
“Look, I think I might need an agent. I mean they’re camping outside my house now. I can’t get to sleep for lipsticks being twanged at my windows. **** me if they sing that Tom Jones song one more time! Do you know anybody?”
He looked very worried and I could see it in his eyes; the furrowed brow invalidating years of Botox.
“I can’t even go out now and Jimmy won’t talk to me…my life’s in ruins!”
He dabbed the sweat from his pumped-up lips with his silk hanky, wiping drips of Guinness away. Fame and fortune it seems are not everybody’s favourite bedfellows.
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