Whenever summer comes, London clubs are seriously empty, so it can seem like a good idea to pack up and head down the coast to where all the stag parties are.
I spent last weekend in Bournemouth, the stag and hen capital of Britain, hoping to make some juicy cash from the inebreaited masses.
It was a complete and utter ball ache from start to finish.
The club required you to be on the floor at 9 and finished at 6am, so it was going to be a long shift, in a strange club, with different rules, policy and layout. Eeek...
After a 4 hour drive from London in a car filled with 4 fellow strippers, I was hot, sweaty and late. We didn't even have time to go to the hotel, so I did my makeup in the car and did the rest in the club.
It was a real labyrinth, with more staircases than you can shake a stick at. The main floor was three flights away from the changing room, and the dance booths were a double flight of stairs from the main floor and bar. By the end of the night, my feet were swollen and bleeding from dragging guys up and down the stairs. Even worse, as it was stag party central, the dances were generally one at a time - few guys stayed for more than one or two, as they wanted to try lots of different girls, or were too cheap, or were too scared of the letters 'VIP'.
Arriving at the hotel at 7am, we were shown to a dingy room that stank of mould. I was sharing with another girl, and we quickly passed out, only to be woken up a few hours later by the concierge.
They had double booked the room, and we had to move ASAP - but the next room wouldn't be ready till 1pm, so we had to keep ourselves busy somewhere else for a few hours.
I packed my stuff and moved into an even crappier room, before passing out for another 2 hours.
The girls and I got to the club for our 2nd night, and it was super busy. Unfortunately they take such a HUGE commission, I had to march up and down those fucking stairs with a steady succession of drunk stags and their pals for the next 9 hours straight to be in hope of earning anything back.
As I said, it was bachelor party central. Some were dressed as penguins, with black leggings and colouful jock straps. One was an ex-Olympic rower who was only interested in sex. Another stag was dressed as a giant baby, with oversized nappy, bib, cap and a huge dummy swinging awkwardly from his neck. Several groups had matching T-shrts, caps - one lot were all wearing antlers, which kept on turning up in strange places like the DJ booth, stage and at tip-out time, I swear I saw a pair in the managers office. Dancer's are like magpies sometimes.
After working a Friday and Saturday night shift, it was time to drive home. Sunday turned out, helpfully, to be the hottest day of the English year so far, a sweltering 30 degrees, but at least there was no traffic. As I massaged my swollen feet and burning thighs and swore never to work in a club with stairs again, I counted my crumpled notes. I'd checked the tip-out list, and I'd actually been in the top 5 of earners on Saturday, but with the commission, I'd lost well over a third of my earnings. Take out the hotel and petrol money, stress and lack of sleep, and I don't think I will be going down there again for a while.
Unless, of course, the London stripclub scene comes to a standstill..... Then stripping in Bournemouth will suddenly seem an attractive prospect again.....
I spent last weekend in Bournemouth, the stag and hen capital of Britain, hoping to make some juicy cash from the inebreaited masses.
It was a complete and utter ball ache from start to finish.
The club required you to be on the floor at 9 and finished at 6am, so it was going to be a long shift, in a strange club, with different rules, policy and layout. Eeek...
After a 4 hour drive from London in a car filled with 4 fellow strippers, I was hot, sweaty and late. We didn't even have time to go to the hotel, so I did my makeup in the car and did the rest in the club.
It was a real labyrinth, with more staircases than you can shake a stick at. The main floor was three flights away from the changing room, and the dance booths were a double flight of stairs from the main floor and bar. By the end of the night, my feet were swollen and bleeding from dragging guys up and down the stairs. Even worse, as it was stag party central, the dances were generally one at a time - few guys stayed for more than one or two, as they wanted to try lots of different girls, or were too cheap, or were too scared of the letters 'VIP'.
Arriving at the hotel at 7am, we were shown to a dingy room that stank of mould. I was sharing with another girl, and we quickly passed out, only to be woken up a few hours later by the concierge.
They had double booked the room, and we had to move ASAP - but the next room wouldn't be ready till 1pm, so we had to keep ourselves busy somewhere else for a few hours.
I packed my stuff and moved into an even crappier room, before passing out for another 2 hours.
The girls and I got to the club for our 2nd night, and it was super busy. Unfortunately they take such a HUGE commission, I had to march up and down those fucking stairs with a steady succession of drunk stags and their pals for the next 9 hours straight to be in hope of earning anything back.
As I said, it was bachelor party central. Some were dressed as penguins, with black leggings and colouful jock straps. One was an ex-Olympic rower who was only interested in sex. Another stag was dressed as a giant baby, with oversized nappy, bib, cap and a huge dummy swinging awkwardly from his neck. Several groups had matching T-shrts, caps - one lot were all wearing antlers, which kept on turning up in strange places like the DJ booth, stage and at tip-out time, I swear I saw a pair in the managers office. Dancer's are like magpies sometimes.
After working a Friday and Saturday night shift, it was time to drive home. Sunday turned out, helpfully, to be the hottest day of the English year so far, a sweltering 30 degrees, but at least there was no traffic. As I massaged my swollen feet and burning thighs and swore never to work in a club with stairs again, I counted my crumpled notes. I'd checked the tip-out list, and I'd actually been in the top 5 of earners on Saturday, but with the commission, I'd lost well over a third of my earnings. Take out the hotel and petrol money, stress and lack of sleep, and I don't think I will be going down there again for a while.
Unless, of course, the London stripclub scene comes to a standstill..... Then stripping in Bournemouth will suddenly seem an attractive prospect again.....
