What NOT to do in Leicester Square
This is a true story! My friend absolutely hates it when I tell it - probably because it makes him look like a Cretin. But, it's all true, and he started it, so...
So it all begins about a dozen years ago. I was 19 and a close friend (I'll call him 'Stuart') and I went back-packing through Europe together. Our first stop: London!
So it all begins about a dozen years ago. I was 19 and a close friend (I'll call him 'Stuart') and I went back-packing through Europe together. Our first stop: London!
Now, the begging started. I have seen many strippers in my life, so I had no inclination to spend what little travelling money I had seeing strippers in London. If they were going to have sex with a donkey, then they've got my money. But, I'm sure the UK authorities have laws about where and when you can get fucked by a farm animal.
"Come on! Please! Please, pleeeeeeeease! I'll pay!"
Now, if you knew Stuart, you'd know that he's a cheap bastard! So, offering to pay would have been like offering to cut off his thumb and index finger.
Yet, I still held out. It was lunchtime for Christ-sakes. But, still, Stuart wouldn't be deterred (he didn't want to go in alone). He walked over to the beautiful woman busking tickets (about $10 a head). He pulls out some British cash and buys two - now forcing me to go in with him.
We walk up this seedy little staircase and enter a tiny room at the top. The room was dark. It couldn't have been much bigger than 15 by 20 feet. There was a couple couches and a few chairs scattered about. At the front of the room was what I'm guessing was the stage, although it was little more than a curtain.
At one side of the room was a bar. But, this wasn't your ordinary bar, this one was tiny. I mean tiny! It was smaller than most bars people have at home in their rec-rooms. The massive display of liquor bottles totalled around half a dozen.
We take a seat on the couch and over comes the 'bartender.' He was a big guy - around 6'7" - but skinny. He took our drink order (2 cokes), and Stuart asked him when the show would start? Soon. And, where were all the other patrons? Coming.
A minute later, the 'bartender' returned with our cokes. They were a bit small - about the size of a dixie cup (one can would have produced 4 or 5 servings of this size). Being the gracious host that he is, Stuart paid the 12 pound (approx. $24US) bill with a 20 pound note (approx. $40US) - and was shocked to find no change coming. When he asked about this, the 'bartender' informed us of a 4 pound 'service charge' for each drink. Hmmm... Each cup of coke cost us $20 - luckily, they were flat and warm.
A bit grumpy, Stuart relaxed and waited anxiously for the show to start - or the other patrons to arrive.
Next, out of a back room, a hideously ugly woman appears. Probably in her mid to late 30's. She had been used hard and put back wet! She sidles up to Stuart and asks: "May I join you?"
"Come on! Please! Please, pleeeeeeeease! I'll pay!"
Now, if you knew Stuart, you'd know that he's a cheap bastard! So, offering to pay would have been like offering to cut off his thumb and index finger.
Yet, I still held out. It was lunchtime for Christ-sakes. But, still, Stuart wouldn't be deterred (he didn't want to go in alone). He walked over to the beautiful woman busking tickets (about $10 a head). He pulls out some British cash and buys two - now forcing me to go in with him.
We walk up this seedy little staircase and enter a tiny room at the top. The room was dark. It couldn't have been much bigger than 15 by 20 feet. There was a couple couches and a few chairs scattered about. At the front of the room was what I'm guessing was the stage, although it was little more than a curtain.
At one side of the room was a bar. But, this wasn't your ordinary bar, this one was tiny. I mean tiny! It was smaller than most bars people have at home in their rec-rooms. The massive display of liquor bottles totalled around half a dozen.
We take a seat on the couch and over comes the 'bartender.' He was a big guy - around 6'7" - but skinny. He took our drink order (2 cokes), and Stuart asked him when the show would start? Soon. And, where were all the other patrons? Coming.
A minute later, the 'bartender' returned with our cokes. They were a bit small - about the size of a dixie cup (one can would have produced 4 or 5 servings of this size). Being the gracious host that he is, Stuart paid the 12 pound (approx. $24US) bill with a 20 pound note (approx. $40US) - and was shocked to find no change coming. When he asked about this, the 'bartender' informed us of a 4 pound 'service charge' for each drink. Hmmm... Each cup of coke cost us $20 - luckily, they were flat and warm.
A bit grumpy, Stuart relaxed and waited anxiously for the show to start - or the other patrons to arrive.
Next, out of a back room, a hideously ugly woman appears. Probably in her mid to late 30's. She had been used hard and put back wet! She sidles up to Stuart and asks: "May I join you?"
The same screwdriver a customer could order for 20 pounds - was 400 when ordered for the 'hostess.' I wondered why it was so much more expensive! I mean, what difference did it make to the drink which person consumed it? But, apparently, there was a big difference... I was beginning to think that this wasn't just a peeler bar!
Before I could stop him, the 'bartender' cracks the beer and pours it for the woman. It's a few more seconds before he drops a bill in front of Stuart for 222 pounds (approx. $450US). Stuart takes a look at the bill and reads: 2.22 pounds. He pulls out his wallet - and you can literally see the realization creep across his face - wait a second, that decimal point isn't in the right place! Oh my God, that's 222 pounds!
Now, between us, I am the quiet, reserved one. Stuart is the boisterous, loud one. Angrily, he jumps out of his seat and starts to shout:
"What the fuck is this!!! 200 pounds!?! I'M NOT PAYING 200 POUNDS FOR ONE DRINK!"
There must be a list somewhere of a thousand things you should never, ever do in a seedy, back-room whorehouse in the worst part of a foreign city. Like touching anything without wearing gloves, for one. But, I guarantee you, somewhere near the very top of that list is jumping up and bellowing 'What the fuck is this! - I'm not paying for this!'
This starts a screaming match between the 'bartender' and my friend. The 'bartender' can tell we're tourists - cause he continually tells us that they have our pictures and are going to have us arrested and deported.
Obviously feeling left out, the Hooker starts screaming too. The mood begins to deteriorate. Every time the 'bartender' threatens to call the police, I say 'please call the police, get them here right now!' But, for some unknown reason, I am ignored every time I say that.
When we try to get the hell out of there, the 'bartender' runs over to the bar and hits a panic-button on the wall. A fucking secret panic button! I think: "Oh shit, we're really fucked now! They're going to find our bodies floating down the Thames in itty bitty pieces." My mind begins racing with thoughts about the half dozen rugby playing thugs that are momentarily about to run through the door and kick the shit out of us, steal all our posessions and leave us for dead.
First Stuart cons me into seeing a strip show - and now he's about to get us beaten up and killed - in a whorehouse, no less! What a perfect way to die! And, just my luck. I'm going to die in a whorehouse - and I didn't even get laid for Christ-sakes! Perfect! Isn't that exactly what you want in your obituary: "He died (not particularly) peacefully when he refused to pay his bill at a brothel..."
By now, Stuart is screaming at the 'bartender.' The 'bartender' is screaming at Stuart and me. The whore is screaming at both of us. I'm trying to remain calm and talk our way out of this - which is pretty hard to do in the middle of three screaming madmen. And, then the bouncer arrives!
Luckily, there was only a single bouncer - so we tried to escape. The 'bartender' and the bouncer blocked our way and physically tried to restrain us from leaving - in between punches, that is. This was the hooker's cue to start a slapping-fight with the back of Stuart's head - while the other two continued their hitting-fight with both of us. So, there was Stuart, pushing and screaming with the bouncer and the 'bartender' all the while getting slapped and punched in the back of the head by a wild, screaming prostitute. This would have been hysterically funny - if only I wasn't involved.
Fortunately, both of us were basketball players and we were used to taking a bit of physical abuse. So, we ducked our heads and literally rammed our way out towards the exit - while our assailants tried valiantly to get one last punch in or get ahold of any of our possessions.
Before I could stop him, the 'bartender' cracks the beer and pours it for the woman. It's a few more seconds before he drops a bill in front of Stuart for 222 pounds (approx. $450US). Stuart takes a look at the bill and reads: 2.22 pounds. He pulls out his wallet - and you can literally see the realization creep across his face - wait a second, that decimal point isn't in the right place! Oh my God, that's 222 pounds!
Now, between us, I am the quiet, reserved one. Stuart is the boisterous, loud one. Angrily, he jumps out of his seat and starts to shout:
"What the fuck is this!!! 200 pounds!?! I'M NOT PAYING 200 POUNDS FOR ONE DRINK!"
There must be a list somewhere of a thousand things you should never, ever do in a seedy, back-room whorehouse in the worst part of a foreign city. Like touching anything without wearing gloves, for one. But, I guarantee you, somewhere near the very top of that list is jumping up and bellowing 'What the fuck is this! - I'm not paying for this!'
This starts a screaming match between the 'bartender' and my friend. The 'bartender' can tell we're tourists - cause he continually tells us that they have our pictures and are going to have us arrested and deported.
Obviously feeling left out, the Hooker starts screaming too. The mood begins to deteriorate. Every time the 'bartender' threatens to call the police, I say 'please call the police, get them here right now!' But, for some unknown reason, I am ignored every time I say that.
When we try to get the hell out of there, the 'bartender' runs over to the bar and hits a panic-button on the wall. A fucking secret panic button! I think: "Oh shit, we're really fucked now! They're going to find our bodies floating down the Thames in itty bitty pieces." My mind begins racing with thoughts about the half dozen rugby playing thugs that are momentarily about to run through the door and kick the shit out of us, steal all our posessions and leave us for dead.
First Stuart cons me into seeing a strip show - and now he's about to get us beaten up and killed - in a whorehouse, no less! What a perfect way to die! And, just my luck. I'm going to die in a whorehouse - and I didn't even get laid for Christ-sakes! Perfect! Isn't that exactly what you want in your obituary: "He died (not particularly) peacefully when he refused to pay his bill at a brothel..."
By now, Stuart is screaming at the 'bartender.' The 'bartender' is screaming at Stuart and me. The whore is screaming at both of us. I'm trying to remain calm and talk our way out of this - which is pretty hard to do in the middle of three screaming madmen. And, then the bouncer arrives!
Luckily, there was only a single bouncer - so we tried to escape. The 'bartender' and the bouncer blocked our way and physically tried to restrain us from leaving - in between punches, that is. This was the hooker's cue to start a slapping-fight with the back of Stuart's head - while the other two continued their hitting-fight with both of us. So, there was Stuart, pushing and screaming with the bouncer and the 'bartender' all the while getting slapped and punched in the back of the head by a wild, screaming prostitute. This would have been hysterically funny - if only I wasn't involved.
Fortunately, both of us were basketball players and we were used to taking a bit of physical abuse. So, we ducked our heads and literally rammed our way out towards the exit - while our assailants tried valiantly to get one last punch in or get ahold of any of our possessions.
One day, we're walking through one of London's seedier neighbourhoods: Leicester Square. Which begs the question: If it's pronounced Lester Square, why the fuck is it spelled Leicester??? But, I digress... Leicester Square is the place to go for cheap theater tickets - and live sex shows!
So, we're walking through Leicester Square and Stuart spots one of the fine establishments offering 'live sex on stage' or some such nonsense. But, to a college-boy, strippers are like crack. You just can't get enough. It didn't matter that our hometown (Vancouver) is known to have some of the best strippers on Earth, Stuart wanted only one thing: Strippers. Or, better yet, strippers having sex on stage!
So, we're walking through Leicester Square and Stuart spots one of the fine establishments offering 'live sex on stage' or some such nonsense. But, to a college-boy, strippers are like crack. You just can't get enough. It didn't matter that our hometown (Vancouver) is known to have some of the best strippers on Earth, Stuart wanted only one thing: Strippers. Or, better yet, strippers having sex on stage!
Being the polite Canadian that he is, Stuart gracously accepts and the woman sits down next to us. Her first question: "Buy me a drink?"
The 'bartender' was waiting for this, and no sooner had Stuart said 'sure' than he had brought over a bottle of beer. Being ever vigillant, I grabbed a menu that was sitting on the table in front of us, while the two 'love-birds' chatted about the weather. This time, Stuart asked the woman where the other patrons were? "They're coming." And, when the show was going to start? "Soon."
On the back of the menu, I wasn't the least bit shocked to find a list of 'drinks - for hostesses consumption only.' These drinks ranged in price from about $100 all the way up to $500. These must be phenomenal fucking drinks!
The 'bartender' was waiting for this, and no sooner had Stuart said 'sure' than he had brought over a bottle of beer. Being ever vigillant, I grabbed a menu that was sitting on the table in front of us, while the two 'love-birds' chatted about the weather. This time, Stuart asked the woman where the other patrons were? "They're coming." And, when the show was going to start? "Soon."
On the back of the menu, I wasn't the least bit shocked to find a list of 'drinks - for hostesses consumption only.' These drinks ranged in price from about $100 all the way up to $500. These must be phenomenal fucking drinks!
I've never seen Stuart move so fast in his life! At the bottom of the stairs (which Stuart made in about 4 nanoseconds flat), feeling frustrated and with no way of fighting back - he grabs the book of tickets from the woman manning the door. He runs out into Leicester Square tearing tickets up and throwing them over his head as he runs off faster than a world-record sprinter. It took several blocks before I could convince him that we were actually out of the building and no longer in mortal danger.
Needless to say, Stuart never asked me to go to a strip show ever again...
Hopefully, by reading this story, you learned something. I sure did by living it: Never, ever, ever say yes when a woman asks you to buy her a drink - when you're in a foreign whorehouse!
But don't worry, fearless readers, I managed to get the last laugh... I spent that evening writing a series of postcards to our friends back home (as well as Stuart's ultra-conservative parents) that read:
Greetings from Europe! Having a great trip! Well, except for that time Stuart almost got us both killed when he refused to pay his bill at that whorehouse we were patronizing...
Stay safe!
Needless to say, Stuart never asked me to go to a strip show ever again...
Hopefully, by reading this story, you learned something. I sure did by living it: Never, ever, ever say yes when a woman asks you to buy her a drink - when you're in a foreign whorehouse!
But don't worry, fearless readers, I managed to get the last laugh... I spent that evening writing a series of postcards to our friends back home (as well as Stuart's ultra-conservative parents) that read:
Greetings from Europe! Having a great trip! Well, except for that time Stuart almost got us both killed when he refused to pay his bill at that whorehouse we were patronizing...
Stay safe!
copyright 2006 Robert D. Brooks, DamnThe.com - all rights reserved.