After a hectic evening crawling around a variety of Portsmouth pubs, somehow I got separated from my crowd of friends as we headed for the railway station. Anyone who has caught a late night train to Fareham from Pompey will know how easy it is to get on the Bedhampton one by mistake. They both arrive within a minute of each other, and to put it mildly one's eyesight and hearing get a bit addled after 4 hours of drinking. So, convinced I'd heard them say Fareham over the tannoy, (I know, sounds nothing like Fareham) I followed the crowd like a sheep, and departed from the station on the wrong train. The first stop after Fratton is Bedhampton, but since I'd had my eyes closed for the short journey I got off the train convinced I was now in Portchester. Very confused about the exit gate configurations, it soon became clear that I was not in Portchy at all.
Oh whoops, I sobered up a bit smartish and racked my brains as to how I would get back home from this neck of the woods. Bedhampton at midnight is not exactly buzzing with life, in fact I never saw another soul. Only one thing for it, start walking and hope a taxi goes by. After about 30 minutes of trotting along I started to despair of seeing a single car, let alone a taxi. Revert to plan 'B'. The first car I see, I will try to hitch hike a ride home. After another 30 minutes of walking along with my thumb sticking out, blow me a Mini Metro stopped. Things were looking up. The car had two very attractive girls in the front. They wound down the window and asked where I was going. When I told them my destination, they started laughing. It appeared I had been walking in the wrong direction for the last hour, I was obviously still well under the influence of alcohol. Rats!!! To my surprise, they said they were not doing anything special, and would take me home if I offered them a drink when we got there. Things were really looking up now, and I couldn't believe my luck. So in I clambered and snuck into the back seat, straight into a pile of SEQUINED G STRINGS AND TASSELED BRA's. Waaahhh. What have I got myself into. Perhaps they had just come from an Anne Summers party. Things are getting better by the second. They then proceeded to tell me they were in fact a couple of strippers, had just finished a gig, and were looking for some action before they went home. Not being exactly sure what they meant by action (bearing in mind the state of me) I clammed up, hoping they were not setting their sights too high. When we got to my house, as promised, they followed me in. What confused me was they brought all their kinky gear from the back seat with them. As I proceeded into the kitchen to pour them two large drinks, they both emerged from the living room adorned in their dodgy livery and NOTHING ELSE. "Do you want to see a show?" they asked. That sounded a lot safer than the 'Action' they talked about, so I settled down on to the sofa for my personal cabaret. They slipped in a cassette of typical strippy type music, and started cavorting around the room like headless chickens. This was amazing, wait till I tell my mates about this tomorrow!!! Then it started...off came all their gear in a very short time, and they were now both starkers. That was quick, OK, I thought, shows over. But no, it appeared they were not your usual strippers, but were ready and able to go very much further than just getting their kit off. "Would you like to perform with us?" they asked. Hang on, last safety brain cell kicked into action. If they're doing this with me, they probably have done this with many. "No thanks girls, I'll just watch" So unperturbed, they carried on together with a lurid and unbelievably explicit act in my lounge which I can only describe as horticultural in its nature, and I am not prepared to spell out on screen. (For more details, ask me personally) It was at this point I passed out. The twittering of the dawn chorus in the garden woke me up the following morning. I was still on the settee, with a glass in my hand, convinced I'd dreamed it all. But how had I got home? I glanced at my cassette deck, still in the machine was the strippy tape. I played it and everything came flooding back. OH MY LORD, MY WALLET AND CREDIT CARDS. Rushing to my jacket, I felt inside the pocket, and a rush of relief swept over me. Still there. Thank you girls!!! I couldn't wait to get around to my mate Trevs that morning to tell him of my adventure. Since then, I've carried the dubious title of LUCKY DAVE.