BC’S B’DOS – Strip club Oval
YOU CAN TELL what kind of person you are the moment you enter a strip club (and if you’ve never entered a strip club, you are either a conservative female or a deeply religious male, or a firetrucking liar). Most people who enter strip clubs are pleased: for a couple of overpriced beers and one dollar per degraded human being (the ones on the strip poles, not the ones on the barstools), they get their titillation.
For losers like me, though, every strip club is a contender for The Saddest Place On Earth; and the more expensive they are, the more sorrowful they are.
Cheap strip bars are at least honest about delivering a debasing experience; expensive strip clubs and bars squander fortunes trying to disguise that they’re selling the lowest form of human activity as something glamorous. It’s not. That could be your mother/sister/daughter shaking her silicone.
You don’t have to think that sex is sacred to understand that strip clubs do great damage to all concerned. I certainly don’t think sex is sacred.
If it’s a gift from anyone, it’s from the Devil, not God, because it gets far better the faster it becomes less “sacred”; which is not to deny that done well, it can be the best expression of love for someone, short of laying down your own life for them, The best sex is sacrificial; the worst, selfish – but it’s still a gloriously dirty affair, thank God or whomever.
The few times I’ve been to strip clubs – and I’ve only been more than once because I knew a stripper and met her at (her) work occasionally – I’ve looked at my drink or straight into the eyes of forlorn human beings, and left quickly.
Subtract stag and hen parties and you take away their only vaguely positive aspect. It’s difficult not to dismiss people who think strip bars/clubs are just great, like grown-up theme parks.
Two Saturdays ago, Kensington Oval was transformed into a big strip club. An extra day was added on to the first Test in the West Indies ever to begin on a Monday (and, thus, would finish on Friday, the first time ever that no part of a West Indian Test match fell on a weekend).
All afternoon on Friday, radio announcers stressed entry to that last, extra, day would be free. You could stroll in with your two hands swinging and with the entire family, and watch a game that Indian captain Mahendra Singh Dhoni generously kept open with his declaration.
If you watched the highlights, you would have seen the Mecca of West Indies cricket transformed to its strip club. With the possibility of a result, a lesser chance of a West Indian surprise win, and the certainty that it would cost nothing but the effort to catch a ZR to Fontabelle, Barbadians – and Trinidadians, Jamaicans and Guyanese – stayed away from Kensington in droves. The place was practically empty.
Understand that the foundation of West Indies cricket, like the future of the West Indian nation itself, is laid in Barbados, and you should understand exactly of what we have been stripped: ourselves.
B.C. Pires is reviled as a Trini but revealed as a Bajan; email him at email@example.com