The Full Malty

I can hardly believe it myself, but I, Sylvanus, have been approached to form part of a new entertainment genre.

To what am I referring? Why, Malta's latest leisure phenomenon, a ladies-only lap-dancing club. Yes, I am to become a male lap-dancer. And why not? OK, I know this is supposed to be Malta's answer to the full monty. You know, ordinary and none too pretty blokes getting their kit off in public. But I don't care! If somebody is willing to pay me to gyrate in a G-string up and down a pole on a table for a few hours each night... more fool them.

See, I'm not exactly God's gift to womankind. A Chippendale I am not. More a Hamrun sofa, really. My wife uses the euphemism "cuddly", and I'll go along with that. Mind you, having taken a look at some of my fellow strippers, I think I've got a lot to be thankful for.

Yeah, we've met just once. This was to sort of get-to-know one another... and our choreographer. Tricky one, that. I did explain to him that I am to co-ordinated movement what Lynn Chircop is to Versace, but he seems to think he can knock me and the rest of the motley crew into shape. I frankly doubt it, I've always had problems with rhythmic movement... I've fallen out of bed three times trying to... yeah, well, that's another story.

Actually, that get-together was very useful. Beforehand I was wavering about whether to expose the most intimate parts of my anatomy to public gaze, public female gaze at that. I mean, I'm not exactly... how can I put this? Well let's just say, when God was handing out the dangly bits, I was at the back of the queue.

But Trevor, he's a fellow stripper, is even worse off than me. Mind you, he's got more hair than me... all over him. He's going to be billed as the Yeti. My sobriquet will be... er, Jumbo. Now alright, I know I could do with shedding a few pounds... kilos, whatever, but there are a lot of people fatter than me. Well, not a lot of people, but anyway.

According to the rules of the club, no lady punter will be allowed to touch any part of us. In my case they'd have to find it first... but hey! Any bint who breaks this rule will be thrown out by one of our six-foot lesbian bouncers, and barred for life.

They can look, but that's it. We're not even allowed to date any of the punters, which I think is a bit mean. Cos if any bird was daft enough to fancy me, I reckon I should at least get one crack at her. Must find a way to get round that one.

After we have changed into our skin-tight leather pants and sequined shirts, our job will be to gyrate sexily on a table, while slithering (or in my case, sagging) up and down a pole in the centre. Then, as the ladies get more and more pissed on overpriced spirits, we will sexily divest ourselves of our clothes.

One of the guys, Neville, is a bit unhappy about this bit. See, he's scared that when he flings off his orthopaedic corset, everything will go all floomp, and his gut will hit the deck. Rene (that's our choreographer) reassured Neville. Apparently some birds go wild at the sight of a bit of blubber.

I have one reservation myself, and not surprisingly it concerns the final flash. Unlike some of my colleagues, I'm not worried about being attacked and molested by a horde of sex-hungry females... I should be so lucky. No, what bothers me is... well, will they be able to see anything?

Rene was philosophical on this one. He suggested that just before I whip off my stained boxers, I try to think of something erotic. Not easy when you're struggling to get a pair of outsize underpants over a pair of size 48 trainers. But I'm working on it.

The grand opening of The Full Malty is Saturday week in Paceville. The wife's coming, she says she's bringing her knitting.