Several of the formative experiences of my earlier years took place on Friday afternoons in the Admiral Duncan, Hyson Green, Nottingham.  The place would be crowded with blokes awaiting the arrival and subsequent deshabille of the day’s stripper.

A particular favourite of mine and many of the others was a woman in her late 20’s I’d guess, whose name has faded into the mists of my youth but whose memory stays with me still.  She would appear in a red hunting jacket complete with jodhpurs, helmet and riding crop with which she would tease the blokes in the accessible front rows and later dab her beautiful bum.

But already I am spoiling a good story too early. 

She took her clothes off not to such trite accompaniment as “The Stripper” but to more rousing and suitable stuff such as Suppe’s “Light Cavalry Overture” and Rossini’s “William Tell Overture” or the bouncy “Tan tiffy, Tan tiffy, Tan tiffy, A-Hunting We Will Go”.

She had a glorious pair of funbags with protruding bright brown nipples.  But that was not the best of it.  When her G-string had come off she would squat forward, bobbing up and down and causing a bit of a stampede among us to get in line for the view.

She gave me hours of pleasure.

Certainly it was exploitative by today’s more politically correct/puritan standards; if only I could determine who was being exploited.

The landlord must have felt he wasn’t as he jingled D flat on his cash register for four hours on an otherwise slack Friday afternoon and did so for a number of years.  We punters certainly thought we’d got good value copping an eyeful of pink clunge and occasional finger pie for the price of a couple of pints of mild.  And Hermione (God – let her name be Hermione) was making the easiest fifty quid for 2 hours work you could make in the 70’s and continued to do so until her assets began to deteriorate.

It is an arresting thought that she’ll be in her seventies now.  Sometimes you have to milk your exploitation while you can get it.