I’m actually beginning to type with last night’s fake tan and baby oil still stuck to my hands, and pretty much every other part of my body. The shower didn’t remove it all.
Hunks In Trunks is Walkabout’s national current competition- a selection of local men brave enough to strut about on stage in Speedos, competing against each other. I, of course, volunteered when asked a few weeks ago.
All the competitors met on the night (although I knew Mike from Cuba Cuba and recognised a couple of others). Any of us could have seen who the top 2 were going to be- they were unblemished gym addicts and traditionally handsome. We quickly decided to treat this as a fun event and not to have Mr. Universe- style competitive bitchiness.
The upstairs bar was cordoned off for the competitors to chill in: it was important that the crowd didn’t see us until we were due on stage. Kat, Donna and Sarah- Walkabout staff- took excellent care of us to make sure we knew what was going on. Of course, we were only allowed to know part of that. The upstairs bar also doubled as a changing room. I’m not going to go into too much detail here, but I can assure you that things have changed since PE in third year. I’m not too far down the smaller end of the scale, it seems. Although the Speedo style trunks were dangerously oversized for my meagre 30” waist. It was also pointed out to me that most guys shave armpits now. Hence, I have just taken a break in typing to do so and my armpits now itch like fuck.
Waiting was the hardest part- the nerves took hours to kick in. We were plied with sambuca and given a few bottles Before going on stage we were lathered in tanning oil and baby oil by the girls. (Okay, they did the backs. We had to do the rest ourselves. It’s Walkabout, not the local massage parlour, the Georgian.) Some of the guys were taking the piss a little bit and being a bit too flirty with Donna and she was getting irate. I stepped in to calm things down…
Those of us who did work out were priming ourselves- I was doing press-ups with claps in-between like DeNiro does in Taxi Driver, and a couple of others bicep-curled gas canisters that we found near the bar.
I had the perfect position in the running of things: being the second contestant to go on stage meant I got an idea of what was happening (although I got bollocked for looking around the curtain at the side of the stage) but I could get my appearance out of the way and not piss myself with nerves beforehand. I knew I had to do something with Kat, involving a liquid of some kind.
I was called out and I gave it some gusto. The presenter (not the DJ) asked me a few questions. Thankfully these didn’t relate to sex, otherwise I’d have been fucked. (Is that a pun? I don’t even know…) I had to deliver my best chat up line.
“If I see two girls at a bar, I’ll probably walk up to them, put a hand on their shoulder and say: ‘Ladies- I don’t wanna come between you- or do I?…’”
I’d like to break from the story at this point to inform you that Colin, my top friend on MySpace, texted me the next day with regards to writing this blog. He said, “Don’t forget to mention how your chat-up line went down like a lead balloon”.
So you can imagine the reaction I got. People in Oldham don’t do highbrow wit.
After proving to Oldham why I don’t chat up girls, I proceeded to lie Kat down on the stage, pour whipped cream on her boobs and stomach, stick a few strawberries over her and lick them off, occasionally feeding her a strawberry mouth to mouth. It was pretty cool, although I could probably have got away with a lot more.
I waited backstage. One by one the guys went up and gave it their best, usually returning to the corridor looking like the girls had molested them with fridge paraphernalia, not the other way around. After this the judges were given a break to decide who gets the top three places.
So, to keep the crowd entertained, Kat, Donna and Sarah- in bikinis- went on stage. I could hear the crowd cheering- mostly male voices among the music- and a few minutes later they came back to the fire exit where we were waiting. They were laughing, covered in chocolate sauce and whipped cream. I was thinking, thank God the photographer’s out there…
Meanwhile, we knew what was going to happen next. All the competitors were called on stage together. Third, second and first places were read out. They were adorned with Olympic-style medallions. Along with this, the man receiving gold- a vain steroid abuser with poor muscle definition and a tiny cock- was given a Sony PSP. And then we were free to party.
Me, Mike and Colin went to Cuba Cuba, still wearing the Speedos and flip-flops. We managed to get past the door and onto stage and dance for about 10 seconds before the manager bollocked us for public indecency. All good fun though. I also got reprimanded by the doorman later, after dressing, for undressing again. I was fucked by this point.
It was suggested by a close friend that I could have won the competition if I’d have pushed the boat out more- by squirting that cream in a few other places and being a little more brave. Cuba Cuba, like many bars, may have had fairly strict regulations on what you can and can’t get away with. But Walkabout- for the record, an international chain found near you- doesn’t really. You can display boundary-pushing behaviour and the doormen will roll their eyes and smirk. If you see a competition like this, don’t wait to be roped into it. Just ask. I keep looking for these challenges. As Eminem would say, “The older I get, the dumber the shit I get in.”