Sunday 20 March 2011

"For my next trick..."

In retrospect, being referred to as "Sticky Vicky" from the age of 8 by a friend's kindly father was a tad inappropriate when I became aware of who she actually was. For those who are unfamiliar with this niche performer, here is Benidorm's "Sticky Vicky" Leyton:
  

She reminds me of a firmer Nana Moon, bless her soft boa. Vicky is rumoured to be around the age of 70, still performing in Benidorm, and now joined in business by her daughter.  

The concept of a Sexy Magic Show is a little conflicting. Having explored whether it's possible to perform as a sexy clown (it isn't), I can't imagine this show being particularly titillating for many; think Paul Daniels in nipple clamps, joined by Miss Debbie McGee in white thigh high PVC booties and The Great Suprendo in cut out rubber pants. The bending over would make for an unappetising chicken-in-a-basket. 

Vicky also offers literal promotional material, namely showcasing her 'vagina magic'. I noticed the show is never delivered as 'hilarious vaginal magic', because well, Vicky isn't funny. She has a large cavernous canal from which she produces a variety of items including the infamous firing of the ping pong ball, several flags, and a light bulb which she is able to illuminate all with the aid of her undercarriage – and that’s it, but it certainly is magic. Child birth must have been relatively breezy for the woman with the vice-like grip. Let's hope she didn't flex too much throughout or I imagine she may have been slightly unnerved by the appearance of her accordion offspring. She takes what she does incredibly seriously, but then when you're getting four gigs a night at £200 a pop, you don't really need to worry about the funnies. Especially when there's no competition.

I have never seen Vicky; I want to, but during a mass travelling exodus, I was able to realise my dream of witnessing the ping pong skit by visiting a seedy club in Patpong, Bangkok. It all felt so 'Nam and dangerous.

A tout led us to a nasty club below ground level, with neon-blue lighting and seating in the round. I was holidaying with 3 big bears, so we were packing a hefty wall, yet intuitively I felt that this place was intrinsically evil and we were about to die. A lady boy joined us and requested we buy her a drink, the equivalent of which cost around $9. It was clear this request was mandatory. When her pipette of orange cordial arrived I was beginning to fume about the blatant stinging coming our way.

I witnessed a very tough, butch looking woman flanked by three men across the room. She was collecting money from punters, as a lacklustre, slightly chubby girl took to the podium where she proceeded to self-consciously display a variety of feats that were instantly forgettable (I've forgotten), but then the ping pong, the main attraction! This was it... 

As our tragic star bewitched us with her hypnotic ping pong hand choreography, our ringside view was promptly blocked by the butch bullish slab of fear who unsurprisingly introduced herself as 'Mama'. Also unsurprisingly, Mama was tapping a short baton into her palm. On paying the designated $10, she instructed that we tip her. Right, that was it. She was essentially extorting our wedge for being nails and mean. And that’s not happening, not on my watch.

Being a plucky sort with little tolerance for any injustice, I rose up, plumped up, and informed her we wouldn't be paying for anything as she had done nothing. She smacked the baton on the table "You pay Mama!", I sat down, and we cobbled together a small sum of shrapnel in order to retain our bumholes. She had the gall to threaten us for more, by which time I feigned a half-arsed “I don’t understand...” and she moved on her way to spread the fear amongst the unsuspecting cabaret perverts.

As she circled other unfortunates the ping pong was drawing to a close, but I just managed to witness the final ball placed neatly at the top of the performers thighs as she directed it - with the aid of her leg crease - into a glass placed at her feet. This exercise can of course be executed by most people with legs.

By this time I wanted to smash things up (read: cry) at how an ambition of mine had been scuppered by thieves, vagabonds and fraudsters. We fled into the night to have more money extracted from us through a series of initially friendly encounters. God Bless Bangkok.

Being from Blackpool, I never thought it necessary to visit Benidorm. The only difference would be a moderately warmer climate and a plethora of crispy tans that defied skin cancer. Chips and stags run amok; the odd patch of vomit marrying the cheap and cheerful aesthetics of premium Brits Abroad estate. But when my mother moved there to enjoy her winters, I was invited to stay.

I think this holiday was probably the worst I have ever encountered. I had recently returned from my travelling exodus, newly separated, and I was grateful for four days away with the old Queen, but when the reality of this cultural abyss of shits and giggles presented itself, unlike the holiday sun, I realised I was having so little fun come day three that a breakdown was inevitable. The combustion of my rather fragile emotional state climaxed one evening when Mother flatly refused to grant her permission for me to see THEE Sticky Vicky's Show - my eyes deserved better???! At the age of 30, I threw the tantrum that was deserving of such a restraint, and I returned home once again with my ping-pong-ball-landing-awkwardly-in-my-martini-dreams snatched from me.

You may translate this edition as a mocking of genuine vaginal magicians, not at all. After all, I’m not the one earning big money working for myself in the sun, for very little effort, with a private passage strong enough to keep most marriages healthy for life. And for that I bet she has the last laugh (via her cervix).

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