A Religious Experience, Part Two

With the crowd that populated the room as it darkened, it would have been easy to think someone had just urinated on a fuse box. This theory was quickly dashed when they immediately went silent, as if in some kind of Pavlov Dog response cultivated by weeks of attendance, and it was obvious something was about to happen. That something was a regular-sized man tearing out onto the stage on a Scott-sized motorcycle.

'Hellllooooooo, Church!' The greeting bounced around the room, a voice that sounded as though it was struggling its way out of a maze of senility and alcoholism. I don't know who this man was supposed to be, nor am I sure if anyone else did, but the fact that he was on stage and wielding a microphone seemed enough for them.

For the next fifteen minutes, the crowd was entertained by the mystery man yelling “Do we have any (insert nationality) here!?!' followed by the collective delayed cheering of a bunch of drunks realising that, holy crap, they were that nationality, and this man was acknowledging it. How awesome!

Not content with that, and obviously having been storing them up since his own family stopped inviting him to Christmas dinner after causing one too many scenes, Mystery Stage Man launched into a series of shop-worn jokes that have been kicking around since 1974. There was the typical 'New Zealanders have sex with sheep' variety, and really, the rest mostly consisted of him referring to a country, then going 'What a bunch of fuuuckwits!', leaving the crowd endlessly amused – not exactly a difficult task – and me entertaining the thought of sticking my head into the plastic bag that was currently occupied by cans of drink.

After finishing his...well, let's be generous and call it a performance, with some sort of repetitive drinking song that would take up residence in my head for several days to follow, one could only begin to wonder what sort of act could follow. Thankfully the wondering was short lived, because the baited breath I was waiting with couldn't hold out for long. Mystery Stage Man decided it was time he introduced, and thus confirmed, the one part of the Church myth that I was sceptical about. The one thing that completed its descent into outright seediness.

Oh yes, it was time for the stripper. And I warn anyone with a fragile constitution to turn away now and save yourself, because from here on in things get a little unsavoury.

The first thing you noticed when she – and I'm going to dub her Brandy, as I can't remember her name – made her way onstage was her age, which ranged from being anywhere between 40 and a member of the undead. With a face and boobs that spent their time comparing which had underwent more cosmetic surgery and skin that shared an uncanny similarity to leather, there was the faintest evidence showing that this woman may have actually been attractive once upon a time. It was just a shame that time was before calendars existed.

Inviting a man who appeared to be a more flamboyant member of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band on stage, she began her performance, dancing and bending in a fashion that made her skin crease like a Mad Magazine fold-in. After taking his glasses, putting them down the front of her g-string and generally doing things with them I'm sure his optometrist hadn't intended, she sat the man down, where he – I'm sure living out a lifelong dream – got to serve as her human pommel horse. As she writhed and flipped over him, legs wrapped around his face and head resting on his crotch, I was very thankful for standing as far away from the stage as I was, yet still wishing I'd had more to drink. I exchanged glances with Brendan and Laureen to confirm that this was actually happening. Their eyes were begging the exact same questions I was.

With the stage strip spectacular ending in what I call Car Crash Nudity, in that I didn't want to look yet couldn't turn away, I turned to my only option to shake what I had just witnessed. It was time to funk.

Yet The Church was not going to be so generous to me just yet, with the Mystery Stage Man – having managed to not yet succumbed to the heart attack he looked constantly on the verge of having – returning to host a drinking competition, a group of New Zealander guys dressed as fairies emerging victorious.

Then it was revealed that Mystery Stage Man had a 'special guest' who just wanted to say a few words. It turned out he was referring to the guy standing to his left, drunk and dressed as a Dalmatian. I guessed he appeared special in a particular sense of the word.

The Drunk Dalmatian wasted no time, immediately addressing his girlfriend, 'I just wanted to say that I love you and–'

I took a drink. I blinked. I blinked again. Suddenly I realised what was about to happen.

No way. No. Fucking. Way. He was going to propose.

I turned to Laureen and shared my realisation. She stared at me, her eyes opening wide in a futile attempt to capture all the madness that was about to unfold.

'No! No, he wouldn't!' Considering he was on stage, drunk and dressed as a dog, I felt Laureen was being far too generous with her disbelief.

He called her on stage, he got down on one wobbly knee and with complete disregard for the story they may one day tell their grandchildren, he asked her to marry him.



She cried, the crowd cheered, Mystery Stage Man rambled something incomprehensible into the microphone and I tried to wrap my head around what I had just witnessed. My head didn't have that much give. Preceded by the stripper equivalent of one of the Golden Girls and moderated by a prime case for an intervention, there was no possible way this proposal could have been more ridiculous.

Turns out I was wrong.

After spending an extended period of time trying to devour each other's faces at the side of the stage while several drunken people fell over on stage attempting to step over a stick – part of a competition – they happy couple made their way into the crowd. Pats on the back and enthusiastic hugs from strangers overcome by the emotion, not to mention a bathtub's worth of beer, ensued. I congratulated them as they passed, having now had enough to drink to make my faux politeness seem almost sincere. Laureen took up the typical female line of questioning and asked the blushing bride-to-be to show off her ring.

'Oh, I don't have one yet.' She showed the ring finger, adorned with nothing but spilt alcohol.

Holy shit. This was almost too good to be true. He had not planned this whatsoever. He had put more thought into hiring his Dalmatian costume than he had his proposal. It was a decision fuelled by drunken logic and several plastic bags’ worth of canned beer.

At this point, with a mouthful of drink, it took every ounce of self control I had to not do a spit take. I turned away and prayed they moved along quickly, because I was waging a losing battle with my desperate need to burst out laughing. Then, as if to punctuate the romance of the moment, Brandy, the stripper made of cow hide, returned to the stage.

This was unexpected and unplanned for. While I'd had more to drink by this point, I'd also moved much closer to the stage. Such proximity did my eyesight no favours, with the leather of her skin looking like it had been left out in the rain too long and the creases in it slowly eroding into crevices.

Proving that she was an equal opportunist, this time Brandy dragged herself up a female from the crowd, sat her down and began to divide her time between dancing around the girl and fondling her in a way that in any other situation would have ended in a lengthy prison sentence. In the back of my mind I began planning what I'd wear to court if I was later called as a witness.

After leading the girl off stage, having left her with a series of mental scars and a delightful story to tell her parents as they shipped her off the therapy, Brandy invited another male on stage. It was soon to become glaringly apparent that she must have specified that his dignity wasn't welcome.

I was now growing increasingly suspicious that this stripper possessed some sort of mind control powers, because within minutes she had this guy lying on his back on stage, handcuffed, stripped to his underwear and wearing a gimp mask. She sat on his face; I became very grateful for not having eaten much that day.

But this was just the beginning of the systematic breaking down of any self respect this man may have claimed to once have, the existence of which having already been called into doubt as serious as the case of STDs he was soon sure to contract. Now having tired of using his face as a cushion, Brandy brought him to his feet, shuffled him – his pants were around his ankles – over to the chair that I was beginning to feel very sorry for and bent him over it. Lighting up a cigarette, she took a few drags before pulling down the man's underpants, gifting the crowd with a faceful of hairy ass, and placed the cigarette between his cheeks. A perfect anti-smoking campaign if ever I'd seen one. Then – because why stop there? - she proceeded to pull his underpants back up and let a hole be burnt through the back of them. Poor underpants, they never signed up for any of this.

Because it was readily apparent that everyone was now ready for dessert, Brandy produced a can of whipped cream. I was not sure exactly where she pulled it from and was doing my best not to dwell on the puzzle, fearing any solution I may come to. Stretching open the back of the man's underpants – as if they hadn't suffered enough – she began spraying whipped cream into them, proving she had a limited future in the catering business. Then, as the grand finale of one man's shame, she pressed on his ass and we all watched as the cream began to snake its way out of the hole left by the cigarette; a tiny, creamy worm making its break for freedom. Meanwhile, I was rapidly feeling the onset of lactose intolerance.

Done with the man and leaving him shamble his way off stage, as I hoped that he had a girlfriend he had to go home and explain an ass full of whipped cream to, it was time for Brandy to finish off her own performance. Tearing off what little clothing she was left wearing – literally tearing, it looked uncomfortable – she took a handful of whipped cream and slapped it between her legs with such force that you would be able to subsequently churn butter in her uterus. And with a bow and what I'm sure was the beginnings of some kind of infection, she was gone.

Looking around at Laureen, Brendan and Rob – he'd appeared at some stage – it was clear that none of us could quite comprehend everything we'd just witnessed. My thoughts were coming out as nothing more than babbled syllables and my mind was taking a time out due to an overload of madness. Sensing it was time to step in, my body took charge, leading me into and episode of funk now that the normal music had resumed.

I let my legs take the funky lead until the music stopped, informing us it was time to go. We hung back, waiting for the more intoxicated patrons to shuffle out, amused by the number that fell over attempting to navigate the obstacle course of empty cans and bottles that littered the floor.

That had been The Church. I couldn't figure out if my expectations had been met, or beaten into submission with a plastic bag full of Fosters cans. Nor could I be sure if I had just enjoyed myself or not. All I could safely say was that I had been entertained, and, as I said, it was an experience. If somewhat of a harrowing one.

Something told me I'd be back one day.