‘Strippers?’

 

 

The sad voice of an older lady asks us, with the kind of exhausted politeness one might expect from one of those guys that catch you leaving a tube station, trying to ask for a donation for whatever noble cause, be it a knife crime prevention or cancer research charity. She sounds hollowed out, her thick Cypriot accent elongating the ‘ers.’ Unmistakable is the sound of her own disappointment. It’s four AM on the strip, and here she is, middle aged, miserable and handing out pamphlets for a strip club. As we walk past, I feel myself struck by a real sense of macabre. Rarely do you hear a voice sound so defeated, so disempowered. The moment would have been comical if it didn’t sound so piteous. She was far less zealous than the man who would later shout at us: ‘THIRTY EURO STRIPPERS THIRTY EURO SEX CLUB…SEX.’

 

 

Summer had passed fruition at that point, the rot of late August and September beginning to set in. The strip was less busy, the streets less decadent. Walking down, I felt like I could almost relate to the poor woman. We were both troubled souls. My Summer had been weighed down by a hideous blot. Just a week after Trinity ended, I was visiting a friend who lived in Bristol. We had decided to get a small snack from Ji Chicken Shop. Standing there, smelling the unique punch of Taiwanese fried chicken, I received an email from the Dean of our College. Outlook being my favorite form of social media, I made sure to immediately check what had compelled our exalted Dean to contact a lowly servant like myself when term had ended. With the smell of Taiwanese fried chicken now somewhat suffocating, I would find out that it was in some very serious trouble with College.

 

 

The Dean had not revealed what the matter at hand was. I was left somewhat in the dark, like a situationship that goes cold – all I could really do was second guess everything I had ever done or thought about doing. My indiscretions, which apparently demanded total confidentiality, would be revealed to me two weeks later when I received the email to end all emails. To this day, the dreadful noise of an Outlook notification sends me into the kind of frenzied state that could only be diagnosed as some form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The next two months would find my failing law student self in a quasi-legal battle in my own College. Witnesses, written Submissions, clauses, constitutions, case-law, Canon Law, the Catechism of the Catholic fucking Church became daily lingo. I am inclined now to lobby the Law Faculty to make College policy a module for Finales, for I am now the only Homo Sampien in existence to memorize the corrective policy of a Permanent Private Hall – and for that I think I deserve a First.

 

 

If you’ve never been condemned to the workings of College bureaucracy, it is an experience that can only be described as authentically Kafkaesque. Slow. Arbitrary. Aggravating. My Summer was entirely consumed by it. The prospect of suspension, or even expulsion, dangling above my head. Taunting me. The even-scarier prospect of having to explain that to my father. In hindsight, the fear seems comical now, but when submerged in the kind of stress they prescribe morphine for, you can feel your brain melt and your back get tenser and tenser until you’ve got both the posture and mental faculties of a geriatric. What really did not help was trying to organize a holiday with my friends from Sixth Form. We wanted to visit Cyprus. Since the majority of the group did not drink, nor take anything stronger than caffeine, nor know how to speak to women or have the liquid confidence to at least try – it was less of a Lads Holiday™ and more of a Monk’s retreat. Celibacy, Sobriety and Decency being the group ethos – it felt fitting that we visit Ayia Napa, famous of course for its Monastery and Ecclesiastical history, and Larnaca for the Holy Church of Saint Lazarus. Lazarus is responsible for the shortest sentence in the King James Bible, whereupon seeing his dead body, Jesus Wept.

 

 

After much weeping myself, we finally booked the holiday. And then the news arrived. I would be speaking to a Disciplinary Panel on the twenty seventh of August. I would be in Ayia Napa on the twenty seventh of August. I would be on trial in Ayia Napa. Jesus Wept.

 

 

Watching The Inbetweeners seems to be a rite of passage in British youth culture. The show’s non-descript setting and portrayal of the raw awkwardness of adolescence without delving into melodrama (unlike other teen-oriented shows of the era) makes it one of Middle England’s most prized exports. The show has a universality to it, one that made it relatable even to us – products of the cancerous trend of British private schools playing Mcdonalds, and building international franchises in any semi-wealthy Asian country they can find. A lot of male teenage experiences, especially when all goes wrong, feel like they’ve been represented in The Inbetweeners. You can always tell when you’re having your own Inbetweeners moment, it’s never pretty. The beginning of the holiday felt like that.

 

 

Arriving in Larnaca, a Taxi driver scammed us out of thirty euros for what amounted to less than a ten minute drive. He also happened to be a racist, and had a rather unfortunate odor and face about him. To his unfortunate credit, his comments about our AirBnb had been correct. It was not a pleasant fifteen minute walk away from the beach as appeared on the website, but truly in the middle of nowhere, seemingly surrounded by seedy ‘night clubs’ (ie an abandoned building with a photo of a half-naked woman strapped to the door), empty dusty fields, and graffiti. The door could barely be opened and the room smelt of cheese and sweat. The toilet door could not be locked – exposing us permanently to the fragrance of the last inhabitant’s digestive tract. For better or for worse, we had little time to inhale our surroundings, for I soon realized I had lost my passport. After suicide ideation and frantic searching, we finally retrieved it on the floor of the airport cafe. However, there was no relief, for the smell had somehow grown more pungent. Electing to flee to a hotel, we braved being eyed up in a not so welcoming pub as every Bolt (local Uber equivalent) ignored our requests – until we found a local taxi service to take us to our new refuge. The day did not end there. Just as we thought the agonies had to cease, my friend received a text from a situationship of his. I’ve never seen life drain out of a man’s eyes so ungraciously.

 

 

At this point I was filled with nothing but foreboding. Black Omens for the trial I felt. The Lads Holiday seemed not to be to Cyprus, but the descent into Dante’s Inferno. Luckily, I was pleasantly (and uncharacteristically) wrong. While my friend’s pre-marital depression did prove to dampen certain moments, Larnaca proved to be a most sensual and spiritual retreat. Sunbathing and then service where Saint Lazarus rests for the second time. I will always remember the city fondly, especially the barber who when discovering we had watched The Inbetweeners movies opted to recommend us this one Australian flic with Rebel Wilson where a group of friends at a bachelors party “put drugs in a sheep’s arse before the wedding.” Suffice to say, despite his and my other friend’s enthusiasm, we never ended up watching it.

 

 

We would then embark to Ayia Napa. The trial loomed ahead. One night and then I would find myself before the tribunal. The event I had dreaded for months. The face of my father livid playing in my head. How ironic was it that I was in Ayia Napa of all wretched impious places, waiting for Earthly justice from the learned judges of the Collegium de Principis Cum Regentis Paradiso, the College of Prince Regent of Paradise – known to outsiders as ‘Regents.’ One more night, and the reckoning of my summer would all be over.

 

 

A Taxi Driver had informed us that we were arriving off-season. That the best days had passed. We were skeptical however considering he also claimed to be a ‘Special Forces Marine’ and had flown a Senec Helicopter to Sudan a grand total nine times. Yet, much to our chagrin, it does seem the taxi drivers have a penchant for predicting the worst. An end of season strip is a peculiar place, there are enough people to justify the awful music and the dangerously cheap drinks, but not enough to prevent being sandwiched where club promoters outnumber tourists three to one. Many a hand was shaken that day, many a long lost friend now inviting you to go to his establishment – a stinking bar with an audience of four French people disinterested in the equally disinterested go-go dancer. Worse were the packs of young men that would flock any woman they saw in the hope she would look past their grievances with deodorant. The largest demographic by far was young French people, a terrifying sight for these fair English eyes.  And it was there where the embattled lady asked us if we wanted strippers. On the final night, before the trial.

 

 

I awoke the next day. Almost catatonic. Refreshing the page every two minutes. Waiting for the Teams Meeting to begin. The day to be dreaded had come. My friends were watching, in bated breath. The room was somber. Every witness statement, written Submission, clause, constitution, case-law, Canon Law and  Catechism of the Catholic fucking Church had come to this. A tan on my face, and with my skin still smelling of sunscreen and sea salt – the trial began.

 

 

An hour later it was done. I was told the verdict would come within two days at the maximum. Euphoria seeped through me. My friend suggested we celebrate by jumping off a cliff into the sea. It was a rather odd instance of telepathy as my plan had been to do that anyway, especially if it had gone awfully. The jump was exhilarating, the rejuvenation of when you’re caught mid-air, sliding down at such a fast speed yet somehow feeling as if it could not be slower, before crashing into a lagoon of crystal clear water. I felt somewhat reborn.

 

 

The next two days went as a blur. Particular highlights was my friend mustering the courage to go speak to a girl before deciding that he would not do that, and instead pretending to collect money from an ATM. Another travesty was when an old woman stumbled into the bar, she could have perhaps been a grandmother yet she was latching onto every slightly muscular young man and attempting to embrace them with the passion of a youth long lost. To our utter delight, she latched onto my friend, attempting to sway him side by side. As we cheered, she began to gnaw on his arm while he stood there aghast – kissing him so passionately that it would almost compel jealousy if one had not been kissed in so long. The glorious sight of a senior citizen attempting to hook up with my friend in a drab and gloomy bar, the kind of scene worthy of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, let the thought of the impeding verdict wane from my mind for just a fleeting second.

 

 

Alas, even the Monastic Retreat had to end. Sinking into my bed after a week of absence, I was left suffering the classic post-holiday virus, yet somehow still wondering if it was possible to get a STI without any of the S. Two hours later, I received another email. God-forsaken Outlook. The verdict had come.

 

 

All charges cleared. Innocent even. Freedom did not feel like a rush jumping off a cliff, it was  far more subtle. I sat back and mourned the Summer I had lost. Then I thought of the woman, and the way she said ‘Strippers?’ ∎

 

Words by Zaid Magdub. Image courtesy of Alice Robey-Cave.