Mart

The Monster Mart: The Ring-Masters Comments

(or is it possible to get to the bottom of such goings on?),

by our correspondent

Picture this a windy Saturday evening, a London Pub deep in the heart of Holborn. Just an ordinary evening made for the enjoyment of ordinary people? Indulge me further. Inside the hostelry we find a gathering, nothing out of the ordinary, many would not necessarily bat an eye at the Napoleonic doorman sat on his stool and resplendent in his tunic.

Wait, this is not just any meeting of like-minded drinkers loafing about. Is that a tail-coat I see? or may be some fangs? Bloody Hell that ones wearing a dress! Yes the LVG do it again with another stylised bash in the heart of the old smoke.

As one having to travel from the bowels of the Midlands, one could be forgiven for wiping away a tear to find such a collection of vamps in one single pub. Arriving slightly late (as the food was being tucked into) but some might say fashionably so, we were warmly greeted "Where the bloody 'ell 'ave you been then?". An exchange of greeting and top nosh before an onslaught to delve into the delights of the stalls. Everything a vamp might need from videos (and a particular mention of Louis' special offer which did not, on this occasion, involve the insertion of unrepeatables into unmentionables) to candlesticks; earrings to mirrors (presumably designed for the men in attendance) and books galore.

I should mention here that next time I'm leaving my cheque book at home and giving my companion strict instructions to thump me whenever I feel inclined to say, 'Ooh, I NEED one of those'. Still, the atmosphere was a delight as ever and the company as good as you could wish for I the undead, made all the better for a sneak preview of more of Klifs charactures (despite the fact that the one of me makes me look like a cross between Kenneth Williams, Dr Mengle and a King Charles Spaniel with a particularly big nose!)

The Striking interior of the Cittie of Yorke made an ideal setting for such an event (to the extent that my co-midlander commented 'Bluudy 'eck, this nowt as good a gaff in Cov, eh?'. (Some hours later I was able to translate this and I leave it for you to ponder over, particularly as he comes from Yorkshire!)

The raffle presented as ever by the LVGs own barker, Klif (Why is it that this man was never offered a job presenting the Good Old Days?) aided by the delicious Jenni who dispensed a particularly groovy cache of goodies to the lucky ticket holders, which included a rather natty pair of earrings and a mirror to stir the loins of any true coffin-dweller.

Some time in the evening, the bemused audience were called to attend what can only be described as the top (but arguably the bottom) of the bill; entitled simply as 'Battle of the Bottoms'.

This was to be the decisive bout of rigorous anal knowledge and sphincter trivia between the one and only (Heaven Forbid!) Louis and some git from Coventry. I must admit to a certain amount of trepidation when I was initially approached to participate on the grounds that my buttocks might become the source of some ridicule (particularly if I was noted to be suffering from VPL!). Subtlety is not the word that immediately leaps into consciousness when one thinks of the ways to describe the goings in the rump-to-rump, however, significant praise indeed is proffered to Debbie and Phil for at least attempting to metre some semblance of control over the contestants.

The air was sharp as these two giants of the Gluteal sparred their way through an intestinal-wrenching ordeal of tasks that would make Hercules think, "Sod this, I'm off for a pint". Gasps were clearly audible from the front row as Mick produced the ultimate in sad-gadgety thingamabobs that turned out to be a clap-o-meter (a la Opportunity Knocks). I'm still nursing my bruised ego in relation to the rather deflated applause my derriere raised in comparison to the truly arse-melting decibel of flatulence in response to Louis'.

Still, I was able to finally nip the competition with my hand crafted choc-and-nut imitation poo, whilst Louis' looked like it had been dumped by an egg-bound Mammoth with a seriously prolapsed ring-piece! Overall, what can be said is that despite Louis' undoubted superiority on the 'John Travolta' line,

I think it is fair to say that an intiman years of psychotherapy for Debbie and Phil as they obviously need all the help they can get for designing the bottom challenge. Unlike Louis who now has a spare one again, maybe in the Midlands next time remember the up-coming house warming and there's always a room for the night if anyone wants to visit our Goth haven in Coventry.