Jen Denitto reminds me of an amusing Andy Roberts-connected memory that we share, this time from the late 90s.
After spending a pleasant afternoon at a Spitalfields small press comics event Ms D, Mr R, Mr Darren Hayman (of the band Hefner) and I repaired to a local hostelry. It was a Sunday evening, and we had found ourselves wandering around in that weekend no-man’s-land part of London where the City merges with the East End. The only bar we could find open on these deserted streets was a rather bare and uncarpeted little room, brightly lit with bare wooden walls, taped music playing in the background but not too loud. There may well have been sawdust on the floor. A dozen or so drinkers were scattered around barstools and tables. It seemed homely enough, and we really had failed to find anywhere else, so we picked a table, got in a few drinks, and sat down to continue our conversations.
One of us remarked how odd it was there were no other female customers. Or even other groups or couples. Just ordinary-looking lone men, mainly in their forties or older, having a quiet drink. We were also aware that some members of this sullen clientele were openly staring at our little party. I’m quite used to that, of course, and dismissed the attention accordingly. It must be just me they’re staring at, I presumed.
After a short while, we were comforted to see a woman enter the room. Thirty-something, a bit washed-out-looking, fairly ordinary. Someone’s wife, I thought. She went to the bar, got a drink and chatted to the bar staff.
Then she stepped onto a little dais in one corner of the room and proceeded to take off her clothes in time with the music.
Our little group’s chat about sensitive indie guitar bands, Riot Grrrl scenes and compatible comic strips had been rather compromised by a strip of a entirely different kind. Martyrs to our embarrassed smirks, we drank up rather quickly and left.
At least now we knew why the pub solely contained staring lone men being a little bit too quiet.
