The pub was packed out, and the smell of beer and cigarette smoke hung heavily in the air. Lenny’s stag night was going well, and he was now drinking a yard of ale. His friends were clapping and egging him on and he was loving the attention, enjoying this night out.

Lenny wasn’t a drinker really – he didn’t like the taste, if he was being honest, and didn’t understand how people could drink the shit night after night. But, for once, he was getting pleasantly pissed and actually the taste wasn’t that bad after a while. It was his wedding the next day and he was secretly worried he might fuck up somehow – not least by being in no fit state to attend. But the more he drank the more those fears receded. Lenny Scott usually thought everything through; he was careful in that respect. But the buzz that the alcohol was giving him felt good tonight. After all, it was his last night of freedom, as everyone kept reminding him.

Their little flat was furnished and ready for them to move into and, as of tomorrow, it would be their home. He was excited at the thought. ‘Playing at grown-ups’, according to Ivy Conway, which had annoyed him when she’d said it. He pushed the thought from his head and carried on drinking, the atmosphere making him feel relaxed and excited at the same time. After tomorrow he and Sharon could do what they liked, when they liked. It was a heady feeling. Being able to take her ripe body at any moment of the day or night, with no worry about anyone interrupting them – that was going to be the best bit of marriage. They were adults at last, soon to be parents. He hoped Sharon was carrying a boy. God, but he wanted a son.

He downed the last of his yard of ale to the sound of clapping and cheers from the boys. One of them – Keith Smith, a tall, bony-looking lad in possession of a large hooked nose and known for his jokes which were funny as well as nasty – shouted out clearly and loudly, ‘Strippers are here, lads.’

The men looked around, waiting expectantly for the females to come into plain sight. There was a lot more cheering and shouting from the young ones, while the older men were laughing nervously, knowing that when their wives found out there would be murders.

Suddenly, a huge older woman with a heavily made-up face came into view from a doorway behind the bar, as the music boomed out of the speakers. She was laughing delightedly as she wobbled out on to the bar room floor wearing a red and black basque and high-heeled stilettos. Her stockings had rolls of fat hanging over the tops and she began gyrating alarmingly as she shouted out good-naturedly, ‘All right, boys, which one of you is the groom?’