He felt an absurd feeling of happiness that made him want to cry. He felt the sting of tears and hastily blinked them away.

Peter Renshaw noticed and put his arm around his shoulder.

‘Cheer up, Georgie boy. It’s your leaving do.’

He faced Peter and said, ‘This has been the best night of my life, Peter. Thank you. Thank you so very much.’

Peter Renshaw was gratified that George had had a good time. He had always felt a sadness in George, a strangeness that at times had bothered him. He smiled at him now. The drink was making them feel maudlin, he decided.

‘Have another, Georgie boy, there’s another stripper on in a minute.’

He nodded and picked up his drink.

Someone proposed a toast to George and, pink with happiness, he watched them all raise their glasses. Another round of drinks was delivered to the table and the men began some serious drinking.

A little while later the two women who had provided the show came to the table fully dressed for their money. The older of the two, a hard-faced blonde, held out her hand to Peter Renshaw.

‘We want our money, mate, now.’

Her voice was weary.

‘How about a please then, you old boot?’

This from the warehouseman who had taken part in the earlier proceedings.

The woman turned on him.

‘Why don’t you shut your mouth and give your arse a chance?’

All the men began laughing at this. The warehouseman picked up a pint of lager, gesturing to the other men at the table. They all did the same. Then, as if all of one mind, they threw the drinks over the two women, soaking them.

George’s eyes were shining and he shouted, ‘That’ll teach you your manners, you piece of dirty scum!’

All the men laughed, mostly in amazement.

‘That’s right, Georgie, you tell ’em.’

‘Smack her in the mouth.’

George heard the calls and preened himself.

The older woman wiped her face and held out her hand again. ‘I want the money. Please.’

Peter, sorry for them now, handed it over. They walked back to their dressing room despondently. It was always the same after a live show. The men turned on you, because deep down they were ashamed of what they’d done. Once the excitement wore off, they blamed you for their own perversion. They’d go home now to their wives or their girlfriends, full of themselves. Tomorrow their night out would be the talk of their pub. But inside, deep down inside, they were ashamed of themselves. Ashamed of what they had done or witnessed.

The younger girl was in tears and the older woman put her arm around her.

‘They’re all wankers, darlin’, don’t let it get to you. We got ourselves a couple of ton, that’s the main thing. My eldest boy wants a mountain bike, what you spending yours on?’