Off! Off! Off

IT'S 11.30. It's 11.30! It's 11.30! Ah, the fantasy of the Diet Coke advert: secretaries gather at the appointed hour to watch a local tradesman remove his shirt, because he can't possibly enjoy a canned drink with it on.

This week that dream becomes a reality for visitors to the Secretary Show at Olympia. Each day, at the stroke of 11.30, they will gather to watch a strip routine performed by a bricklayer, a security guard, a chauffeur, a builder and a car mechanic. Or rather, that's what these five lads were until a few months ago, when the success of a certain British film inspired them to launch themselves as The Fraud Monty.

"We're just ordinary guys in the street," explains Dean, the 35- year-old ex-bricklayer. "We're not sex symbols. We're not muscle-bound, so men don't find us a threat like the Chippendales. We give the crowd a bit of fun, and we're all out of sync - just like The Full Monty." They are enjoying astonishing success. They perform several nights a week all over the country (tonight it's the Hippodrome). The phone rings constantly. When they announced a recent gig at Hull University, the 1,500-capacity venue sold out in an hour. "We do everything," says Dean cheerfully. "Ladies' nights, mixed nights, even family shows. Obviously we keep certain undergarments on when there's children there." This comment should be a hint to anyone who missed the film and doesn't know what the title means. Yes, when occasion demands - and unlike those teasing Chippendales - the lot comes off. I joined the boys when they were "doing the Monty" at Benjy's nightclub Mile End. It's a great place: thick carpets, glittery lights, mock sphinxes on wall. One of the ladies' loos was cordoned as a dressing-room. Inside, The Fraud Monty sorted through policemen's uniforms, glittery Seventies out-and an eye-watering array of pink plastic devices for imaginative use onstage. I didn't realise that Ann Summers had quite such a comprehensive range. Graham, the former security guard, reached into a holdall and pulled a banana. "A prop?" I asked. "Don't be daft," said Graham. "It's carbohydrate. I'm knackered." Lisa - girlfriend of Lloyd, the ex-builder - was calmly overseeing preparations. "I'm all for it. The day Lloyd came home and said, 'Dean's had this idea ' I just laughed. Some of them can't dance, their bodies aren't perfect, but when I see all these women screaming, I think 'Wow, that's my Lloyd up there!' And Graham's our lodger, so I've two G-strings to wash." "It's the last thing I ever thought I'd do," said Lloyd bashfully. "We all went round to Dean's front room - it was just like the film. Dave had done some stripping before so he showed us what to do. When he took his trousers off, I had to leave the room. But at the first show there was no time to think about it. It was case of going through them curtains and getting on with it. Now I can't wait to get out there." The crowd can't wait either. The building shook with whistles, cheers and impatient stamping of feet. The Fraud Monty, kitted out in sergeants' uniforms ("We had to get special permission from the police"), clasped hands in a brief performance ritual. Then, with the big breaths every stripper needs, they jogged out of the dressing- room. I thought I was going to be crushed to death. A vast pack of East End girls jammed towards the stage, voices raised in war-cry: "Off! Off! Off!" The lads are fantastic.I have seen proper strip- pers (for strictly professional reasons) and they were as sexy as a bowl of curdled custard: bodies orange with fake tan, every hair waxed away, smiles glued on, movements smooth as their gelled crops. The Fraud Monty are chubby, hairy, chuckling; they range from 29 to 45 in age; their relationship with the rhythm is erratic at best; they are very funny and surprisingly sexy. The crowd heads for a point of absolute frenzy - and beyond. When the boys "do the Monty", the girls have a collective fit: reaching for the stage, screaming oblivion. There was only one moment of panic, when Lloyd (already nude) couldn't find his cancan skirt - but the DJ handed him the soundtrack of Buster to protect his modesty. To Lloyd's relief, the DJ chose the vinyl version rather than a CD. Unfortunately, he looked more surreal than sexy with Phil Collins beaming from his groin. In the dressing-room afterwards, the lads were happy enough. They don't yet - make more money than they did their previous jobs, because the costs getting started are high. "But this is fun," said Graham. "There's not many jobs where you can look forward to going to work." He nudged one of his fellow performers. "His name's Dave Little! Ironic, isn't it?" I'm afraid I don't know. had to look away when a v e ' s i r o n y w a s revealed. All the shyness these "ordinary guys" have lost, and all the shyness that the screaming girls seemed to lack, was displaced into one big embarrassed clump me. Next time I'll be better prepared. The boys packed up their sequins, deflated the naughtier props and prepared to hit the road. They were now discussing problems with the stage. "We didn't have room to move up there," said Graham. "We should have played the dance floor." They looked at each other, remembering the frenzied crowd. If they had performed among those ladies on the dance floor, wouldn't have been The Full Monty. More like The Killing Fields.

Copyright 1998
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