Flash Fiction Friday: The Stripper
"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom." – William Blake

My name is Oscar, and I’m an alcoholic.

The Happy Ending became my life – a strip club in Soho where rock bands played between dancers. The crack, the chaos, the endless bottles in the 90s – it slipped through my fingers like wine rolling down a hooker’s lips. Addiction stole everything.

It started with my twin sister’s death. I reached for the bottle to numb the pain, but that only led to disaster. First, I got too friendly with the punters – knocking back drinks, snorting lines with musicians. Then I stole from the till. My business partner clocked me, and I was out. My wife left me a note – “See you later, loser” – as she took the kids and disappeared.

I drowned myself in booze, shacked up with a stripper, but when the money ran dry, she kicked me out. Years blurred. Dealers, hookers, deadbeats in dingy pubs from King’s Cross to Euston. I begged for drinks, stole when I had to, crashed on sofas, and more often in doorways.

Nights ended in police vans. “Not you again?” one copper barked as they dragged me back to Marylebone nick. Mornings meant cold toast shoved through a hatch, and the judge slapping me with a fine. I’d leave court with my head pounding and mouth dry, straight to the next pub.

London, one of the busiest cities in the world, never felt lonelier. Shop doorways became my shelter. I slept beside crackheads with haunted eyes, lighters glowing on their pipes. Some never woke up. One night, a psycho tried to set me alight. I woke just in time, wondering if maybe he was doing me a favour.

If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. One night outside Euston, a drunk nicked my can of Special Brew. I swung at him, but he was an ex-army boxer. One punch and I was out cold, bleeding into the pavement. A little girl woke me, whispering, “Mister, are you okay?” More compassion in her eyes than I’d seen in years—until her mother dragged her away, calling me a filthy beast.

Shame drove me into a church that night. I listened to a Priest talk to three bored souls. Later, he pressed a card into my hand – Alcoholics Anonymous. “Boozers are losers. Winners are grinners,” he told me, reeking faintly of whiskey.

I nearly laughed, but I went.

That first AA meeting cracked me open. My voice shook, I sobbed, I admitted the truth – that I’d pissed away my life. A man told me he’d been sober ten years, and if he could do it, so could I. For the first time, I believed someone.

Months passed. Sheltered housing. AA. Small victories. Then I found my family – my wife remarried, my kids furious, but slowly, grudgingly, they let me back in. One sober day at a time.

And then, fate had its joke. At an AA meeting, I saw Nicola – a stripper from the old club. She wasn’t dancing anymore. She was making documentaries for the BBC. From G-strings to cameras, she’d found her way out too. She even got me a job. Now we’re planning a wedding in Barbados this Christmas.

Imagine that. Oscar the drunk, marrying a documentary filmmaker. The kids will be chuffed. Maybe Nicola will film it – “From Soho to Spouse: A Tale of Love, Money, and Redemption.”

I know one thing: sobriety gave me back hope. I still fight my addiction every day, but I face it sober. And I want anyone struggling with alcohol or addiction to know this: it’s never too late to change.

We aren’t supposed to network or fall into affairs in AA – but of course, everyone does. It’s better than being wasted. And maybe that’s the point.