Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

Even then I feel that they are biding their time. That at any moment they could suddenly break loose and overwhelm us. How right I am. Halfway through the afternoon, Francis is whisked away and I hear the dreaded words “Sir Giles” mentioned. Tension time is with us. The girls are behaving quite well and only occasionally trying to strike matches on the zips of passing holidaymakers’ flies. I almost begin to believe Nan who says that after a couple of hours without cock all the stuffing goes out of her.

Strictly according to plan, we escort them back to their respective chalets at six o’clock and leave them to prepare for their part in the evening’s entertainment. Needless to say a heavy guard is mounted – fortunately not by the twins – and nothing untoward occurs.

Promptly at seven thirty they are behind the scenes with me at the Happydrome, all tuned up to do their bit to make things go with a swing. At least that is how Francis put it. I am not so sure. Peeping through the curtain I immediately see Sid picking his nose in the third row next to a portly gent with a face the colour of red porridge. This must be Sir Giles or an advert for Alcoholics Anonymous. Either way, he looks about as mean as a piece of wet, knotted string and I can understand Sid’s problem.

“What time does this mind-rotting pap start?” says Nan. “My God! What are they?” She is referring to the Melody Bay Musibelles, Funfrall’s answer to the Tiller Girls, believed to be “eh?” They are lining up on the revolving stage for their opening number like retreating infantry being forced to make a stand – not the first some of them have made, I might add.

“Yer what?” says their leader, registering that she is being subjected to scrutiny.

“You stupid slut,” says Nan in her usual friendly fashion. “You poor pawn.”

“Porn!” says the Musibelle who has heard the word somewhere. “You want to watch your language Gyppo.”

“Note the bourgeois abuse,” sighs Nan turning to Nat. “The knife driven between the shoulder blades of working class solidarity. ‘Gyppo’. It’s weepsville, isn’t it? Can’t you see—?” Now she is addressing the whole chorus line— “You are betraying yourselves as women when you dress up in those sordid costumes, your faces clogged with make-up. What are you? Love objects? Baubles? Giving away your identities to lubricate the wet dreams of male chauvinist pigs.”

“You want to get the birds’ nests out of your hair before you start talking about betraying yourself as a woman.”

“Bloody cheek!”

“Who does she think she is? Scruffy little scrubber.”

“Scratch her eyes out.”

“I’m not going to stand here and be insulted like that.”

“What have we got a union for?”

At any moment I can see a monster punch-up breaking out but luckily Jim the stage manager, acts swiftly and whips up the overture. The stage starts to circle slowly and to the haunting strains – every tune played by Freddy Newbold and his men is a strain and quite capable of haunting you – of “There’s no Business Like Show Business”, the Musibelles stop shaking their fists and start shaking their legs.

“Poor cows,” snorts Nat as they disappear from sight. “Totally exploited. They have now begun to live their roles.”

“Still, the audience loves it,” I say. “Listen to that noise. They’re giving someone pleasure.”

“They would give more pleasure in a state whorehouse,” snaps Nat.

I am certain there must be an answer to that but I don’t have time to think of it because Jim bustles out and shepherds us away so that Mario, Guiseppe and Antonio, three coal miners’ sons from Barnsley, can set up their juggling act. This move is purely for their own protection because the Slat girls’ eyes begin to glaze over the minute they glimpse the bulging white leotards,

“Did you see those skittles?” says Nan.

“They’re Indian clubs,” says Nat.

“They’re heaven,” sighs Nan, “do you think I could borrow one?”

I get them into the stage manager’s office where they snigger when I suggest a sherry and snatching up a bottle of vodka pour half of it into two tumblers. I suppose the sherry is just my acknowledgement of the fact that they are basically upper class bints. I would never think of asking my old man if he wanted a sherry. Whilst I am thus pleasantly engaged in exploring my social hang-ups Nat and Nan are glugging down the vodka like kids having a last glass of water before bed time. It is probably a mark of my naivete but I am glad to see them getting outside it. In my experience birds keel over after two Babychams so I reckon that with that much vodka inside them Pa Slat’s brats will be going bye-byes pretty quickly. I am even stupid enough to start nibbling away at the stuff myself.

All around us fire-eaters, razor blade swallowers, Irish tenors and every no hoper who was ever put out of a job by television, is milling about. Jim pops in from time to time to supervise the gargling and all in all I am beginning to feel pretty relaxed. The mood is obviously catching.

“Another teeny-weeny vodkatini, Nan?” says Nat. “I must say, I’m within a smear test of enjoying myself.”

“A smidgeon,” says Nan extending her glass, and bringing mine along for the ride. “It must be the presence of King Male here.”

“Humpable hunk, isn’t he?” murmurs Nat, beginning to nibble my ear in a way I find a good deal less than objectionable. “Shall we toss for ends?”

“Naughty, naughty. Timmy isn’t like that, are you pet? You don’t want to be sexually emancipated, do you darling? You like sweating it out in your nice bourgeois blazer.”

“He wears his heart on his pocket, not his sleeve,” sighs Nat. “Imagine all those rippling pectorals wasting away under this serge.”

“Dents your heart, doesn’t it?” agrees Nan. “I mean, his whole body could be a glistening chalice of sweat aglow with the rippling ecstasy of sexual congress.”

“At the very least,” nods Nat. “Here, have another sip so you don’t have to think about it, darling,” and she jerks another half pint of vodka down my throat. Now, it occurs to me about this time, that I am just a tiny bit pissed. Nothing serious, mind. I can still feel Nan kneading the front of my worsteds, but I am not as exercised about it as I might have been half an hour before. After all, as long as I can keep the terrible twins occupied I am doing my job, aren’t I? Occupied. That’s the key word. I take Nat’s cheeks between my fluttering fingers and settle greedily on to her mouth like a humming bird alighting on some choice jungle bloom. Why don’t I just let them get on with it? It’s going to keep them out of trouble for a while, and it can’t do anyone else any harm. In fact it can do me a bloody lot of good, I think to myself as somebody’s hands – I know they are not mine – start unzipping my fly.

“Go on,” I gasp, as there is a sudden halt in the proceedings.

“Not enough room, Angel,” murmurs Nan, “we want to do you with justice. Come next door.”

“Next door?”

“The props room.”

“Oh. Ouch!”

Nat zipping my J.T. up in my fly keeps my senses occupied until I find myself collapsing on to some kind of sofa. There is no doubt about it. I am definitely pissed.

“You just punctured my foreskin,” I say reproachfully.

“Don’t worry. Mummy will kiss it better for you.”

I have an impression of one of those long smocks disappearing over its owner’s heads and a great, grabbable expanse of naked flesh. I grab.

“Uh, uh! I never screw men in uniform. Get it off.”

Blazer, tie, shirt, shoes, socks, and pants hit the floor in less time than it takes to write this. Somewhere I think I can hear shouting but maybe it is because I am excited.

“Where’s Nan?” I say.

“I am Nan. Nat is just coming.” Her great, warm body settles on mine like a lamb’s wool overblanket with the lambs still inside it and I let my hand run riot in the moist furrow between her legs.

“Leave some for Nat,” I murmur.

“Don’t worry.”

But, suddenly, I do worry. Whatever we are lying on is moving and somebody is shouting in my left earhole.

“Get off! Get off! Jump!!”

But with Miss Slat on top of you you’d be pushed to wink. Ah, there’s the other one. Naked of course and speeding to share her sister’s ecstacy. But what are those lights doing glaring out of the darkness? And the smell of cigarette smoke? And the band playing? And the shouts and screams? Why do I feel as if I am being taken for a magic carpet ride? Why is it suddenly so draughty?

No!! With horrible certainty I realise that I have been taken for a ride. The deadly duo have lined me up on the revolving stage and I am now flashing my credentials at two thousand holidaymakers. My first reaction is a natural one. Get the hell out of it! But this is easier thought than done. While I am grappling with Nan the immortal couplets of “River Deep, Mountain High” come richocheting over the public address system and Nan snatches up a microphone.

“O.K. Campers,” I hear her yodel. “This is the part of the show where you grab a slice of the action.” Thud, thud, thud go her great boobs as she bounces in time with the music. “Reach over to your neighbour and if you see anything you like – fondle it. Come on now, you know you want to. Don’t dream about it. Do it! Throw out your inhibitions and hang up your hangups.” Ike and Tina are bursting a gusset and the idea sounds pretty good, even to me. I mean, it’s better than breaking up your instrument with an axe, isn’t it? Less painful, too.

“I’m getting hot,” screams Nan. “I want it!! I want it!! I want it!! Do you want it?”

“Yes!” howls the audience.

“I didn’t hear you!”

“Ye-e-e-e-ee-e-e-s!!!”

“Well, grab it! Grab it! Grab it!” Her pelvis starts shuddering like a strip of confetti tied to an electric fan. From the darkness comes the sound of furniture breaking up. It is like New Year’s Eve at the British Legion.

“That’s it, clear the floor and let’s have some action. Oh! Oh! Oh!!!” I lose sight of her for a moment because Nat pulls me off the sofa and starts – well, I don’t really like to say what she starts doing.

“Love thy neighbours!!”

The noise is incredible and the kind of smell that escapes through a grating outside a Turkish bath wells up out of the darkness.

“Suck for peace.”

Nan chucks her microphone into the audience and joins Nat on top of me. I suppose if I am honest with myself, in my heart of hearts I had always wanted to make love to two birds on the stage of a theatre full of people with Ike and Tina Turner singing River Deep, Mountain High in the background.

With my face allowed a moment’s liberty I gaze into the audience. Only one seat in the place seems to remain upright and occupied. On it sits Sir Giles Slat. There is a thoughtful expression on his face.

CHAPTER SIX

“Beautiful,” murmurs Sir Giles.

“Beautiful,” echoes Sid.

“I can’t remember when I was last so moved by a spontaneous outbreak of mass emotion.”

“When England beat Germany in the World Cup?” offers Sid.

Sir Giles frowns. “I was thinking of something rather deeper than that. To me, what we saw that night had an almost mystical, religious significance. It was a celebration of being alive. I believe that many Scandinavian countries observe a similar festival on Midsummer Night. But what was of course remarkable about this happening was that it was not a ritual in the sense of an event given historical credence by dint of annual repetition.” He pauses so that Sid can nod vigorously.

“It was quintessentially the manifestation of an innate, atavastic but primarily unexploited yearning.”

Well, I wouldn’t like to argue with him, would you? Sid certainly wouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he says, “and it backs up that idea I—I mean – we – had, doesn’t it?

It is two days after the Camp Concert and I am back at Funfrall, London, sitting in Sir Giles’ office. After the concert a number of things happened fast, one of them being that I was off the premises before you can say “tear gas”. And Francis didn’t smile once as he handed me back my stamp collection. I remember him standing there in his underpants with his sock suspenders round his neck and his shirt hanging in shreds. Poor devil. God knows what he had been through – or how many. Dad’s expression wasn’t much of an improvement when he found me standing on the doorstep. “Look, mum,” he calls out. “It’s the return of the proditall son.” Knowing Dad, he must have been working on that one for weeks. I only get them to take me in on condition that I buy a season ticket to the labour exchange and the atmosphere is, as they say, fraught.

The call to present myself at Funfrall House does nothing to raise my spirits. Sidney presumably wants to tear me limb from limb in the seclusion of his own office or perhaps there has been an official complaint laid against me – and I don’t mean a dose of the clap caught from the probation officer’s loo.

But when I get to the upright tray of ice cubes which pretends to be Funfrall House, Sidney is tight-lipped but cool, and says that Sir Giles wants to talk to me. Immediately I get another taste of the terrors. Could he possibly imagine that I was responsible for the behaviour of his nieces? Stranger things have happened. I knew a fellow once who used to punch blokes rotten every time they looked at his old lady while she used to hang it out for every lad in the neighbourhood. He must have known, but he just couldn’t face up to it. But, as I soon find out, it does seem as if Sir Giles has got other things on his mind. Quite what they are it is difficult, for me at least, to understand. Nevertheless, I continue to cock my lugholes attentively.

“Yes, Noggett,” goes on Sir Giles. “One aspect of our job is to interpret trends. To find out what people are wanting and to give it to them. It would be impossible for anybody attending that—that—”

“Rave-up?”

“Again, not quite the words I would have chosen, Noggett – that spontaneous outpouring of communal affection, not to have formed the impression that it was answering a deep and heartfelt need. I think with you, that the time has come for Funfrall to take another momentous step forward.”

He looks me straight between the eyes and I swallow hard and peer up at the ceiling. Very nice it is too.

“Let me spell it out for the sake of our young friend here,” continues Sir Giles. “The progenitor of our simplistic bacchanalia.” I am not certain I like that, but it doesn’t matter, S.G. is already grinding on. “Holiday Camps were developed to cater for a simple basic need: that of providing an affordable escape from the dark satanic mills for those who had not previously envisaged a bucket and spade as other than implements required to wrest combustibles from an open cast mine. With increasing affluence and greater freedom of movement between the classes, so the seaside holiday became the rule rather than the exception and horizons extended even beyond the three mile limit which borders these shores.”

I try and match Sidney’s expression of dogged interest.

“What so far we seem to have ignored, in this country at least, is the changing moral climate. The expression of love and affection between adult human beings is no longer solely the prerogative of those united by bonds of marriage. Whilst not wishing to undermine the bedrock – I use the word advisedly – upon which such strong family-orientated enterprises as Melody Bay were built, we believe that there exists the opportunity to create a new kind of pleasure resort for the emancipated seventies.”

“They’re getting a bit old, aren’t they?” I interject.

“I referred,” grits Sir Giles, “to the nineteen-seventies. We envisage a holiday village where responsible adults can celebrate the new found sexual freedom of the age in which we live, without blanching before the cold cynosure of antedeluvian morals.”

“A sort of legalised knocking shop,” says Sidney helpfully.

“Please let me finish, Noggett,” says Sir Giles wearily.

“I think I’ve got the idea,” I pant earnestly. “You think that with everybody going on coach tours of the Balkans, Holiday Camps are on the way out. Therefore you want to introduce somewhere like those frog places where they all live in each other’s mud huts and run around in grass skirts with strings of cocoa beans round their necks.” A long silence follows my remarks.

“I believe you are related to Mr. Noggett?” says Sir G. eventually.

“That’s right. He’s my brother-in-law.”

Sir G. nods resignedly. “I would have suspected that might be the case.”

I smile my “throw a stick in the pond and I’ll bring it back and lay it at your feet” smile but it takes a few moments before Sir G. gets into his stride again.

“We have already purchased a site and the events of the other night were sufficient to persuade me that the time is now ripe to pursue the enterprise.”

“It’s going to be a bit parky frisking about like that in our climate, isn’t it?” I ask.

“The property comprises a small island off the north-east coast of Spain. The Costa Brava. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

Heard of it! Some of my best friends have got food poisoning there. All this is very interesting but why are they telling me?

“I expect you are wondering why we are telling you all this?” observes Sir G. I shrug my shoulders; Tonto, he let the Lone Ranger do all the talking.

“I was impressed by the part you played in the proceedings of the other night. There was about you a natural unaffected joyfulness that seemed to place you apart from the more conventional Holiday Host which is our norm.”

I rack my brains, but for the life of me I cannot remember anybody called Norm. I must have been pissed.

“I have talked to Mr. Noggett who, of course, knows you far better than I, and he confirms my impression that you would be an ideal representative for us on ‘Isla de Amor’.”

“What?” I say.

“Love Island, Funfrall’s new Mediterranean experience for the mature holidaymaker,” chirps in Sidney. “Are you interested?”

Blimey! I think to myself. What a carve up!

Two weeks later I have been fitted out in my new lightweight blazer and assorted togs and am entering the embarkation lounge at Gatwick like it is a bridal suite. I still cannot believe my luck. Sun, travel, and the thumbs up to give Percy his head. What more could a red-blooded young Englishman want?

“Well, if it isn’t Melody Bay’s answer to the death of vaudeville.” I turn round and there is Ted clapping me on the shoulder. “Come to see me off, have you?”

“I’ll see you off any day,” I say enthusiastically. I suppose I should have reckoned that Ted might show up. Sidney had told me that a selection of Hosts were being recruited from Funfrall Camps throughout the country, and Ted would be on anyone’s shortlist if they were forming the export division of Rentapoke.

“Any birds on this jaunt?” I ask casually. “Oh, no!” The latter exclamation is sparked off by seeing Nat and Nan bearing down on us clad in white see-through muslin which a great many people are seeing through.

“What the hell are they doing here?” I ask bitterly.

“Haven’t you heard?” demands Ted. “They’re on the payroll.”

“They’re what!!!”

“They are now employed as Fiesta Bunnies. They are going to help make things go. That’s what your friend Mr. Noggett said.”

“He’s not a friend. He’s my perishing brother-in-law!”

“Hi there, Captain Thrust,” sings out Nan. “How about a quick injection against air-sickness?”

I make a move to step behind Ted but he is already taking shelter behind me.

“No skulking, stud farm,” hollers Nat who has an even louder voice than Nan. “Look, everybody, it’s Teddy and Tim, the toast of the quim!”

“Knock it off, girls,” I hiss.

“I thought you’d never ask. Where? Here, or against the passport counter?” What can you do with them? A fiver for the best answer sent to me on the back of a ten quid note.

“Fiesta Bunnies’. Whoever thought of that bloody silly name?” I say, eager to change the subject.

“The same chap who thought of calling you two Sun Senors. It has the smack of Uncle’s eminent greasie, that Noggett man.”

She’s right too. Sun Senors is just about Sidney’s mark.

“There’s no sign of either of them is there?” I mumble.

“No, they’re putting down a revolution in Littlehampton or re-organising the white slave trade,” says Nat. “We’ll have to get this place jumping all by our little selves.”

The very thought of it makes me lock myself in the gents until our flight is called. We have two weeks to make sure that everything is tickety boo on Love Island before the first swingers arrive. With the terrible twins about, you could spend all that time picking hairpins out of your codpiece and never get around to checking a single bath plug. That is, if we ever get to the place.

“B.E.A. wish to announce the departure of flight 1147 to Gerona …”

I cross myself a couple of times and sneak out to join the others. I have never flown before but I know I am going to be terrified. I had intended to get pissed to the point of insensibility but Nan and Nat have put the kibosh on that.

Fortunately there is something to take my mind off the rigours to come. She is about five foot eight and wearing a uniform about two sizes too small for her so that the seam down the middle of her arse grins at you like sharks’ teeth. Her makeup looks as if it has been put on by a Chinese miniaturist and then lacquered and the expression of contempt with which she greets my gaze makes me feel like something that has crawled out from under one of her gardening shoes. As is my wont, in such circumstances, I immediately fall in love with her. Upper class disdain has always turned me on.

“This we-a, plis,” she says in a voice that sounds like Christmas Eve in Harrods. “Dee-ont fair-get your board-ink carts.” Oh, the sheer ecstasy of it. Listening to her I can understand why Mum keeps a photo of Winston Churchill in the kasi. Some are born great, and others should have been. I trip through the glass doors and she actually smiles at me. It is not so much a smile, more a flutter of the lip endings but it is all mine. Fear is temporarily abandoned and I skip down the long corridor following the image of my B.E.A.uty Queen until the boarding card is drawn gently from my unthinking fingers and I venture out into the cool evening air.

Then I become frightened. The minute I see the studded patchwork quilt of metal I wonder how many of those panels have had to be replaced. What are all those men in white overalls standing about for? They look like surgeons. Is the plane dying? Up the steps and inside and I think it is the final of the all Ireland Hurling Championships. In fact it is only everybody taking their coats off in a very limited amount of space and punching each other in the face at the same time.

“On the reeack, plis,” says my dream girl as I struggle to follow suit. “Nee-o, hee-and baggage on the flea-or.”

I manage to wedge my knees against the seat in front which is a bad move because the occupant presses the release button and nearly forces them through my chest. By the cringe, but they don’t lash out with the space in these things. I feel like I have been hung up in Shirley Bassey’s wardrobe.

I am sitting on the end of the row because that way I am nearer the exit doors and I have a quick flit through the reading matter provided. That doesn’t cheer me up much either. It is full of diagrams about how to protect your head when the plane crashes or what you have to do to inflate your life jacket. There is also a strong paper bag which I don’t reckon is there to hold your bullseyes. Miss Love at First Flight does not improve matters by popping up and explaining how to use the oxygen mask in “the unlikely event” of the cabin becoming depressurised. They don’t have to tell me about that. I saw the movie: Kersplat! – and the whole bloody lot of us sucked out through a hole in the fuselage. All this and we haven’t even taxied to the take-off point.