Confessions of a Travelling Salesman

D. ‘Yes?’

H.C.S. ‘Yes! You remember the outstanding success we shared with the HL427341/3362?’

D. ‘The HomeClean Flatspin?’

H.C.S. ‘Precisely! I am proud to announce an advance on even that great product, the HL427341/3363, the HomeClean Flatspin De Luxe! By a major marvel of British Craftsmanship and cheap Chinese labour, we have been able to raise the spin speed by a revolutionary seven point three nine per cent, whilst maintaining a price which gives you an even better margin than you had on the HL427341/3362.’

D. (Deciding to give his part more scope) ‘But I only sold one of those.’

H.C.S ‘Exactly! That, if I may say so, Mr. Dealer, was because you did not have an adequate display of the product. People were not aware that it was in the shop. Now, if you take advantage of our schedule G3 terms by buying a dozen of this remarkable new advance in spin-drying technology, and we move these colour television sets out of your window.’

D. ‘But colour television sets are selling fantastically well at the moment.’

H.C.S ‘Exactly! So why not develop two best-selling lines? You can’t afford not to be in on the ground floor of the drying boom you know. The Company is putting a tremendous amount of money behind this product. Full page advertisements in Exchange and Mart, colourful point of sale material –’

D. (Convinced that he is not getting the most out of his part) ‘Yes, but is it really going to sell? This increase in spin speed, seven per cent – it doesn’t seem a lot to me.’

H.C.S. ‘It’s equivalent to what two elephants can squeeze out of a wet bath towel after Britain’s strongest man has had a go. “The Jumbo Extra” – that’s what we call it in our advertising.’

D. ‘Well, I don’t know.’

H.C.S. (Closing fast) ‘Come, come, Mr. Dealer. It’s a first rate produce backed by first rate advertising. Let me put you down for a dozen and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. With every three I’ll give you two tickets for our “Dealer of the Month, free weekend at Skegness” Draw. Can’t be bad, can it? Nice Weekend at Skeggers. Now, do you want them delivered direct or routed through your wholesaler?’

D. (Seeing it is nearly time for the coffee break) ‘Direct please.’

H.C.S. (Also noticing the clock) ‘Excellent! Now, let me give you a hand to move those television sets out of the window.’

Sounds no trouble at all, does it? But remember, this is only play acting. In real life it can be rather different.

Being cooped up in Knuttley Hall all week is enough to drive anyone round the twist and by the time Saturday night comes and we are allowed to the bar, I am beginning to wonder if Sid’s idea is any better than most of the others I have got lumbered with. One reason that makes the bar so attractive is that it encloses the only bird in the place under sixty. On Monday when I glimpsed her through the open door she looked passable, on Tuesday she was quite a nice bit of stuff, on Wednesday she was a definite looker, on Thursday I couldn’t understand why the M.G.M. talent scouts were not camped outside the front door, and on Friday – well, on Friday night I had a very disturbing dream about her.

What I also learn about this bird is that she is as game as a three-month-old pheasant. She has a flat on the premises and apparently all you have to do is hang around ’til the bar closes, help her put up the shutters and you are in like Flynn. She loves it!

Comes Saturday night and I pour about half a gallon of after-shave lotion all over myself and slip on the trendiest gear I reckon I can get away with at HomeClean. Most of the other blokes on the course would have difficulty getting their ends away on a whore-house outing and the only competition I can see comes from a bunch of publishers’ sales managers who are using Knuttley Hall for some kind of training course. They look as if they have a few bob but I cannot see them causing me any trouble. Not very with it, most of them, and a bit on the old side. I can see them all settled down in front of the telly by ‘Match of the Day’ time.

One poor old sod I really feel sorry for. He is the ‘Flying Officer Kite’ type with a droopy moustache and a faded double breasted blazer flapping over his paunch. He looks about as trendy as an old English sheepdog. There he is, tucked in close to the till with a double scotch in his hand and he has not got a hope in hell of getting near Mabel. Yes, that is the lady’s name – Mabel, and apparently very able with it. I gaze at her full, ripe breasts and begin to go weak at the knees. Just shows what five days without the company of a woman can do for you. And to think that when they carried me out of Alma Stokely’s office I never wanted to see one again.

Mabel has her hair swept back and little golden wisps of curl frolic round her lug holes. I am becoming almost dewy eyed as I gaze at her. I imagine kissing her beauty spot and then settling on those warm, inviting lips –

‘Steady on, mate!’ The man beside me at the bar springs aside as I unconsciously rub my leg against his in time with my thoughts.

‘I’m sorry. I thought it was a bar stool.’

‘Oh yes. Well, you want to watch out.’ He nods his head at me as if issuing a warning against producing any more evidence that I am a raving pouf. I really must get a grip on myself before I do something stupid.

I move to the other end of the bar and order a scotch. This I decide, after the third one, is not a good idea because I drink them too fast. So I switch to pints of bitter, but this is an even worse idea because I keep having to go to the toilet and I reckon that this must lower my virility rating in Mabel’s eyes. Eventually I decide to have something I don’t like because I won’t drink it so fast and switch to brandy and ginger.

By nine o’clock I realise I will have to watch myself because I am showing faint signs of becoming pissed – stubbing fags out in the crisps, that kind of thing. There are five of us at the bar including Ragged Tash and it occurs to me that all of them, with the obvious exception of R.T., have the same aim as myself. They are nursing their drinks and giving Mabel the whole eye-bashing treatment every time they order a new one. Only poor old R.T. calls Mabel m’dear’ and knocks back the scotch like they are giving it away.

I play it cool with all the suave, man of the world, Jenny say quoits, that has made me the toast of Mecca ballrooms from Hammersmith to Purley. Nothing obvious, I just drag my mince pies across hers occasionally and nonchalantly run my finger round the rim of my glass as I fiddle with the beer mats. It is all copy book stuff.

At about half past ten one of my rivals begins to turn green and hurries from the room not to return. That only leaves two serious contenders for Mabel’s hand and more private parts, A dark, thick-set, curly haired bloke called Gregson, and a real grease ball, smart alec, stuck with the monicker of Mountjoy.

Mountjoy obviously fancies his chances in the booze stakes and decides that it is time to put the pressure on.

‘I think these gentlemen could do with a nightcap,’ he says, winking at Mabel. ‘Give them a double of whatever they’re drinking.’

He must have a few bob because we are all on spirits. R.T.’s glass flashes out ahead of the field and I think what a lucky old sod he is to cash in on our private rivalry. I have no intention of buying another round but Gregson has reinforcements standing by before I have finished my first double and I can see that he and Mountjoy are clearly gunning for each other. Maybe there is a chance for me here.

‘I can see you lads haven’t had a drink for a week,’ says Mabel.

‘That’s not all we haven’t had,’ leers Mountjoy. He tries to put his hand on top of hers but she avoids it and calls him a ‘cheeky monkey’. Nevertheless, the way she rolls her eyes towards the ceiling and gives a little tit-bouncing shudder, convinces me that I am on to a winner, or will be when these poor mugs have finished drinking themselves to death. One thing I have never cracked on about is my ability to hold my ale, but it is considered pretty highly in Clapham circles I can tell you.

I finish my first double and note with satisfaction that Mountjoy and Gregson are well through their second. Ragged Tash has finished both his and is ordering another round. Honestly, I don’t know where he puts it. He has not left the bar the whole evening. Probably scared of falling over if he stands up.

To my disgust Gregson leans across the bar and starts whispering something to Mabel. I crane forward and, in my eagerness, knock over a soda syphon. I snatch at it and succeed in directing a healthy squirt onto Gregson’s lap. Mabel laughs and Gregson squares up to me.

‘You did that on purpose!’ he snarls.

My reply has to be handled very carefully because although I do not want agro with Gregson, I would prefer Mabel to think that my little slip was a cunning ploy to seize her undivided attention, rather than the action of a clumsy, half-pissed berk.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I say. ‘My hand must have slipped.’ I give Mabel a knowing grin and she adds to Gregson’s discomfiture by giggling and throwing him a dishcloth.

‘Must have thought you needed a fire extinguisher,’ she chortles. ‘Here, cop hold of this, you’d better rub it yourself. We don’t want any talk.’ She rolls her eyes again and I darn near dive over the counter. What a little darling!

Gregson limps off to change his trousers and that leaves smoothie-chops Mountjoy and me – well, there is poor old R.T. but he doesn’t count. He sits there politely and listens to Mountjoy rabbiting on about the extras on his Ford Capri and how he won’t want to swap it for a company car. Smug little bleeder!

It is past eleven now and the few people sitting at tables around the bar are beginning to drift off to bed. As anticipated, the room has cleared considerably since ‘Match of the Day’ started. A few blokes drift in for a nightcap but then it is just beautiful, ravishing, adorable, exciting, captivating Mabel and the three of us. Gregson does not reappear. I imagine he must have passed out on the bed once his trousers hit ankle level.

I am not feeling so great myself but I reckon I can see off Mountjoy. He has been swilling the stuff down and I can spot the signs of galloping intoxication. His eyes are glassy and he is waving his arms about and dropping ash everywhere. Mabel is trying to appear interested in his boring drivel but I can see that it is an effort. Why don’t they both piss off and leave her to collect first prize?

‘What do you drive?’ Mountjoy is talking to me.

‘I don’t have a car. I find it easier to take taxis in London.’ I give Mabel a nonchalant smile and she trys to stifle a yawn.

‘What about you?’

‘Who, me?’ R.T. seems to be thinking about something else. ‘A car? I’ve got a clapped out old Bentley, actually. Rather fond of them, you know.’

‘Oh.’ Mountjoy is obviously disappointed.

‘Ooh,’ says Mabel, perking up for the first time in ten minutes. ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they? Ever so comfortable. Have you got it here?’

R.T. nods absent-mindedly.

‘Yes. It’s in the garage.’

‘I must go and have a look at it. I love old cars.’

Poor old grandpa. What an opportunity, eh? Now if it had been me I would have been round there showing her the back seat before you could say ‘Epsom salts’. But the stupid old sod just helps himself to Gregson’s last double and knocks it back in one swig. An X-ray of his liver would have to be preserved in alcohol.

‘Well, better be turning in, I suppose,’ he says. ‘Got a hard day tomorrow. Just time for one for the road. Same again for everybody, Mabel.’ I start to put my hand over my glass, but take it away hurriedly when I see Mountjoy’s contemptuous grin. Stupid prick! After the amount he has put away he would not be able to make a dent in a custard pudding. What is he trying to prove? And, most important: how the hell am I going to get rid of him? He looks as if he is going to stay at the bar till he drops.

And then, magically, Mabel decides to take a hand – it is not what I would have offered her but I am not complaining. As she fills Mountjoy’s glass I distinctly see her add a dash of something from another bottle. She notices me watching and gives me a big wink. ‘Time for bye byes,’ she whispers, nodding towards Smart Alec. I wink back because it is obvious that she has decided to remove the one obstacle to the fruition of our mutual desires. Now a night of wild, passionate lovemaking beckons with open arms – not so much beckons as shouts ‘Come and get it!’

I watch with interest as Mountjoy takes a swig at his drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand – he is so uncouth is Mountjoy. Sure enough he immediately shakes his head and nearly swallows his Adam’s apple.

‘Pheew!!’ he gasps. ‘What did you put in that?’

‘It’s what you’ve been drinking all evening, dear,’ says Mabel innocently.

‘Maybe you need a cup of coffee,’ I say provocatively. The reaction to that remark is exactly the one I had hoped for.

‘I could drink you under the table,’ sneers Mountjoy, and he seizes his glass and Bogarts it down the back of his throat. Mabel nods appreciatively and turns to me holding out a 5p piece.

‘I could do with some music, dear,’ she says. ‘Go and put on something soft and smoochie.’ She certainly spells it out, doesn’t she? I nip over to the jukebox and when I get back Mountjoy is sprawled across the bar with his head on his hands, snoring loudly.

‘No stamina,’ says R.T., looking down at him as if he is a panting retriever. ‘Ah, well. Cheerio!’ He raises his glass and I am forced to take another swig at my brandy and ginger. Christ! But that drink never seems to disappear. It is amazing how they don’t when you have had enough, isn’t it?

Mabel is clearing up behind the bar and it is clearly only a matter of time before R.T. pushes off and leaves the field to me. I watch Mabel bend over to tuck away some empties and practically cream my jeans. The line of her panties shows through her skirt and I can see the shadow of her black bra through her white nylon blouse. It is wicked! Wicked!!

I take another hefty swig to steady my nerves and suddenly feel a strange deadening sensation spreading through my limbs. Not the dreaded brewer’s droop! Not now! After all I have been through, all the ackers I have laid out!

Mabel reaches up to start pulling down the shutters and I rise to my feet to help her and get a better view of her Bristols. At least I try to rise to my feet For some strange reason I only succeed in sliding off my stool and sitting on the floor. This is ridiculous! I claw at the edge of the bar and my legs buckle again.

‘Come on, old chap, give me your arm. That’s right. There we are!’ R.T. is pulling me to my feet and before me I can see the last shutter coming down.

‘I don’t know what –’ I begin, but R.T. is swift to soothe.

‘Had a drop too much I expect, old boy. It happens to all of us. Give me a hand, will you Mabel?’

For a moment my spirits rise as every boy’s do-it-yourself action woman kit snuggles under my arm pit, but in my heart of hearts I know I am doomed. I must be pissed out of my mind. The tragedy of it! The complete and utter waste! Leaving Mountjoy still snoring on the bar, R.T. and Mabel guide my faltering footsteps down the corridor that leads to my room. With every step, I pray that I will begin to wake up, but I only get sleepier. By the time they steer me through the door I am practically out on my feet. I collapse on the bed and my eyelids slam shut like the cover of a night deposit box. The silence that follows unnerves me so I open them again. Standing in the doorway are Ragged Tash and Mabel. They are embracing. Not so much embracing as darn near eating each other.

‘Come on,’ I hear Mabel panting, ‘I can’t wait much longer.’ She dives onto his mouth again.

‘Alright, old girl,’ says R.T., giving one of her breasts a tweak, ‘anything you say.’

The door closes on my sobs.

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning I wake up with a mouth like the inside of a yak’s carpet slippers and it occurs to me before the first ray of sunshine has penetrated my peepers that I have been well and truly nobbled. Mabel not only spiked Mountjoy’s drink but mine as well. The evil baggage only sent me over to the jukebox so she could do the dirty on me while my back was turned. The distress this realisation causes me is only matched by my awareness of the full implications. Mabel presumably fancied the stupid old publishing git to yours truly. What a carve up! She must be round the twist. I have heard of women preferring an older man, but this is ridiculous. Even ‘Homage to Brylcreem’ would have been better than that.

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