The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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on!’ says Crispin, ‘you’re not the muscly type. You must weigh under a hundred and fifty pounds.’
‘Spot on! You are clever.’
‘I used to be a masseur once. Worked in a Turkish bath. I bet if I ran my hands over you I would be able to tell within a couple of pounds how much you weighed.’
‘What, with my clothes on?’
‘You’d have to give me a little latitude with your clothes on.’
‘Ooh, cheeky!’
I leave them to it and untie the dogs. By the cringe, but they are powerful brutes. I can see what Otto was on about. I can practically tuck my hands in the top of my socks by the time the dogs have pulled me through the door. They point a hind leg skywards and make a brave attempt to drill a hole in the side of the building and I drag them back on the set again. Still no sign of Ken Loser or Sidney. God knows what is happening in that caravan. I am certain I can hear panting as I approach it, but maybe it is the dogs. There are a couple of chocks under the wheels and I tap these aside before tying the frisky pooches to the coupling mechanism of the caravan. Coupling mechanism. Oh, my gawd! I steal down the side of the caravan and raise my head to peep through a chink in the tightly drawn curtains. No! I am almost too late. Thrust and Rosie are assaulting each other’s mouths as if trying to spread their lips over a wider area of face. At least they are still upright but – oh no! Even as I look Rosie is being pushed back on to a folding table and Thrust’s hands are opening up new territory. I tear my eyes away from this disgusting sight and hiss at the dogs to perform a swift giddy-up. But, not a sausage. Having cocked Charlie at the corrugated iron they are now content to slump down and let their ridiculous tongues loll out of their mouths like tired tonks. There is a vague tremor coming from the caravan but this is more likely to be the work of Thrust and Rosie than anything sparked off by the pooches. The thought makes me move even faster and I hare out of the studio in search of something capable of making the dogs get their paws out. If only – ah! There padding majestically across the asphalt in front of me is a large, long-haired moggy.
‘Oo’s a luvly pussy, den?’ I yodel. ‘Come to nunky Timmy for strokums. ’Oo’s a booful boy?’
Sheer, naked nausea, but the old cat arches its back and wanders over all ready for the big touch up. Just shows how careful you should be about talking to strangers. I sweep it into my arms and am legging it back to the set before you can say ‘cheap fur coats’. My new friend does not like this very much but I keep it bundled up underneath my jacket and few of the scratches I receive are more than a quarter of an inch deep.
The caravan is definitely rocking when I return and I fear the worst. Fortunately the camera crew are all reading their Beanos or playing cards so I am not under anyone’s eagle eye. Pausing only to take a quick shufti round the set, I remove my long-haired help-mate and drop her a few yards in front of the dogs. Boy! If I was expecting something to happen I am not disappointed. The hair on the moggy’s back goes straight up in the air and her back arches like an inverted U. One of the pooches nearly breaks its neck hurling itself against its lead and they both set up a furious barking. The cat moves like shit off a shovel and the dogs practically make grooves in the concrete scrabbling to get after it. For a second the caravan trembles and then lurches forward as a shout of surprise and laughter goes up from the crew.
‘Wagons Roll!’ There are yells and a terrified scream that seems to come from inside the caravan. This coincides with that object entering the Cock Tavern or rather attempting to enter it. The flimsy set collapses under the impact, and plywood and scaffolding rain down upon those playing gin rummy beneath. The caravan is now building up a healthy momentum of its own and has almost overtaken the dogs when it crunches into the side wall of the studio. The dogs leap and bay but there is no budging it.
‘My gawd! Those bloody dogs!’
‘It was a bleeding cat what set them off.’
‘Blooming heck!’ The last words come from Sidney who appears striding past me towards the lop-sided caravan.
‘Sidney,’ I pipe. ‘Oh, Sidney.’
Sidney turns on me. ‘Yes?’
Desperately, I search for something to say. ‘Er, um. Do you want me to go first?’
‘Don’t be soft.’ Sidney shakes his head and throws open the door of the caravan. I suck in my breath. What hideous scene of noo (interrupted nooky) is going to bombard my mince pies? Will Sidney’s incensed eyes feed upon the form of his loved one still stretched out on the serving hatch? Is service being maintained, even in these trying conditions?
As anticipated, Glint is in the process of zipping up his action man kit while trying to keep his feet amongst the shambles.
‘Are you OK, Glint?’
‘I’ll tell you when my lawyer gets here,’ snaps our lovable leading man. ‘What the hell’s been going on? Did this simpering idiot have anything to do with it?’
He means me, but I am not listening. Where the hell has Rosie got to? While Sidney makes with the Mumbles my eyes are combing the room for a sight of her lovely form. There is no space for her to hide and she can’t have – wait a moment! Poking out from a closed cupboard door is a scrap of material I recognise. Rosie’s dress. And it is not a cupboard door. It is the home of a foldaway bed. Poor Rosie! What a way to go. A big girl like her could suffocate in there. I must get Sidney out double-quick. I turn to him and see to my horror that he has also registered the bit of Rosie’s dress. I can practically hear the cogs in his mind knitting together as he tries to place it.
‘Better get outside, Mr Thrust,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘You must be pretty shaken up.’
‘Yeah,’ says Mr Loathsome. ‘I’ll just fix myself a shot of tranquilliser and I’ll be right out. You fellows needn’t hang around.’ He advances purposefully to the door and closes it behind us.
‘Could have been very nasty, that,’ says Sid seriously. ‘We were dead lucky there, really.’
‘Too true, Sidney,’ I agree with him. ‘Too true.’
‘Have you noticed how pale Rosie is looking these days?’ says Sidney the morning after the caravan incident.
‘She doesn’t get out enough,’ I tell him. ‘Spends too much time cooped up indoors.’
‘You’re right,’ says Sid. ‘I’ll have a word with her about it. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t take Jason and Nicholas to the Cromby for a bit.’
Nicholas is the infant sprog Noggett so named virtually over my dead body. I mean! Nicholas Noggett! It sounds like a novel by Monica Dickens, doesn’t it? Not that there is much you can put with Noggett that does not sound ridiculous or dead common. Sid’s children would be better off just having initials.
‘You do that, Sidney,’ I say. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I have to go and get kitted out for my part.’
Sidney winces because he is dead jealous that I am appearing in the picture. He would be happy for me to be clapper boy if he thought I was going to catch my dick in the board. He keeps ranting on about lashing out money as if the whole of his investment in the movie was going into my pocket.
The scene I am appearing in takes place in the recently restored Cock Tavern and features Bill Sikes and Nancy becoming acquainted over a few beers. I am only just getting used to the fact that none of the scenes are being shot in sequence and, in fact, we seem to be making the film backwards.
Besides Glint Thrust and Dawn Lovelost, who loathe each other, there are a large number of extras including some very handsome chicks none the worse for wearing off the shoulder costumes which are practically off everything. We are supposed to represent the tavern regulars and Ken Loser picks up a megaphone and ascends a stepladder to tell us what to do.
‘You