Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea
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the back of his mind. “‘Screw for Peace’ – that’s their motto. They reckon they can unite the whole world by everybody having it away with each other. ‘Khaki Kidology’ – that’s what Francis calls it.”
“That’s very good.”
“It’s diabolical, mate, when you’re trying to run a holiday camp. Give those two twenty minutes and they’ll have every man in the place jostling to get to the head of the queue. It’s the way they wrap it up in all this peace-love rubbish that terrifies me. They make you feel like Hitler if you’re not spending all your time looking for a bun-hole to tuck your frankfurter in.”
“You know them, then, do you?”
“Know them? Have you seen my back? Most people think I served three years on The Bounty. And that was only one of them.”
“Where was the other one?”
“Kicking the front door in trying to get at me.”
“I thought you said they hunted as a pair.”
“Sometimes they can’t wait for the other one to get there.”
“You’re having me on.”
“You wait, mate. I’ve known Black Belts turn the colour of your grandma’s roll-on when they saw them coming.”
Well, frankly, I still reckon he is pulling my leg and the time passes quite agreeably until Saturday with me pottering about and avoiding trouble. I learn that Sidney is also rolling up with Sir Giles, so I am doubly keen to keep my nose clean. One thing that helps is the constant turnover of customers. You only have to steer clear of a bird for a few days and the chances are that she has gone home. Either that, or pissed off with one of the other forty Hosts as already mentioned. A right lot of kinks some of these geezers are, too. They spend all their time talking about their agents and waiting to audition for “Opportunity Knocks”. The wheezing of accordions from the Hosts’ Lines sounds like a ward full of asthmatics and they must have cornered the market in sun ray lamps.
Saturday morning arrives and it is half way towards being a decent sort of day weatherwise. The sun is beginning to break through a band of clouds stretching to the horizon and I am standing at Pet’s Corner explaining to a child that you do not turn a tortoise into a turtle by dropping it into the goldfish pond. I think the kid understands because when I let go of its ear it kicks me in the shins and runs off saying that its dad is going to smash my face in. This is the kind of unpleasantness I spend my life trying to avoid and I am moving smoothly towards the crazy golf course when two female figures appear through the camp gates.
They are somewhat different from most other guests because they are carrying bedding rolls instead of suitcases and give no indication of having had their hair done twenty minutes before arriving at the camp – not unless the job was handled by a nesting stork. They wear headbands, enough beads to have bought North America from the Indians and are barefoot. Smocks adorn the rest of their bodies and they wear no make-up. This is not to say that they are less than handsome. They cannot be much less than six foot, but if you fancy big birds these are definitely your bucket of tea. For some reason I imagine that they are gypsies and move forward to prevent them lowering the tone of the place still further. I am a bit surprised that they got past the gatekeeper.
“Can I help you?” I say, giving them my cold “please ask your little boy to stop pissing against my trouser leg” smile.
“Sure,” says one of them considering me for a moment. “I fancy a stand-up quickie amongst those gnomes.”
“Two’s up,” says the other one, “or maybe we can share him.”
“No, Nan. You wait your turn. You’re always stealing my ideas.”
“Gnomes?” I say.
“That’s right, cowboy. On the lawn there. Don’t fight it. Let it all hang out. You can park your arse on the grass if you’re bashful.”
“Groovy,” sings out the other one. “I can nibble round the edges.”
Suddenly a veil is snatched from my eyes and I begin to put one and one together with startling results. Nan? Nancy?
“Natasha?” I bleat.
“Good. So you got the postcard,” says the one who wanted to open the batting. “We would have liked a bigger reception committee but you’ll do to start with. Now why don’t we all snuggle up in the privet and get down to the privates?”
The way she looks at me I know what it must be like to be night nurse in an Italian prisoner of war camp.
“I expect you want to see Mr. Francis,” I croak.
“We’ll get round to him,” says Nan. “Now relax. You’re so uptight. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s beautiful. Come on. You’ll like it once we get going. Everybody does.”
And she sticks her hand down the front of my worsteds. Right there under the shadow of the big dipper.
“Yeeow!” I say, or it might have been “Urrh!” I can’t really remember. “Get off me. You must be bonkers.”
“‘Bonkers’, that’s a nice word,” says Natasha. “Bonkers about conkers.”
Well I don’t wait for any more. I’m off and running. I mean they are nearly as big as me and there are two of them. I don’t stop until I get to Ted’s chalet.
“They’ve come,” I shout as I burst into the bedroom.
“They’re dead lucky then, aren’t they?” says Ted, rolling apart from a well-developed lady I remember being runner-up in a slow bicycle race. “They obviously didn’t have you to worry about.”
“I’m sorry, Ted, I mean—” I go outside and shout through the bedroom door. “The Slat Twins have arrived.”
Five minutes later a possee of Hosts with Francis at the head is galloping towards the main gate. We get there just in time. Nat and Nan are attacking the gatekeeper’s hut with a battering ram made from the camp flag pole.
“Welcome, welcome, ladies,” chortles Francis. “Still full of beans, I see.”
“Call this a welcome, dryballs?” snarls Nat. “We’re trying to bring a little joy into the lives of all these sex-starved husks of human beings and all they can do is run away or lock themselves up. What have you done to them? You’ve castrated them! You deny love and you deny the one force that can unite the world. Now stand aside. We’re going to liberate that poor misguided victim of fascist sexual repression.” Looking through the window there is some doubt as to whether Mr. Merriweather wishes to be liberated. He is cowering behind his desk with his stapler in his hand and seems prepared to fight to the last staple.
“Come, come ladies,” purrs Francis. “I am afraid that Mr. Merriweather cannot respond to your blandishments. He is one of our permanently disabled staff.”
“They must have got him last time,” mutters Ted.
“—Now let’s start channelling all that infectious enthusiasm for life into something everybody can participate in.”
“A gang bang?” says Nan hopefully.
“No, no. We’re going to make you honorary Holiday Hosts for the duration of your stay. You can meet people, help organise entertainment. Do something positive.”
“Positive? Screwing is positive, stoat-features.”
“It’s not the only thing. Now, put down that pole.”
“But I like it. It’s so thick and long. It reminds me—”
“Yes, yes, Miss Slat. I’m certain it has many happy associations for you. Now why don’t you pop on your blazers and let’s get down to business. We’ve got a very tight schedule today with the Camp Concert at the end of it.”
“You look as if