Confessions from a Luxury Liner. Timothy Lea
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or ‘Caballeros’ as it is called.
‘Aren’t we going to have a few beers first?’ I say. ‘It never tastes the same with a carpet under your feet.’
‘Stop moaning,’ says Sid. ‘If we could get a job on one of these boats we could be putting ourselves in line for a new world of experiences. Gloria will be able to tell us all about it.’
‘We’d be better off with her old man, wouldn’t we?’
‘I hope not,’ says Sid. ‘Anyway, he’s chugging round the Mediterranean, lucky bastard.’ He squirts an aerosol spray round the inside of the Rover and it is clear the way his mind is working. The Alsatian in the back window will have something to nod about before the night is out.
The Palais does not seem to have changed much from when I last saw it. Maybe the manager has a little more scar tissue round his mince pies than when I last saw him but it is difficult to be certain. He looks just as suspicious and worried as he did in the old days. Sid starts to hum ‘I’m putting on my white tie’ as he fumbles for his wallet, and my stomach heaves. I have a distant recollection of Rosie’s wedding when they piled the metal chairs on top of each other in the church hall, poured sand from the fire buckets over the pools of sick and danced until the Brownies rolled up. Sid had quite a dazzling quarter turn in those days I seem to remember. And something called the fish tail that involved hopping across the floor as if it was white hot coals and somebody had dropped a jellyfish down your Y-fronts.
I am just about to suggest that Sid might like to buy me the other half when he stiffens and squares his enormous shoulders. It is obvious that somewhere amongst the crispy noodle of lacquered barnet he has spotted Gloria.
‘Right, here we go,’ he breathes. ‘Try and match my mood of breathless suavity. She likes a laugh so cheer yourself up a bit. You look like you dropped fifty pence in a dog turd.’
‘Is it true that Laurence Olivier is playing you in The Sid Noggett Story?’ I ask.
Sid does not reply because he has already fixed a horrible smile on his gnashers and is gliding forward full of wild animal magic. I follow a few paces behind him, checking on the position of the exit doors. He is steering for a couple of blondes and from behind they do not look bad. The hair colour comes straight out of a bottle but the rest of them seems natural enough. Only time and the subtle pressure of my sensitive Germans will tell.
‘Sid!’ One of the birds has turned round and her face actually lights up. This is quite something at the Palais where it is cool to treat everyone like you are only just too good mannered to tell them that they have terminal BO.
‘Hidy hi! How are we then? Looking pretty fantastic, I must say.’ Sid takes both her mitts in his and holds her at arm’s length like the two of them were left over when the screen went blank after an old Doris Day movie.
‘You’re not looking so bad yourself, is he Natalie?’
Natalie might be Gloria’s sister and she nods and giggles. Then everyone looks at me. Sid is wearing his fawn denim Sanders of the River safari suit, and both the birds have shiny dresses, so I suppose I am what you might call a bit underdressed. Certainly, Joe Bugner’s sparring partner in the dinner jacket on the door gave me an old-fashioned look. Sid swiftly gauges that the female reaction to me is not exactly white hot.
‘This is my kid brother-in-law, Timmy,’ he says. ‘He’s saving up for a suit.’
‘A paternity suit,’ I say. I reckon this is quite quick and verging on the amusing but neither of the birds seem to coco it overmuch. They are too busy running their eyes over my threads like they wish they were vacuum cleaners. I have to admit that my Chinese tank top from ‘Gone Wong’ in the High Street was a bit of a mistake and someone ought to tell the chinks that we are not all built like spaghetti with shoulder blades. Still, the Judies are clocking me from the best side because it is only when you are standing behind me that you can see where all the seams have gone.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Gloria without sounding as if she means it.
‘Hello,’ says Natalie with less enthusiasm than Gloria.
‘Great!’ says Sid, rubbing his hands together. ‘How would you girls fancy a drink?’
‘In a glass,’ says Gloria.
‘Oh yes, very good,’ says Sid trying to strike a few sparks off my glazed eyeballs. ‘We’ve got a couple of bright ones here, Timmo.’
‘Definitely,’ I say, trying desperately to work a little enthusiasm into my voice. ‘What would you like, girls?’
‘Pernod,’ says Gloria.
‘Pernod,’ says Natalie.
‘That’s a kind of absinthe, isn’t it?’ says Sid.
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘You know what they say. “Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder”.’
Of course, I am wasting my time weaving dizzy verbal patterns round these birds who would probably have difficulty arranging ‘off piss’ into a well known phrase or saying, and I need my head examined trying a second attempt at humour when the first has been a disaster. If a bird starts off finding you funny, that is great, but if you are up against the strong silent type you might as well forget it. Gloria and Natalie look at me as if I have caused them physical pain and Sid winces.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he says as he elbows me up against the bar. ‘Are you trying to make them think you’re some kind of nutter? If you can’t say anything sensible, belt up. I’d better go and set their minds at ease. I’ll have a Scotch.’ And with that, he is gone. Lea gets lumbered with the drinks again. I can see them all looking at me. Sid is saying something and the two birds are leaning forward like he is describing the first symptoms of rabies.
‘That’ll be two pounds thirty pence, mate.’
‘Two pounds thirty pence!’
‘This is the doubles bar.’
I pay up and stagger over to where Sid is sitting, determined to see a return on my investment. The last time I laid out this kind of money on a bird I thought she was buying her trousseau with it.
‘Haven’t they got any ice?’ says Gloria.
‘I’d like some water with mine,’ says Natalie.
Marvellous, isn’t it? You would think my jeans would be sodden with tears of gratitude after all the moola I have lashed out. Instead of that they treat me as if I am a blooming butler.
‘Come on, Timmo,’ says Sid. ‘Get it together. See if you can find some nuts while you’re about it.’
‘I think I know where I can find a couple straight off,’ I say.
I leave him to think about it and pad back to the bar. The plastic pumpkin is full of lukewarm water and dead flies, and when I mention ice the barman looks at me as if I have asked for the kiss of life. ‘It’s finished, mate,’ he says. ‘People take it.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I say, realising immediately that sarcasm is wasted on him. ‘Is there anywhere here I can get some?’
‘You might try the Orchestra Bar,’ he says. ‘They don’t have the same run on it down there.’
So I pour the water from the plastic pumpkin into a glass, fish out the flies, and take it back to the girls. Natalie does not even say ta but pours it straight into her Pernod.
‘Oh look,’ I say. ‘It’s turned cloudy. Do you want me to take it back?’
‘It’s supposed to do that, you twit!’ hisses Sid. ‘Piss off and find some ice.’
So I am across the dance floor like a ball of mercury and amazed to find that the plastic pumpkin on the counter of the Orchestra Bar is full of ice. I snatch it up and have taken one step back the way I came when the geezer behind