Timothy Lea - Confessions of an Ice Cream Man

The way things are building up I reckon I could come into the straight before she does. Wwwhhhh! Steady, boy! Don’t get carried away. But it is no good. Pink Beauty is undoubtedly galloping towards an appointment with orgasm and I am just there for the ride. So, apparently, is Valentina. She jumps onto my back and starts belting me round the lugholes. Looks like it could be a photo finish because Big Mamma is making a noise like the death rattle of a King Cobra caught in a cocktail shaker – ‘and the winner, Big Mamma with Timothy Lea up’. I can hear Clive O’Sullivan – wait a minute! No I can’t. Clive O’Sullivan doesn’t shout up the stairs in Italian. It could be Katie Boyle but she is not a man. We are narrowing down the possibilities fast.

‘Pappa!!’ Yes, that seems likely – WHAT!!? Somebody’s Italian daddy arriving at a moment like this. How thoughtless and blooming typical. Pausing only to slim down to my escaping weight by the release of a few million sperm cells, I rise like the first stage of a moon rocket and send Valentina crashing off the back of the bed. I don’t mean to do it but her untoward behaviour did deserve redress – and talking about redressing – yes, the sooner I get some threads on and the window open, the better. I dive off the bed and start scrambling into these items that Big Mamma has not carved up. A pile of leaflets has flipped out of the cupboard and I read ‘Frascati Recipes – Secreto’ before sweeping the pages up with my jacket.

‘Thanks for having me,’ I say obligingly and head for the window.

Valentina is refusing to give back her mum’s knickers and the ladies are getting very heated. Best not to repeat my farewell but test the sash cords. I have got one leg over the sill when the door flies open and I cop a gander of a short, thick-set man with greasy black hair swept back from his mug. I catch a glimpse of a few gold teeth grinding together while he takes in the scene and then launch myself into space. I am wearing one sock and a pair of trousers and trying to hang onto everything else. Slumf! That is the noise of Timothy Lea landing up to his ankles in rain-sodden flowerbed. ‘Aaaarghouch!!’ That is the noise of Timothy Lea discovering that he has a piece of split cane stuck up his bum. Fancy the Frascatis bothering to tie up their petunias. I limp onto the lawn and head for the fence at the end of the garden. Behind me I can here screams and the sound of the window being forced wider open. I chuck my stuff over the fence and start to scramble after it.

‘Woof! Woof!’ Bugger! I should have looked before I chucked. There is a bloody great alsatian waiting like I am teatime. Bye, bye clothes. I jump down and turn to one side. ‘Boom!’ Just as well. A shotgun blasts a jagged hole out of the top of the fence. Blimey! Don’t say it’s the fifth of October already. I fly towards the fence on the left-hand side of the garden and immediately break the British pole vault record. This is tremendous news because I don’t even have a pole. Maybe our training methods are all wrong. I don’t have time to worry about it because another shot rings out and a burning sensation peppers my back bumpers. Murdering wop swine! Fancy wanting to commit murder just because you find someone in bed with your wife and daughter. Some people have no sense of proportion. I drag my maimed body over the fence and drop onto the rockery. Yes, the rockery. Fantastic, isn’t it? After all I have been through, some stupid herbert has to slap his rockery right up against the north-west corner of the mad wop’s garden. I hope the cabbage whites gnaw his cauliflowers down to the roots.

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