Timothy Lea - Confessions from a Nudist Colony

‘Yes, very embarrassing,’ I say. ‘Incidentally, the loose cover has just come back from the cleaners. I think Mum was hoping you might cough up a bit towards the bill.’

‘What about my trousers?’ says Sid. ‘It’s not my fault Reg Perkins can’t house-train his bleeding pigeons. She ought to get on to him about it!’

‘Just a thought, Sid,’ I say, deciding quickly that there is little chance of making headway in that direction. ‘Certainly is a lovely day.’

‘Definitely!’ Sid takes a deep breath and winces. ‘When it’s like this you couldn’t consider living anywhere else, could you?’

‘Er – yes,’ I say. Sid’s words sound a bit strange coming from a bloke who was quite happy bumming round the Mediterranean on SS Tern until an American admiral tried to run him down with his ship – he was unhappy because he had just seen Sid boarding another vessel with his wife and a couple of camels. (See Confessions from a Luxury Liner for surprising details.)

‘Finest country in the world,’ waxes Sid. ‘Don’t ever let anyone else tell you different. We may have our problems but when the sun is shining – shit! Can’t people control their animals? Bleeding notices everywhere and nobody takes a dicky bird. The only way they’d do any good is if you put them low enough to scrape your foot on. I’d like to see some geezer’s horrible hound doing his business on the public thoroughfare. I’d follow him home and drop one in his front garden.’

‘Highly sophisticated, Sid,’ I venture. ‘I hate to think what kind of aggro that could spark off. What do you fancy doing now? We could mosey down and collect our sausage.’ (Sausage roll: dole = National Assistance).

‘Nah,’ says Sid, finishing scraping his shoe and dropping the stick into the bin reserved for icecream wrappers. ‘It’s always a bit crowded after the boozers have shut. Let’s leave it to thin out. I hate to look as if I need the money.’

‘You just take it to save hurting anyone’s feelings, don’t you, Sid?’

‘And to keep it in the country,’ says Sid. ‘I reckon it’s the least I can do. All those Micks and Pakis would have it back to Bangladesh in no time – or any other part of Ireland you care to mention. That brings back memories, doesn’t it?’

‘You mean the couple having it off under the caravan?’ I say.

‘Nah,’ says Sid. ‘Don’t you ever think about anything else? I was referring to the fair. I remember coming up here as a kid. I never had money to spend on anything but I used to watch the roundabouts whipping round and listen to the records. I thought it was great. It was better than the telly in those days.’

‘There wasn’t any telly in those days, was there?’ I say. ‘I thought you had to listen to the radio with a pair of earphones.’

‘You’ve no sense of neuralgia, have you?’ says Sid. ‘I suppose you’re too young. It’s when you start slowing up a bit that you begin to remember.’

‘Blimey!’ I say. ‘If you can hang on a minute, I’ll nip into one of these caravans and see if anyone’s got a violin. What’s come over you? Nature, childhood. I’ve never known you like this.’

‘It’s a kind of menopause,’ says Sid ‘or I suppose you should say ‘manopause’. A time of life when you take stock of where you are and where you’re going. Have you noticed anything unusual about me lately?’

‘You fastened your cardigan to one of your fly buttons on Tuesday,’ I say, trying to remember. ‘Or was it Wednesday?’

‘I don’t mean that!’ snaps Sid. ‘I haven’t had an idea what we’re going to do next, have I? Normally, new career opportunities are bombarding my nut like flies round a steaming horse turd. But at the moment – nothing. I’m worried, I don’t mind admitting it.’

‘You mustn’t get yourself in a state,’ I comfort. ‘Maybe we should venture beyond those screens at the Labour more often. They might have something right up our street.’

‘I don’t want to work on my own doorstep,’ says Sid. ‘Swanning round the Med gave me a taste for the wide open spaces. That’s why I’m so contented up here. Look at the light on the sail of that yacht. The sun gives it an almost translucent quality – like when you’re sitting on your mum’s karsi.’

I take it that Sid is referring to the way the sun shines through the cracks in the door and focuses on the cut up bits of the TV Times in the bog paper holder but I don’t really like to ask. ‘I could certainly do with some bread,’ I say.

‘What for?’ says Sid. ‘What good’s bread?’

His words strike me round the face with the force of an ice-cold halibut freshly wrenched from the Arctic Ocean.

‘What good is bread?’ I repeat. ‘Everything we’ve ever done has been based on your desire to stash away a few bob.’

‘I was young then,’ says Sid. ‘No more than a gullible boy with distorted values. I used to think that if money couldn’t buy happiness at least you could live miserably in comfort, but I don’t believe that any more. Look at Paul Getty.’

‘That’s not him, is it?’ I say. ‘Behind the thermos with the blonde bird? She’s a bit young for him, isn’t–?’

‘No!’ says Sid, cuttingly. ‘I meant examine the situation of Paul Getty and ask yourself if he has found true happiness. I’ve realised that money isn’t the answer, Timmo. There’s much more to life than sipping your Bovril out of a gold-plated mug in front of Match of the Day in colour.’

‘And you don’t think Paul Getty has realised that?’

‘I do think he’s realised that,’ says Sid emphatically. ‘But he’s realised it too late. That’s why he’s always looking so blooming miserable. I don’t intend to make the same mistake.’

‘Thank gawd!’ I say. ‘You’d have been unbearable as the richest man in the world.’

Sid ignores what some might have considered to be a trace of sarcasm in my voice. ‘The only thing, is that having rejected riches, I don’t know where to turn. I’m in a state of limbo. Timbo – I mean, Timmo.’

‘Well,’ I say. ‘As it so happens, fate has directed us to the right spot. Look what it says on that caravan. “Madame Necroma reveals all: £1”. Your future laid bare for a couple of bars, Sid. Can’t be bad.’

I am not really serious but Sid’s mince pies light up. ‘Yeah!’ he says. ‘She should know, shouldn’t she? They have a gift, these people. Lend us a quid.’

‘Do me a favour!’ I say. ‘She can make do with the gifts she’s already got. I’ve already bought most of the booze you drunk in that rubber. Anyway, I’m very happy with you in a state of limbo. It doesn’t cost me money.’

‘There you go again,’ says Sid. ‘Money. It’s your BO and end all, isn’t it? You can’t think about anything else. You’re so inflexible. If it wasn’t for my ability to mellow and develop as a human being you’d be exactly where you were when I first met you.’

‘Don’t make it sound too tempting,’ I say.

‘What I always have difficulty in making you understand,’ says Sid, ‘is that you have a wonderful opportunity to learn from my experience in life. I go through things so that you don’t have to.’

‘Like my fiancée,’ I say.

‘You’re not still worrying about that,’ says Sid. ‘It was so long ago – and anyway, you were never properly engaged.’

‘Wouldn’t have made any difference if we’d been getting married,’ I say wearily. ‘You’d have been trying to feel her up while you handed me the ring.’

‘No need to be coarse,’ says Sid. ‘That’s all behind us now – all that sexual foolishness. Now I’m a more mature human being I can see what Mary Whitehouse and Lord Longford are up to.’