Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

“I thought those little hoops of gristle were delicious,” she says practically ecstatic.

“Give over, Ethel,” says Dad. “That was bleeding octopus cooked in the fat of the last five meals we’ve had. Jesus wept, if you think that’s good, no wonder we eat the way we do at home.”

There is no doubt that Dad’s reaction is more common than Mum’s in every sense of the word and most of the guests are soon either complaining about the food, suffering from it, or both. It is a great disappointment to find that as they become more acclimatised, most of the customers’ energies are devoted to grumbling about conditions rather than getting on the job with each other as they are supposed to be doing.

“I’m not surprised this place is such a bleeding dump, what with Sidney in charge and all those dagos touching the food. They only wash their hands before they go to the toilet, you know,” says Dad.

“They want to get it all done by English people if they want to make it a success,” agrees Mum.

By the second week two more in-takes have arrived, one of the urinals has become blocked and flowed back downhill through the door of the Passion Fooderama in time to greet those sitting down for breakfast, and “Franco’s Revenge” is rife throughout the camp. Romance is nonexistent and morale amongst the camp staff lower than a toad’s testicles. It is not surprising in the circumstances that Sid decides to hold a Francis type meeting which is attended by all members of the staff, with the chief cook translating for the benefit of the Spaniards. This geezer is a real grease ball and, when first seen, appears to be blowing his nose on a dead mole. Closer inspection reveals that it is in fact a handkerchief.

“Right,” says Sid. “I’ve brought you all together because we have problems and I think it best if they are aired in public. Every new enterprise has its teething troubles and ours is proving no exception.”

“Here, here,” says Ted loyally. Sid glares at him and continues.

“Of course, there are special areas such as the lousy foo—,” Sid remembers who is translating, “—Such as the difficulty some of our guests have of adjusting to the rich fare provided by maestro Miguel here, and we are attending to this. In future our menu, which as you know attempts to embrace the best of English and Continental cuisine, will cater entirely for British tastes. But, this is incidental to the main thing I wanted to say to you. Please – you two – do you mind not doing that?” He is referring to Nat and one of the Angelos de Sole who are beginning to slide down towards the floor together. “That illustrates exactly what I am on about. This place is supposed to be run for the benefit of the customers – not you bleeders. You—” He rounds on Ricci Volare, who, in the absence of Rosie, is beginning to nibble one of the chalet maid’s shoulders. “You and your lot should be lashing out all that Latin lover rubbish on the daft sods who paid ninety quid to come out here. Not on my—,” Sid checks himself.

“Nelly?” says Ted helpfully.

“Not on the management’s families. You two! Get out there and start making like Fiesta Bunnies. Why do you think your uncle sent you out here? You’ve driven one man mad and laid most of the staff. Now try arousing some of the poor bastards who’ve paid for it. And you waiters. Why do you think you were selected? Get cracking. They won’t bite you – not very hard, most of them, anyway. All of you. Let’s put the love back into Love Island. We want a lot more amor. And you! for Christ sake put that candle down.”

“I was just scratching myself,” says Nat reproachfully.

“Well get out there and start scratching someone else,” shouts Sid. “That’s what you’re paid for.”

It is easy to detect that Sid has the needle with Ricci but this is obviously not his sole inspiration for the address. It is very true that we have not been getting amongst the customers in the same way that we did at Melody Bay, but this is because the two places are run so differently. There, everything was planned from dawn till dusk. Here, nobody chases you to do anything. Maybe that is the trouble. If there was a bit more organisation, it would be easier to jolly people along. But, as usual, this thought only occurs to me as we are bundling out into the sunshine so I don’t say anything about it.

Next to me Marcia is looking slim as a whippet and just a shade faster.

“Fancy a swim?” I say.

She flutters her eyelashes and for a moment I think I am in with a chance.

“You heard what the man said,” she says. “Ask one of the customers. Anyway, you only live a fantasy once.”

And so saying, she trips off to Sid’s bungalow to take dictation or, more likely, her knickers down. Bloody unfair, isn’t it? I will never understand that bloke who said “’tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” I reckon that once you have had it you know what you are missing and it is ten times worse than never having been there in the first place. Anyway I swallow my disappointment and toddle off to see if they have finished spraying the huts with bug-killer.

It is mid-morning and so the whole of the living area is pretty much deserted. Carefully avoiding the hut in which I know Dad is staked out with a mixture of Torremolinos tummy and the sulks, I make my way to where the smell of disinfectant is strongest. There is no one about which I assume means that the bloke doing the job is having his elevenses. Since these can last till about four o’clock, I am about to go away when I notice a shapely bird hanging out washing on a line strung between two huts. She is wearing a pair of hot pants and a see-thru blouse with only the bottom couple of buttons done up. You therefore have two chances to see that she is not wearing a bra. Her hair is fastened in a loose bun and she has a mouth full of clothes pegs.

“Hello,” I say, “a woman’s work is never done, eh?”

Marvellous with the chat, aren’t I? I can almost hear you taking notes. She does not answer because of the pegs but nods agreeably.

“Can I do anything to help?”

“No thanks,” she says removing the last clothes peg. “It’s all done now.”

“Where’s the rest of the family?”

“My husband has gone down to the beach with his friends.”

“You look as if you’re about to join them.”

“I think I might stay here and read a book. It gets awfully crowded down there.”

“Do you read a lot?”

“I read a bit on holiday.”

I am now following her unasked into her hut.

“I’m reading this at the moment.”

“‘Kiss Off’. Oh, Christopher Wood. I read one of his: ‘Terrible Hard says Alice’. It’s very good. Have you read it? It’s all about the army in Cyprus.”

“Is it sexy like this one?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read that one – it’s pretty sexy, I suppose.”

“You need something a bit sexy around here.”

Oh yes? I think to myself.

“Not living up to expectations, is it?” I say innocently.

“The first thing my husband did when he got here was unpack his paternoster.”

“Religious, is he?”

“His fishing tackle. That’s all he’s interested in. I thought coming here might bring him out of himself. Inject a little excitement into our lives.” I wouldn’t mind injecting a little excitement into your life, darling, I think. Those lovely curvy tits peeping round the curtains of her blouse.

“I think most blokes would chuck their fishing rods in the dust bin if they saw you looking like that.”

“You’re being very kind.”

“I’m not doing you a favour. It’s the honest truth.”

“He doesn’t spare me a second glance. He spends all his time grumbling because he can’t find any lug worms.”