Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

“Welcome, welcome, you’re welcome at Melody Bay.

We all are here to please you and serve you in every way.”

Once the strains of the familiar dirge have faded away I approach the nearest Holiday Host and am directed to a thick-set curly-haired man of about thirty-five who is standing by one of the serving hatches and beaming at everyone approaching it in the manner of a vicar shaking hands with the congregation outside a church. As I draw near, he is addressing a neat redhead with a blouse knotted across her plump little tummy.

“O.K. luvvie. I should be through about twelve, I’ll leave the back door open for you.”

Quite how I should interpret these words in the light of my address from Mr. Francis I do not know, but no doubt there is a very simple explanation apart from the one that flashes across my sewer-soaked mind.

“Mr. Hotchkiss?” I say brightly, “my name is Timothy Lea.”

“Call me Ted. Hello Timmy. Yes. I heard you were on the way. Have a good trip, did you?”

He shakes my hand warmly and, although it is difficult to be certain in the presence of such all-pervading good cheer, seems genuinely glad to see me.

“Seen Mr. Hanky Panky, have you?” he continues. “Got the message about putting your Y-Fronts on back to front when you leave your chalet, laddie? Hey – look at the pair on that one. Grind you to death, wouldn’t they? Have you had anything to eat?”

“Er, no. What’s it like here?”

“The food? Diabolical. I don’t know what they do to it. The raw materials are alright, I’ve seen them. I think they play football with it, to tell you the truth. It’s alright if you like chips. You get chips with your cornflakes here.”

“But you never get any complaints?”

“Only medical ones. I’ve known times when it’s been more like sick bay than Melody Bay. No, the only complaints about the food are if it’s not covered in chips. Hello Gladys – she’s a goer, that one. I’ve still got the marks of her nails down the door of my chalet. Like bloody cats they are. She comes every year – and every five mintes, too, if you give her the chance.”

As I examine the plump bint leering at me through a mouthful of chips, it occurs to me to wonder what the Hosts who got sacked were like.

“She looks a big girl,” I observe conversationally.

“Big? She’s big alright. She loses things by sitting on them. And she’s strong with it. She knotted a putter round another bird’s neck on the crazy golf course.”

“You seem to take your sport pretty seriously here. There was quite a struggle going on when I passed the netball court.”

“It’s bloody murder sometimes. Last week a fight broke out during the ping pong tournament and they smashed the table to matchwood – and I mean matchwood. There wasn’t a piece you couldn’t pass through a windowpane. I know because they chucked most of them in here.”

“Why do they get like that?”

“It’s the system, isn’t it? I take it that Aunty Francis told you all about it? The whole idea is to keep people occupied during every waking moment and the best way of doing that is to divide them up into teams and make them play games against each other until they drop dead with exhaustion. That way they all reckon they are having a wonderful time. Of course, you have to allow for the competitive element getting a bit out of hand sometimes. It’s like being at a bleeding boarding school. There’s a cup for the suit that gets the most points in all the events and by the end of the fortnight, some of these buggers have turned into Kamikazi pilots. There’s even some that practise for weeks at home before they get here.”

“I didn’t see many people on the beach.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you? It’s not an amenity, is it? Who wants to mess about on a stinking old beach when they could be lashing out on rounds of drinks and watching a toddler’s fashion parade. The weather doesn’t help, either. We’ve only had six sunny days since Whitsun. Hello, Helen luv. Is the knee alright? Better? Good. I’ll be round with the Wintergreen like I promised. Ooh, did you hear that? They don’t care some of them, do they?”

“Ted. Mr. Francis was saying—”

“I know what he was saying. ‘No hanky panky.’ Yes, well, he’s got to say that, hasn’t he? I mean you can’t advertise the place as the biggest knocking shop north of The Wash, can you? But how many people would come here if there wasn’t the chance of a spot of slap and tickle. They’re not all bloody refugees from ‘It’s a Knockout’.”

“I realise that, Ted, but we’re not supposed to get mixed up with the customers, are we?”

“Do me a favour! You try telling that to Gladys and the rest of them. Forget what Francis says. You’re not employed as a Holiday Host here. You’re a stud. What do you think all the single birds come here for? They come to get poked rotten, and you, with your snazzy white jacket are the first prize. Being laid by a Host is what it’s all about, and this is a very competitive set-up, remember?”

“But I was warned—”

“O.K. You were warned. I won’t say another word. You put on your white blazer and see what happens. I’ll give you a Saint Timothy medal if you’re not fitting a yale lock on your chalet door before tomorrow night. Look at that bird over there, for instance, she obviously fancies you.”

I glance in the direction of his jerked thumb and there of course, is Janet waggling her fingers at me.

“Bird I met on the train,” I say, like I am describing cold semolina.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind walking the alsatian past her chalet. You could do yourself a bit of alright there.”

“Yeah. Talking of doing things, what do you want me to do now?”

“Well, I’ll show you where you’re going to live if you’ll excuse the exaggeration, and then you can help to get ready for the Swanee River Ramble.”

“What’s that?”

“Bingo in funny hats. Everything in this place revolves around Bingo. It’s the second most popular activity. You just have to keep on thinking up new names for it, that’s all. You know, I fancy that bird. Do you know what her name is?”

“Janet.”

“Right. I think I’ll pop over and introduce myself. That is, if you don’t have any objections?”

“No, of course not.”

In fact, I am very grateful. I fancy that Ted is just what Janet is looking for.

An hour later I have unpacked and been issued with my blazer with a big red heart on the breast pocket. I feel a right ponce but there is no doubt that Ted is right when he talks about the bird-pulling potential. Frippet that was ignoring me in the cafeteria is now giving me the Georgie Best treatment and I begin to wonder how long I can hold out before I hole out.

I am soon to find out because when I report to the Happydrome, the tables in the entertainment hall are littered with birds knocking back rum and cokes and brandy and Babycham like it was water. In fact, I have been led to believe by Ted that a good bit of it is water. The chief steward is apparently known as Nero and waters the booze like it was flowers. “I had a Drambuie the other night that tasted like bloody liquorice, water,” moaned Ted. “I could have mixed myself a stronger drink from a packet of sherbet.”

Neverthless, sheer volume of intake seems to produce the desired effect and by the time the Bingo caller, wearing false moustache, bowler hat and fancy waistcoat gets into his stride, most of those present are, to put it mildly, in a fairly relaxed condition. Attempts to capture the Swanee River mood vary from tennis visors and sleeve garters to low cut frilly dresses and beauty spots – mostly the ones revealed by the low-cut frilly dresses. Only the mums and dads sit there in their sensible cardigans and floral prints, unmoved by the frivolity of dress about them.