Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

“No, of course not,” says the chaplain hurriedly. “It must have been some kind of practical joke.”

“And in very poor taste, too. Who do we have in chalet 75?”

“You didn’t go round, then?” I say, proving what a stupid berk I can be. Francis rounds on me like I have suggested fitting out the Nipperdrome with contraceptive machines.

“Of course I didn’t go,” he hisses. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

This is quite a taxing question but luckily I don’t have time to answer it.

“Number 75 contains a Miss Elsie Worple and a Miss Pearl Barr,” says Ted. “I know Miss Worple—er slightly. She’s in the contest tonight.”

“Really.” The way Francis says it I know Else’s chances have disappeared up the spout.

“Young people today can behave in the most extraordinary fashion,” says the chaplain, “ah well, I suppose we must fortify our nerves for the test ahead.”

He directs his gaze towards the table laid out with sherry and twiglets and we all nod solemnly and start tucking in.

It is obvious that the fortnightly Holiday Queen contest is something of an occasion and this is brought home to me when we file out onto the judges’ rostrum.

The hall is packed and the noise that greets our appearance suggests that most of those attending are, as usual, pretty well oiled. The Holiday Queen contest comes at the end of an evening of dancing, spot prizes, talent contests and what are laughingly called cabaret acts. As we take our seats so Waldo the Unbelievable – with a conviction for perjury to prove it – is chucking flaming carving knives at his wife. What danger there is comes mainly from the risk of one of them igniting his breath – Waldo, it is rumoured, takes a drop of the hard stuff to frighten his nerves away before every performance.

No sooner are we settled than Maestro Freddy Newbold brings his baton down as if executing someone and the orchestra delivers a silencing chord. This is the signal for dapper Holiday Host Henry to spring forward and deliver a few words about the pleasures to come:

“Laydees and Gentlemen, boys and girls, chaps and chapesses, now is the moment you have all been waiting for. The Holiday Queen contest. We have a bevy of outstanding beauties waiting in the wings but before you feast your eyes on them, I’d like to introduce our panel of judges. First—” He rambles on like this for a while and we each stand up and take a bow. Ted gets a big reception, especially from the birds, but I don’t expect this does him any good with Francis. With my glass of water and my “scrutineers” form and pencil in front of me, I feel a bit of a lad and am almost beginning to enjoy myself, when the first bird teeters on to the platform to roars from the crowd.

Each contestant has to walk across the stage, climb a short flight of steps onto a platform, do her bit to electrify the judges and descend the other side. The first bird is obviously terrified out of her tiny mind and you can’t blame her. The noise that greets her must make her feel she is running out on to the pitch at Hampden Park and not all of it is encouragement – inter-suit rivalry dies hard at Melody Bay. Coupled with this, she is a bird who could only have entered the contest when drunk or for a bet. It does not look as if she has ever worn high heels before, because she staggers across the stage like a kid wearing its mum’s shoes for the first time. Her hands, which are supposed to be holding a card with her suit emblem and number on it, are itching for something better to occupy them and she starts tugging down the back of her costume as she walks. The whole effect is almost too painful to watch and I can see that the ascent to the rostrum is going to be a mini-Everest. Biting her lip, she makes it, attempts to do a turn, nearly falls off and sheds one of her heels. The audience roars and the poor chick loses her last drop of self control. Determined to get the hell out of it at a rate of knots, she hobbles down the steps on one and a half shoes, bursts into tears and runs from the stage. “Run” is the wrong word because what she does looks more like an event left over from one of Uncle Sam’s obstacle races. Even compere Henry who could make a commentary on the crucifixion sound like Andy Pandy meets Big Ears is temporarily lost for words. Eventually he calls for a big hand – which is something I have been waiting to give him ever since we met – and the next contestant appears.

This is Mrs. Married who gives a very good account of herself in the circumstances. I note that there appear to be a few bruises around her upper thighs, but I do not hold this against her in my marking, which is generous.

Next comes another couple of bints who deserve marks for their sheer courage in entering and whose embarrassed red flushes are indistinguishable from birthmarks. Then Janet. Her approach resembles one of those gymnastic birds you see on the tele on Saturday afternoon when you are waiting for the 15.30 from Chepstow. All arched back and feet smacking down as if they are pressing in loose divots. She does not jump up on the table or do a handstand but you reckon she could chop up James Bond with one hand tied behind her leotard. It is an impressive display but I prefer my beauty queens a bit more on the soft and stupid side.

This is obviously something that Else has aimed at and she comes on so that you expect to hear Frankie Vaughan crooning “Give Me the Moonlight” in the background. Trouble is, that Else is not really built for the job. She is a game little chick, but not generously endowed for a touch of the sultries. There is a suspicion, too, that the hot lights and her pre-contest activities have sapped some of her natural vitality. Her make-up might have been sprayed on and seems to be prevented from sliding down her face only by the Funfrall type smile, stretching her features into ridges. I look across at Ted and see that he is nervously fingering his collar. Francis leans across to whisper to him and he nearly jumps out of his skin. I reckon that our Else has indulged in a spot of nobbling there. There is no doubt that Ted and myself are being singled out for special attention. Else gets to the top of the steps and, bending her knees, indulges in a rising wriggle calculated to make a trappist monk start sewing lead weights round the hem of his habit. She pouts at Ted and me and turns to reveal that her tight little arse is her best feature. The audience is loving it and I am having another happy stroll down memory lane when she spins round to give us a second butchers at her torso. Once again she bends her knees and starts to thrust upwards, and then – oh dear – the top part of her costume is held to the bottom by a couple of brass rings which choose this moment to suffer from metal fatigue. The strap springs up, smacks her in the eye and she sits down hard on the edge of the platform. The audience erupts like a skin complaint and poor Else limps off leaving Henry to ransack his cask of cliches again.

The next few contestants are worse news than the Festival of Halitosis and I am seriously beginning to consider Mrs. Married as a contender for my first vote when a really knock-out bird arrives on the scene. Where she has been hiding I do not know, but once you have clapped eyes on her, you wish your hands, knees and boomps-a-daisy could enjoy the same experience. Her figure flows through her costume, swelling and diminishing into a number of delicious backwaters, and ends up in as fine a couple of legs as ever pushed through the holes in a pair of knickers. When she smiles it makes you feel that she would get up at three o’clock in the morning to polish the studs on your football boots and her skin looks softer than a kitten’s armpit. Once seen it is just a question of deciding second and third places.