Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

I try and match Sidney’s expression of dogged interest.

“What so far we seem to have ignored, in this country at least, is the changing moral climate. The expression of love and affection between adult human beings is no longer solely the prerogative of those united by bonds of marriage. Whilst not wishing to undermine the bedrock – I use the word advisedly – upon which such strong family-orientated enterprises as Melody Bay were built, we believe that there exists the opportunity to create a new kind of pleasure resort for the emancipated seventies.”

“They’re getting a bit old, aren’t they?” I interject.

“I referred,” grits Sir Giles, “to the nineteen-seventies. We envisage a holiday village where responsible adults can celebrate the new found sexual freedom of the age in which we live, without blanching before the cold cynosure of antedeluvian morals.”

“A sort of legalised knocking shop,” says Sidney helpfully.

“Please let me finish, Noggett,” says Sir Giles wearily.

“I think I’ve got the idea,” I pant earnestly. “You think that with everybody going on coach tours of the Balkans, Holiday Camps are on the way out. Therefore you want to introduce somewhere like those frog places where they all live in each other’s mud huts and run around in grass skirts with strings of cocoa beans round their necks.” A long silence follows my remarks.

“I believe you are related to Mr. Noggett?” says Sir G. eventually.

“That’s right. He’s my brother-in-law.”

Sir G. nods resignedly. “I would have suspected that might be the case.”

I smile my “throw a stick in the pond and I’ll bring it back and lay it at your feet” smile but it takes a few moments before Sir G. gets into his stride again.

“We have already purchased a site and the events of the other night were sufficient to persuade me that the time is now ripe to pursue the enterprise.”

“It’s going to be a bit parky frisking about like that in our climate, isn’t it?” I ask.

“The property comprises a small island off the north-east coast of Spain. The Costa Brava. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

Heard of it! Some of my best friends have got food poisoning there. All this is very interesting but why are they telling me?

“I expect you are wondering why we are telling you all this?” observes Sir G. I shrug my shoulders; Tonto, he let the Lone Ranger do all the talking.

“I was impressed by the part you played in the proceedings of the other night. There was about you a natural unaffected joyfulness that seemed to place you apart from the more conventional Holiday Host which is our norm.”

I rack my brains, but for the life of me I cannot remember anybody called Norm. I must have been pissed.

“I have talked to Mr. Noggett who, of course, knows you far better than I, and he confirms my impression that you would be an ideal representative for us on ‘Isla de Amor’.”

“What?” I say.

“Love Island, Funfrall’s new Mediterranean experience for the mature holidaymaker,” chirps in Sidney. “Are you interested?”

Blimey! I think to myself. What a carve up!

Two weeks later I have been fitted out in my new lightweight blazer and assorted togs and am entering the embarkation lounge at Gatwick like it is a bridal suite. I still cannot believe my luck. Sun, travel, and the thumbs up to give Percy his head. What more could a red-blooded young Englishman want?

“Well, if it isn’t Melody Bay’s answer to the death of vaudeville.” I turn round and there is Ted clapping me on the shoulder. “Come to see me off, have you?”

“I’ll see you off any day,” I say enthusiastically. I suppose I should have reckoned that Ted might show up. Sidney had told me that a selection of Hosts were being recruited from Funfrall Camps throughout the country, and Ted would be on anyone’s shortlist if they were forming the export division of Rentapoke.

“Any birds on this jaunt?” I ask casually. “Oh, no!” The latter exclamation is sparked off by seeing Nat and Nan bearing down on us clad in white see-through muslin which a great many people are seeing through.

“What the hell are they doing here?” I ask bitterly.

“Haven’t you heard?” demands Ted. “They’re on the payroll.”

“They’re what!!!”

“They are now employed as Fiesta Bunnies. They are going to help make things go. That’s what your friend Mr. Noggett said.”

“He’s not a friend. He’s my perishing brother-in-law!”

“Hi there, Captain Thrust,” sings out Nan. “How about a quick injection against air-sickness?”

I make a move to step behind Ted but he is already taking shelter behind me.

“No skulking, stud farm,” hollers Nat who has an even louder voice than Nan. “Look, everybody, it’s Teddy and Tim, the toast of the quim!”

“Knock it off, girls,” I hiss.

“I thought you’d never ask. Where? Here, or against the passport counter?” What can you do with them? A fiver for the best answer sent to me on the back of a ten quid note.

“Fiesta Bunnies’. Whoever thought of that bloody silly name?” I say, eager to change the subject.

“The same chap who thought of calling you two Sun Senors. It has the smack of Uncle’s eminent greasie, that Noggett man.”

She’s right too. Sun Senors is just about Sidney’s mark.

“There’s no sign of either of them is there?” I mumble.

“No, they’re putting down a revolution in Littlehampton or re-organising the white slave trade,” says Nat. “We’ll have to get this place jumping all by our little selves.”

The very thought of it makes me lock myself in the gents until our flight is called. We have two weeks to make sure that everything is tickety boo on Love Island before the first swingers arrive. With the terrible twins about, you could spend all that time picking hairpins out of your codpiece and never get around to checking a single bath plug. That is, if we ever get to the place.

“B.E.A. wish to announce the departure of flight 1147 to Gerona …”

I cross myself a couple of times and sneak out to join the others. I have never flown before but I know I am going to be terrified. I had intended to get pissed to the point of insensibility but Nan and Nat have put the kibosh on that.

Fortunately there is something to take my mind off the rigours to come. She is about five foot eight and wearing a uniform about two sizes too small for her so that the seam down the middle of her arse grins at you like sharks’ teeth. Her makeup looks as if it has been put on by a Chinese miniaturist and then lacquered and the expression of contempt with which she greets my gaze makes me feel like something that has crawled out from under one of her gardening shoes. As is my wont, in such circumstances, I immediately fall in love with her. Upper class disdain has always turned me on.

“This we-a, plis,” she says in a voice that sounds like Christmas Eve in Harrods. “Dee-ont fair-get your board-ink carts.” Oh, the sheer ecstasy of it. Listening to her I can understand why Mum keeps a photo of Winston Churchill in the kasi. Some are born great, and others should have been. I trip through the glass doors and she actually smiles at me. It is not so much a smile, more a flutter of the lip endings but it is all mine. Fear is temporarily abandoned and I skip down the long corridor following the image of my B.E.A.uty Queen until the boarding card is drawn gently from my unthinking fingers and I venture out into the cool evening air.

Then I become frightened. The minute I see the studded patchwork quilt of metal I wonder how many of those panels have had to be replaced. What are all those men in white overalls standing about for? They look like surgeons. Is the plane dying? Up the steps and inside and I think it is the final of the all Ireland Hurling Championships. In fact it is only everybody taking their coats off in a very limited amount of space and punching each other in the face at the same time.