Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

but on top turns into an open waistcoat so you can shake hands with her boobs if you want to. I do want to, but I content myself with giving her nipples a friendly squeeze.

      “Where’s the boyfriend?”

      “Oh, he had to go back to Nigeria. He’s king or something. Now, who can I introduce you to?”

      “You don’t have to bother. I’ll get amongst it when I’ve finished my drink. Who are those people over by the window?” There are three middle-aged couples sipping what looks like sherry and smiling nervously at each other.

      “They’re some of my neighbours. I always invite them as a kind of tip off. The smart ones take the hint and stay with friends for the night, but they obviously haven’t got the message. It doesn’t matter because once they’ve been here they can hardly kick up a fuss about the noise. It wouldn’t be British. Oh, look, there’s Amanda. You remember Amanda, don’t you?”

      “Yes, of course.”

      So I re-meet Amanda who looks a hell of a sight better with her clothes on, and am introduced to her husband, Sebastian. He is a pleasant enough cove but only capable of talking about rugger which limits our conversation a bit as I don’t know a scrum from a line out and couldn’t care less about either. Not that this worries Sebastian who goes rambling on about building a new clubhouse for the Old Shithousians or someone until I’m getting glassy-eyed. Luckily, a wave of dancing breaks out at this moment and I seize Amanda and plunge into the middle of it. She is a good girl to be with because she’s built like a padded bumper car and soaks up most of the punishment that is being dished out. Some of those spades really cut loose when they’re dancing and the amount of black tit shaking about would fill a couple of hammocks.

      It’s about this time that I notice a lot more flesh than I was seeing earlier in the evening and realise that there are a lot of birds following Sandy’s lead. One fantastic dolly with an Afro hairstyle, blue lips and luminous eye make-up has tassels on her tits and could save you buying an electric fan the way she whirls them around.

      Not everybody is dancing though. In one of the bedrooms there is a small group of pot smokers passing round a joint and a couple who have just found they are very much in love and are proving it to anyone who cares to watch.

      I snake off for a slash because I can sense that Amanda is getting a bit fruity and I don’t fancy it. Also, husband Sebastian is making going-home noises and I can see that a big row is looming up. I want Sandy, but she is being the good hostess and helping people to vomit or find their coats, according to need, so there is nothing for me there. “Later, darling, later,” she breathes.

      Frankly, the way things are going, I’m not certain there is going to be a later. I can definitely feel the walls moving when I lean against them and some of the dancing can only be described as screwing to music. The whole scene has gone up as if it had been soaked in petrol and set fire to and when that happens the flames can be pretty high but they don’t last long.

      Things aren’t helped by a gang of skinheads who resent the spade influence at the party – and anybody except themselves having a good time – and are pelting the front entrance with milk bottles. This kind of activity is not slow to stir a response and soon the party divides itself into groups. Sebastian at last begins to enjoy himself and leads a party of idiots on to the balcony to hurl bottles at the skinheads; the pot smokers go on smoking pot; a few mainliners are linking arms in the lav and sharing a love fix; and the rest of us are trying to screw each other. This latter pursuit is helped by the fact that nearly all the lights are off and even the most faint-hearted start stripping down to their birthday suits. It is at this moment that Sandy makes a spectacular entrance stark naked except for her minge cosy into which she has woven some luminous coloured wool. This merry little device catches the fancy of everyone and in no time we are all sitting on the floor weaving patterns in each other’s pubic hairs. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? But it’s amazing how something as bloody stupid as that can seem like the most amusing thing in the world when you are pissed. Of course none of the patterns ever got finished because with all the touching up that is going on people’s enthusiasm soon gets syphoned away into other pursuits. I am a bit disappointed because I am doing a lovely white Star of David in this black bird’s fuzz when she suddenly makes it impossible for me to continue. Not that I am complaining, mind you, and none of the other writhing couples around us seem unduly upset either.

      I never finish with the black bird because Amanda grabs me and by the time I’ve given it a little wiggle for old times’ sake, Sandy is tapping me on the shoulder and I’m in to number three. I am vaguely aware that the battle outside is hotting up and I think I can hear Sebastian yelping because he has got a dustbin lid stuck in his cake hole but I am now only capable of concentrating on the job in hand. The flesh trading is getting a bit complicated because any spare mouth, or whatever, is speedily seized upon so you are never quite certain who is doing what and with which and to whom.

      I can’t remember how long we go on like this but I do recall the pressure of feet along the small of my back and someone shouting, “The Fuzz! The Fuzz!” Immediately, all hell breaks loose and there are blokes leaping about like rats in a burning cage. My mind clears faster than Stamford Bridge after an away win and I am out of Sandy and into my trousers before you can say “I was framed”. Not a second too soon either, because the first Bule comes steaming through the door as I am doing up the zip. He has his truncheon in his hand and must feel quite at home when he looks round some of the blokes in the room.

      “I don’t remember inviting you,” starts Sandy, but she gets shoved up against the wall and told to shut up. The Bule is joined by a few of his mates and they are all shaking with outrage and excitement. You can see they haven’t had so much fun in years. It is then that I notice the upper class twit who came in with me. He is bollock naked except for a tiny pair of yellow silk pants and though this might cramp the style of lesser men, it has no effect on this Herbert.

      “Can you tell me who is in charge here?” he says. “I would like to register a very strong protest. This is a private party in a private house and so far I have seen no evidence of a search warrant or any other reason for your impertinent intrusion. I will most certainly be bringing this matter to my father’s attention and I can assure you that – Ow!!” The exclamation is caused by one of the Bules stepping on his naked foot and causing him to leap back onto the burning joint of the hopped up idiot behind him. A small spot of pandemonium breaks out and the spades around me start muttering about police brutality.

      By this time I am dead scared because I can see that my Ovaltiney’s badge will be right up the spout when this little lot comes to court and after my last brush with the law it’s a bit soon to be coming back for another dose. There is only one thing for it. And that is to get the hell out of the place – fast. Choosing the moment when the upper class twit has accused the Bule of stamping on his foot and sparked off a near riot I sidle towards the window and slip onto its broad ledge just as a shout of alarm indicates that my departure has been noticed.

      Luckily, as I have said before, you could wheel a pram along the ledge and even at night I can scoot along it easy as winking. My problem now is the crowd gathered outside who start howling the moment they see me. I nip round the corner of the building and to my relief the ground slopes up sharply so I don’t have so far to jump. Right behind me, some old bag is screaming her guts out at the prospect of being murdered in her bed and that is just the nudge I need. I hit the bank as the first Bule comes round the corner and am across the grass at a speed that would have brought tears to the eyes of my old games master. There’s a fence in front of me but I’m over that like it’s an upturned fag packet and crashing through someone’s back garden. Another fence and then a wall. Down from that just missing a bamboo stake and I branch off at right angles and tip toe up beside a house. Tip toe is the right word because I don’t have any shoes on, remember. Behind me I hear somebody curse and two torch beams bob across the garden and disappear over the next wall. I wait a few more minutes massaging my tortured feet and creep on round the side of the house. There is a door and behind that, I hope, freedom. I press the catch and push. At first nothing, then it suddenly cracks open as if it has just been freshly painted and I nip through like a spurt of flame. Beside me a flight of steps is going