Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

birds, but though they both talk rude they have very posh accents. They sound like upper class little girls trying to shock nanny.

      “First stop it’s the Hosts versus Campers marathon swimming race, isn’t it, Ted,” sings out Francis who should get a prize for the job he is doing.

      “First stop it’s a liberation grind with any man in this place who hasn’t got a shell-shocked cock,” bawls Nan. “What have all these able-bodied pricks been provided for – elevenses?”

      “Now you’re talking,” enthuses Nat. “Move those gnomes out of the way and let’s get down to a lust dust, fellahs. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

      “These escorts are here as your guides, and team-mates in the pursuance of camp activities,” says Francis firmly. “They will stay with you at all times.”

      “‘Camp’ is the right word,” jeers Nan. “I’ve heard of the last resort, but this is ridiculous. It’s a bloody prison.”

      “Off we go to the swimming pool,” says Francis, his voice beginning to crack at the edges. “Come on, gentlemen. Show the ladies where to go. We can drop their things off on the way.”

      “You can drop mine off right now,” says Nan wearily. “I want sex.”

      “Freedom is sex.”

      “Sex is freedom.”

      “Sex is now.”

      “Freedom is now.”

      “Sex.”

      “Sex!”

      “Sex!!”

      A small but very interested crowd is beginning to collect as we close in on the girls and start to frog march them away.

      “Living Theatre tonight, six thirty by the lifeboat station,” breathes Ted conspiratorially. Everybody nods their heads and makes a mental note to be somewhere else at this time.

      What a day we have after that. At the end of it I feel like one of those corks which is attached to a kid’s pop gun. Up and down the swimming pool till skin starts to grow between my toes; then deep sea fishing in which nobody catches anything and the first prize is given to the hook with the biggest worm on it; cross country, weight lifting, gymnastics, volley ball. How the twins survive it I don’t know. But they do. Whilst the rest of us are breathing hard over our spam sandwiches, they are standing there eyeing us with sullen contempt and eating nothing.

      Even then I feel that they are biding their time. That at any moment they could suddenly break loose and overwhelm us. How right I am. Halfway through the afternoon, Francis is whisked away and I hear the dreaded words “Sir Giles” mentioned. Tension time is with us. The girls are behaving quite well and only occasionally trying to strike matches on the zips of passing holidaymakers’ flies. I almost begin to believe Nan who says that after a couple of hours without cock all the stuffing goes out of her.

      Strictly according to plan, we escort them back to their respective chalets at six o’clock and leave them to prepare for their part in the evening’s entertainment. Needless to say a heavy guard is mounted – fortunately not by the twins – and nothing untoward occurs.

      Promptly at seven thirty they are behind the scenes with me at the Happydrome, all tuned up to do their bit to make things go with a swing. At least that is how Francis put it. I am not so sure. Peeping through the curtain I immediately see Sid picking his nose in the third row next to a portly gent with a face the colour of red porridge. This must be Sir Giles or an advert for Alcoholics Anonymous. Either way, he looks about as mean as a piece of wet, knotted string and I can understand Sid’s problem.

      “What time does this mind-rotting pap start?” says Nan. “My God! What are they?” She is referring to the Melody Bay Musibelles, Funfrall’s answer to the Tiller Girls, believed to be “eh?” They are lining up on the revolving stage for their opening number like retreating infantry being forced to make a stand – not the first some of them have made, I might add.

      “Yer what?” says their leader, registering that she is being subjected to scrutiny.

      “You stupid slut,” says Nan in her usual friendly fashion. “You poor pawn.”

      “Porn!” says the Musibelle who has heard the word somewhere. “You want to watch your language Gyppo.”

      “Note the bourgeois abuse,” sighs Nan turning to Nat. “The knife driven between the shoulder blades of working class solidarity. ‘Gyppo’. It’s weepsville, isn’t it? Can’t you see—?” Now she is addressing the whole chorus line— “You are betraying yourselves as women when you dress up in those sordid costumes, your faces clogged with make-up. What are you? Love objects? Baubles? Giving away your identities to lubricate the wet dreams of male chauvinist pigs.”

      “You want to get the birds’ nests out of your hair before you start talking about betraying yourself as a woman.”

      “Bloody cheek!”

      “Who does she think she is? Scruffy little scrubber.”

      “Scratch her eyes out.”

      “I’m not going to stand here and be insulted like that.”

      “What have we got a union for?”

      At any moment I can see a monster punch-up breaking out but luckily Jim the stage manager, acts swiftly and whips up the overture. The stage starts to circle slowly and to the haunting strains – every tune played by Freddy Newbold and his men is a strain and quite capable of haunting you – of “There’s no Business Like Show Business”, the Musibelles stop shaking their fists and start shaking their legs.

      “Poor cows,” snorts Nat as they disappear from sight. “Totally exploited. They have now begun to live their roles.”

      “Still, the audience loves it,” I say. “Listen to that noise. They’re giving someone pleasure.”

      “They would give more pleasure in a state whorehouse,” snaps Nat.

      I am certain there must be an answer to that but I don’t have time to think of it because Jim bustles out and shepherds us away so that Mario, Guiseppe and Antonio, three coal miners’ sons from Barnsley, can set up their juggling act. This move is purely for their own protection because the Slat girls’ eyes begin to glaze over the minute they glimpse the bulging white leotards,

      “Did you see those skittles?” says Nan.

      “They’re Indian clubs,” says Nat.

      “They’re heaven,” sighs Nan, “do you think I could borrow one?”

      I get them into the stage manager’s office where they snigger when I suggest a sherry and snatching up a bottle of vodka pour half of it into two tumblers. I suppose the sherry is just my acknowledgement of the fact that they are basically upper class bints. I would never think of asking my old man if he wanted a sherry. Whilst I am thus pleasantly engaged in exploring my social hang-ups Nat and Nan are glugging down the vodka like kids having a last glass of water before bed time. It is probably a mark of my naivete but I am glad to see them getting outside it. In my experience birds keel over after two Babychams so I reckon that with that much vodka inside them Pa Slat’s brats will be going bye-byes pretty quickly. I am even stupid enough to start nibbling away at the stuff myself.

      All around us fire-eaters, razor blade swallowers, Irish tenors and every no hoper who was ever put out of a job by television, is milling about. Jim pops in from time to time to supervise the gargling and all in all I am beginning to feel pretty relaxed. The mood is obviously catching.

      “Another teeny-weeny vodkatini, Nan?” says Nat. “I must say, I’m within a smear test of enjoying myself.”

      “A smidgeon,” says Nan extending her glass, and bringing mine along for the ride. “It must be the presence of King Male here.”

      “Humpable hunk, isn’t he?” murmurs