by Timothy Lea
Saturday morning arrives and it is half way towards being a decent sort of day weatherwise. The sun is beginning to break through a band of clouds stretching to the horizon and I am standing at Pet’s Corner explaining to a child that you do not turn a tortoise into a turtle by dropping it into the goldfish pond. I think the kid understands because when I let go of its ear it kicks me in the shins and runs off saying that its dad is going to smash my face in. This is the kind of unpleasantness I spend my life trying to avoid and I am moving smoothly towards the crazy golf course when two female figures appear through the camp gates.
They are somewhat different from most other guests because they are carrying bedding rolls instead of suitcases and give no indication of having had their hair done twenty minutes before arriving at the camp – not unless the job was handled by a nesting stork. They wear headbands, enough beads to have bought North America from the Indians and are barefoot. Smocks adorn the rest of their bodies and they wear no make-up. This is not to say that they are less than handsome. They cannot be much less than six foot, but if you fancy big birds these are definitely your bucket of tea. For some reason I imagine that they are gypsies and move forward to prevent them lowering the tone of the place still further. I am a bit surprised that they got past the gatekeeper.
“Can I help you?” I say, giving them my cold “please ask your little boy to stop pissing against my trouser leg” smile.
“Sure,” says one of them considering me for a moment. “I fancy a stand-up quickie amongst those gnomes.”
“Two’s up,” says the other one, “or maybe we can share him.”
“No, Nan. You wait your turn. You’re always stealing my ideas.”
“Gnomes?” I say.
“That’s right, cowboy. On the lawn there. Don’t fight it. Let it all hang out. You can park your arse on the grass if you’re bashful.”
“Groovy,” sings out the other one. “I can nibble round the edges.”
Suddenly a veil is snatched from my eyes and I begin to put one and one together with startling results. Nan? Nancy?
“Natasha?” I bleat.
“Good. So you got the postcard,” says the one who wanted to open the batting. “We would have liked a bigger reception committee but you’ll do to start with. Now why don’t we all snuggle up in the privet and get down to the privates?”
The way she looks at me I know what it must be like to be night nurse in an Italian prisoner of war camp.
“I expect you want to see Mr. Francis,” I croak.
“We’ll get round to him,” says Nan. “Now relax. You’re so uptight. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s beautiful. Come on. You’ll like it once we get going. Everybody does.”
And she sticks her hand down the front of my worsteds. Right there under the shadow of the big dipper.
“Yeeow!” I say, or it might have been “Urrh!” I can’t really remember. “Get off me. You must be bonkers.”
“‘Bonkers’, that’s a nice word,” says Natasha. “Bonkers about conkers.”
Well I don’t wait for any more. I’m off and running. I mean they are nearly as big as me and there are two of them. I don’t stop until I get to Ted’s chalet.
“They’ve come,” I shout as I burst into the bedroom.
“They’re dead lucky then, aren’t they?” says Ted, rolling apart from a well-developed lady I remember being runner-up in a slow bicycle race. “They obviously didn’t have you to worry about.”
“I’m sorry, Ted, I mean—” I go outside and shout through the bedroom door. “The Slat Twins have arrived.”
Five minutes later a possee of Hosts with Francis at the head is galloping towards the main gate. We get there just in time. Nat and Nan are attacking the gatekeeper’s hut with a battering ram made from the camp flag pole.
“Welcome, welcome, ladies,” chortles Francis. “Still full of beans, I see.”
“Call this a welcome, dryballs?” snarls Nat. “We’re trying to bring a little joy into the lives of all these sex-starved husks of human beings and all they can do is run away or lock themselves up. What have you done to them? You’ve castrated them! You deny love and you deny the one force that can unite the world. Now stand aside. We’re going to liberate that poor misguided victim of fascist sexual repression.” Looking through the window there is some doubt as to whether Mr. Merriweather wishes to be liberated. He is cowering behind his desk with his stapler in his hand and seems prepared to fight to the last staple.
“Come, come ladies,” purrs Francis. “I am afraid that Mr. Merriweather cannot respond to your blandishments. He is one of our permanently disabled staff.”
“They must have got him last time,” mutters Ted.
“—Now let’s start channelling all that infectious enthusiasm for life into something everybody can participate in.”
“A gang bang?” says Nan hopefully.
“No, no. We’re going to make you honorary Holiday Hosts for the duration of your stay. You can meet people, help organise entertainment. Do something positive.”
“Positive? Screwing is positive, stoat-features.”
“It’s not the only thing. Now, put down that pole.”
“But I like it. It’s so thick and long. It reminds me—”
“Yes, yes, Miss Slat. I’m certain it has many happy associations for you. Now why don’t you pop on your blazers and let’s get down to business. We’ve got a very tight schedule today with the Camp Concert at the end of it.”
“You look as if you’ve got a very tight arse too, fart-face,” sneers Nan. “And you can stuff those blazers for a start. I wouldn’t be seen dead in one.”
“Put one on and find out,” mutters Ted.
It is a funny thing, with these 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 Nat, beginning to nibble my ear in a way I find a good deal less than objectionable. “Shall we toss for ends?”
“Naughty, naughty. Timmy isn’t like that, are you pet? You don’t want to be sexually emancipated, do you darling? You like sweating it out in your nice bourgeois blazer.”
“He wears his heart on his pocket, not his sleeve,” sighs Nat. “Imagine all those rippling pectorals wasting away under this serge.”
“Dents your heart, doesn’t it?” agrees Nan. “I mean, his whole body could be a glistening chalice of sweat aglow with the rippling ecstasy of sexual congress.”
“At the very least,” nods Nat. “Here, have another sip so you don’t have to think about it, darling,” and she jerks another half pint of vodka down my throat. Now, it occurs to me about this time, that I am just a tiny bit pissed. Nothing serious, mind. I can still feel Nan kneading the front of my worsteds, but I am not as exercised about it as I might have been half an hour before. After all, as long as I can keep the terrible twins occupied I am doing my job, aren’t I? Occupied. That’s the key word. I take Nat’s cheeks between my fluttering fingers and settle greedily on to her mouth like a humming bird alighting on some choice jungle bloom. Why don’t I just let them get on with it? It’s going to keep them out of trouble for a while, and it can’t do anyone else any harm. In fact it can do me a bloody lot of good, I think to myself as somebody’s hands – I know they are not mine – start unzipping my fly.
“Go on,” I gasp, as there is a sudden halt in the proceedings.
“Not enough room, Angel,” murmurs Nan, “we want to do you with justice. Come next door.”
“Next door?”
“The props room.”
“Oh. Ouch!”
Nat zipping my J.T. up in my fly keeps my senses occupied until I find myself collapsing on to some kind of sofa. There is no doubt about it. I am definitely pissed.
“You just punctured my foreskin,” I say reproachfully.
“Don’t worry. Mummy will kiss it better for you.”
I have an impression of one of those long smocks disappearing over its owner’s heads and a great, grabbable expanse of naked flesh. I grab.
“Uh, uh! I never screw men in uniform. Get it off.”
Blazer, tie, shirt, shoes, socks, and pants hit the floor in less time than it takes to write this. Somewhere I think I can hear shouting but maybe it is because I am excited.
“Where’s Nan?” I say.
“I am Nan. Nat is just coming.” Her great, warm body settles on mine like a lamb’s wool overblanket with the lambs still inside it and I let my hand run riot in the moist furrow between her legs.
“Leave some for Nat,” I murmur.
“Don’t worry.”<
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But, suddenly, I do worry. Whatever we are lying on is moving and somebody is shouting in my left earhole.
“Get off! Get off! Jump!!”
But with Miss Slat on top of you you’d be pushed to wink. Ah, there’s the other one. Naked of course and speeding to share her sister’s ecstacy. But what are those lights doing glaring out of the darkness? And the smell of cigarette smoke? And the band playing? And the shouts and screams? Why do I feel as if I am being taken for a magic carpet ride? Why is it suddenly so draughty?
No!! With horrible certainty I realise that I have been taken for a ride. The deadly duo have lined me up on the revolving stage and I am now flashing my credentials at two thousand holidaymakers. My first reaction is a natural one. Get the hell out of it! But this is easier thought than done. While I am grappling with Nan the immortal couplets of “River Deep, Mountain High” come richocheting over the public address system and Nan snatches up a microphone.
“O.K. Campers,” I hear her yodel. “This is the part of the show where you grab a slice of the action.” Thud, thud, thud go her great boobs as she bounces in time with the music. “Reach over to your neighbour and if you see anything you like – fondle it. Come on now, you know you want to. Don’t dream about it. Do it! Throw out your inhibitions and hang up your hangups.” Ike and Tina are bursting a gusset and the idea sounds pretty good, even to me. I mean, it’s better than breaking up your instrument with an axe, isn’t it? Less painful, too.
“I’m getting hot,” screams Nan. “I want it!! I want it!! I want it!! Do you want it?”
“Yes!” howls the audience.
“I didn’t hear you!”
“Ye-e-e-e-ee-e-e-s!!!”
“Well, grab it! Grab it! Grab it!” Her pelvis starts shuddering like a strip of confetti tied to an electric fan. From the darkness comes the sound of furniture breaking up. It is like New Year’s Eve at the British Legion.
