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Confessions of an Ice Cream Man
Timothy Lea
The women melted at his feet - one lick at a time!Available for the first time on ebook, the classic sex comedy from the 70s.Its amazing what Ice Cream men will do just to sell a 99 Flake…Tina is kneeling in front of Clare and leaning forward threateningly and I sense that aggro is just seconds away.In such an explosive situation a man has to stay cool, think fast, and arrive at a split-second decision. I reach for my y-fronts and start to pull them on. If you start by saving yourself that’s always one life on the credit side.‘You ! ! ! ! –’‘Now girls,’ I say. ‘You musn’t –’ I reach for my trousers and turn round to see – blimey!Also Available in the Confessions… series:CONFESSIONS FROM A HOLIDAY CAMPCONFESSIONS OF AN ICE CREAM MANCONFESSIONS FROM THE CLINKand many more!


Tina is kneeling in front of Clare and leaning forward threateningly and I sense that aggro is but just split seconds away. In such an explosive situation a man has to stay cool, I think fast, and arrive at a split-second decision. I reach for my y-fronts and start to pull them on. If you start by saving yourself that’s always one life on the credit side.
‘You ! ! ! ! –’
‘Now girls,’ I say. ‘You musn’t –’ I reach for my trousers and turn round to see – blimey!

CONFESSIONS OF AN ICE CREAM MAN
Timothy Lea


CONTENTS
Title Page (#u71ad15f9-c1ba-5f2c-ac5c-fa821274c0ed)
Chapter One (#ud194dff8-5a6f-530e-a61f-7558b64f6d02)
In which Valentina, an Italian ice cream lady, nearly garrots brother-in-law Sid and proffers exquisite retribution to Timmy after an unpromising beginning.
Chapter Two (#ud8c00158-c31c-5c2e-9c74-128456251831)
In which Valentina’s mum arrives and an unexpected love idyll is rudely interrupted.
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy goes to buy some ice cream tricycles and meets dissatisfied, passionate Pam.
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Sid unveils his unique vehicle for selling ice cream and the family attend a taste test of the first batch of Mum’s ice cream.
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy goes down to the library to get some Italian ice cream leaflets translated and becomes involved with Tina and Clare who have come under the Italian influence.
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy prepares to go out on his first sales foray.
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy bumps into Mrs Betty Gregson on the job and is forced to do naughty things with her by a kinky and mistrustful husband.
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Timmy makes an ice cream action painting with an uninhibited lady called Sybil who has an artistic bent and a desire to experiment.
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Sid gets the ice cream concession at the Clapham Open Tennis Tournament and things start to go wrong.
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
In which things continue to go wrong and get even worse when Sid and Timmy find themselves closely involved with Mrs Brewer and her sensitive daughter, Henrietta.
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
In which Sid prepares to exhibit at The International Ice Cream Manufacturers’ Great Exhibition
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
In which everything hinges on the result of the competition for the best ice cream.
Also Available in the Confessions Ebook Series (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE
In which Valentina, an Italian ice cream lady, nearly garrots brother-in-law Sid and proffers exquisite retribution to Timmy after an unpromising beginning.
‘Fifty thousand quid a year,’ says Sid.
‘You what?’ I say. I thought he had dropped off over his pint but this is clearly not the case.
‘I’ve just worked it out,’ he says, nodding towards the ice cream van barely visible beneath a pall of kids. ‘That’s what that Frascati geezer is taking home to his old lady and the bambinos. Three a minute at an average of ten pence a time. That’s eighteen quid an hour – make it twenty to keep to round figures. Start around ten and finish at six. That’s a hundred and sixty quid a day. Six-day week. That’s nine hundred and sixty nicker a week. Fifty-two weeks in a year. That’s fifty thousand quid near as damn it.’
‘He’s not working flat out all the time,’ I say. ‘There’s no market in the winter.’
‘He switches to hot dogs and field dressings during the football season,’ says Sid. ‘Even if he was only working half the year that’s twenty-five thousand quid. Can’t be bad. I’ve always said you can’t go wrong flogging nosh – provided you work for yourself, of course.’
‘I never remember you saying that,’ I observe.
‘That’s because you never listen,’ says Sid. ‘You just sit there wondering how long you can hang onto that pint so that you don’t have to buy another one.’
‘I bought the last one!’ I tell him.
‘What does it matter?’ says Sid. ‘You’re so petty. I don’t pay attention to things like that.’
‘That’s what I’m complaining about,’ I say. ‘You’re as tight as a french letter on a bollard.’
‘What a disgusting way to talk,’ says Sid. ‘I don’t know what your bleeding mother would say if she could hear you.’ He drains his pint and sighs. ‘Oh dear, it’s always the foreigners, isn’t it? They’re the only people making any money in this country at the moment. If the Arabs haven’t bought it, it’s only because the Pakistanis and the Chinese won’t sell. You have to go the other side of Thornton Heath to see an Englishman.’
‘I don’t understand it,’ I say. ‘If we’re in such desperate schtuck why are they rushing to get in?’
‘Because their standards are much lower than ours,’ says Sid. ‘They’ll accept things no Britisher would tolerate. Cold beer, that kind of thing. What they put up with at home makes this country seem like paradise.’
We watch an Alfa Romeo glide to a halt beside the ice cream van and a slim, dark girl get out and shake back her tawny black hair. She is wearing black satin trousers that cling to her high-hitched arse the way the outer skin of an onion is moulded to the inner layers. The pencil line of her panties runs round the curves like a contour line. She bends to get something out of the car and a parched cry of need breaks from Sid’s throat.
‘Blimey,’ he breathes. ‘She could have a lick of my cornet any day of the week.’
‘She looks foreign,’ I say.
‘They’re not all bad,’ says Sid ‘It’s the men that make the trouble.’
As we watch, the bird goes to the back of the van and opens the door. ‘One of the family,’ I say. ‘You’re right, Sid. They must be doing all right if she can afford an Alfa.’
‘It’s just a question of whipping up some powder and that,’ muses Sid. ‘We could do it at home. Your mum could do it.’ His face clouds over. ‘No, probably not. I haven’t got over the caraway seeds on that sundae turning out to be mouse droppings.’
‘It was the tiny footprints gave it away, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘Taste-wise it was like everything else Mum dishes up.’
The bird comes down the steps of the van and she has a movement that would make a Swiss watch envious. She wafts along like she is dancing to a tune nobody else can hear. ‘I wonder if they do a recipe leaflet?’ I say.
‘No harm in asking,’ says Sid. He gets up and squares his enormous shoulders and I can see that Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman is about to strike again.
‘Be gentle with her,’ I say.
‘Piss off!’ says my brother-in-law. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and moves purposefully towards the Alfa. The bird has just closed the door as he approaches and he spreads his arms wide against the coachwork and bends down so that his head is nearly inside the car. It does not stay there long because there is a whirring noise and the automatic window nearly gives Sid a cleft palate. He starts back and then stops dead. I never fancied Sid’s cowpoke tie – two bits of string threaded through a brass bull’s head and decorated with metal spurs on the ends – and this instrument of sartorial torture nearly proves to be his undoing. The metal spurs get snagged inside the window and when the bird drives off Sid is forced to run along beside the car or indent for a smaller collar size. The bird does not immediately cotton on to what is happening and thinking that Sid is giving chase she accelerates. This is definitely not good news for Sid’s windpipe and it is a good job that the string snaps before his neck does. When I get to his side his adam’s apple is squatting on the brass bull like it is a golf tee. I don’t know if blue is his favourite colour but only the bloodshot eyes break the monotony of his bloated ultra-marine mug – it is like the flesh tints on a cheap colour tele. If I had a knife I could cut the string away but on the other hand there would be the danger of slitting his throat which I know he would not like. Decisions, decisions: I always wanted to find out what I would be like in an emergency and now I know – useless. ‘EEEurgh!!’ Sid plucks the string from his throat and lies writhing in the grass. For a moment I think he is going to be Uncle Dick but then he sits up and grabs me by the trouser leg. ‘Uuugh!’ he says.
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘Take a few deep breaths, you’ll feel much better.’
A crowd is collecting and I am suddenly aware that the girl who was driving the car is amongst them. She looks worried – and very, very beautiful. Looking into her dark passionate eyes quite cheers me up after the distress of Sid’s predicament.
I think Sid likes her too because he immediately grabs hold of her leg and clings to it. ‘What ’appened?’ says the bird sounding appropriately worried.
‘You nearly killed my brother-in-law,’ I say sternly. ‘Snatched away in his prime he would have been.’ Sid nods vigorously and presses his face closer to the bird’s thigh. He looks like a tabby cat with suppertime approaching. I think he is overdoing it a bit but I can’t say anything.
‘It was an accidente,’ says a swarthy bloke who has emerged from the ice cream van. ‘Is nobody hurta.’
‘Nobody hurt?’ I say. ‘Are you a doctor, mate? Do you think he’s usually that colour? Why don’t you push off and shove your nuts in your cassata?’
A murmur of agreement tells me that the world cup preliminaries are still much in the mind of many of the onlookers and Beppo backs off and relapses into grumbling Italian.
‘How are you doing, Sid?’ I ask tenderly. ‘Is there anything you want you’re not already making a grab at?’ Sid withdraws his hand from the Alfa lady’s trousers and makes a hoarse, croaking noise. ‘I think he wants to go to the South London Hospital,’ I say.
‘But that’s a women’s hospital,’ says one of the onlookers.
‘He knows what’s good for him,’ I say.
‘Use my car,’ says the luscious eyetie bint. ‘I am zo zorry about all zis. I do not mean to ’urt ’im.’
‘That’s all right,’ I say. ‘The damages for this kind of thing never go above a couple of hundred thousand quid on average. Mind you, he’ll probably never sing again so it could be a bit more in this case.’
‘Sing?’ says the bird.
‘They called him the Clapham Caruso,’ I say. ‘He had the world at his feet. Now – who knows? – a summer season at Hayling Island if he’s lucky.’
‘You think he’ll sue?’ says the bird.
‘He’ll be forced to,’ I tell her. ‘Just for the sake of the wife and kiddies. That’s their violin lessons up the spout. Yehudi Menuhin will be casting around for a few bob.’ I can see that I have kindled nervousness in the bird’s eyes and I turn my attention to Sid. ‘Let go of the lady’s leg,’ I say in as kindly a tone as I can manage. ‘She’s going to help take you to hospital.’
‘I will never sing again,’ croaks Sid as we help him scramble to his feet. ‘“My old man, said follow the band –” See? It’s not there any more.’
‘Maybe with time and lots of money,’ I say comfortingly. I must say, there is something very sexy about being driven in a fast car by a handsome bird and I really enjoy the journey to St Bukes – Sid makes a noise as we go past the South London but we don’t stop. The way she shoves the stubby gear lever into position with scarlet-tipped fingers. The lunging aggression of her breasts thrusting against the soft angora. The restrained power of her gracefully muscled legs as they step on the pedals. It quite takes my mind off Sid’s gasps and groans. I wonder if the red mark round his neck will ever go? It looks a bit like one of those poncey necklaces you see worn by geezers with gold earrings and intense stares. It does nothing for him.
‘You’re one of the Frascatis, are you?’ I ask, remembering the sign on the front of the ice cream van.
‘Si – I mean, yes,’ says the bird. ‘I am Valentina. Pietro is my uncle.’
‘I’m Timothy Lea,’ I say. ‘This unfortunate creature here labours under the name of Sidney Noggett.’ Sid groans and tries to knee me in the balls.
‘I wish we ’ad met under ’appier auspices,’ says Valentina.’ ‘Ow is the Signor Noggetto?’
‘Multo dicey,’ I say. ‘I think he is in urgent need of medical attention.’
I soon wish I had not spoken because Valentina puts one of her lovely feet down and the landscape turns into a blur before we pull up outside St Bukes with a jerk – well, two jerks if you include Sid. I am disturbed to see that the old maestro is not looking as purple and ghastly as he did a few minutes ago and I consider throttling him back into a medically interesting colour. Probably not a good idea.
‘You had better give me your address and telephone number,’ I say to Valentina. ‘Just in case the repercussions of your inadvertent but ill-considered action are even more serious than I anticipate them being.’
‘I will come in with you,’ says the lovely creature. ‘You get out while I find somewhere to park.’
Half an hour later she is with us refusing a lukewarm cup of tea and a crumbling wad. The out-patients smells of disinfectant and babies and the benches have been polished shiny by countless millions of bums two hours late for their appointments.
‘Good job I’m a bleeding emergency,’ croaks Sid. ‘Some of those poor sods are going to die of old age before anyone gets round to them.’
‘Mr Chow? Mr Banwagi? Mr Ndefru?’ Nobody moves and the nurse goes away again.
‘They must have nipped out to get their free specs and dentures,’ says Sid. ‘You noticed that, did you? Not one of them was English.’
‘Ssh,’ I say. ‘Don’t be rude. Think of Valentina.’ I don’t think she has heard Sid because she smiles and goes on reading her edition of the September 1955 Exchange and Mart. Sometimes I wonder where they get the reading matter that is strewn about in these places. The British Museum must have a snappier collection.
‘Three hours I waited here on Thursday to end up with an Indian doctor,’ says the woman sitting next to me. ‘I didn’t mind that but then he started reading my medical card upside down.’
‘It’s not right, is it?’ I say.
‘Some of the nurses are all right but I wouldn’t trust them with a syringe. I mean, it’s right back to the jungle for them. I’ve had them trying to inject into the bone.’
‘Feeling better, Sid?’ I say.
‘And that Doctor Balbutti,’ says my neighbour. ‘He’s so nervous he terrifies you. He chewed the rubber out of his stethescope while I was describing my symptoms.’
‘Mr Noggett? Doctor will see you now.’
‘I don’t think it’s necessary,’ says Sid. ‘I’m feeling a hundred per cent now.’
‘Nonsense!’ I tell him. ‘Your head is only hanging onto your shoulders by a thread.’ I lower my voice. ‘Belt up if you want to take this Italian bird for a few bob.’ I drag Sid to his feet and am disappointed to find that Valentina is tagging along.
‘Mr Noggett?’ says the nurse looking at the three of us.
‘The man with a neck like a turkey on Boxing Day,’ I say, nodding at Sid. ‘I hope you’ve seen suffering, love, otherwise you might as well chuck the whole thing in and wander across to the kiddies’ clinic – don’t nod your head, Sid. It could be fatal.’
‘Only the patient, please,’ says the nurse coldly. She is obviously a hard nut and I believe that they can turn like that.
‘But I’m the only one who knows the symptoms,’ I say. ‘I saw the whole thing. If it’s a question of settling damages, my presence is invaluable.’
‘Not at the moment it isn’t,’ says the nurse brusquely. ‘Wait in there. The doctor will call you if he needs you.’
‘You’ve got a white one, Sid,’ I say as he goes through the door. He does not reply because his head is tilted right back. This is probably why he crashes into the instruments trolley and breaks half a dozen thermometers.
‘Now it’s gone to his eyes,’ I say as we are shown into a small room containing a bed trolley. ‘That is serious. I was hoping the big game hunting was going to take his mind off the singing.’
‘Big game ’unting?’ says the bird, her eyes widening.
‘“Noggett of the North,” they used to call him,’ I say. ‘The very whisper of his name used to start the caribou migrating. He could shoot the centre out of a washer at twenty paces.’
‘But a washer does not ’ave a centre,’ she says.
‘Hmn. Maybe he was fooling us all these years.’ I can see I will have to step warily with this chick. She is not as stupid as I would like her to be.
‘What do you want of me, Mr Lea?’ she says, taking a deep breath and giving her knockers the freedom of her sweater to do it in. Her lips tremble and I am reminded of such sultry temptresses as Silvano Manure and Melina Mercury – a girl who could really put your temperature up.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I just want to remind you that there’s a man’s life at stake out there. That’s got to be worth something. Maybe you didn’t mean it but you’ve got to face up to the fact that because of you he may end up as some kind of vegetable –’ a beetroot by the look of things. I am enjoying my role. I always saw myself as more of a Raymond Massey than a Richard Chamberlain.
‘I repeat, what do you expect me to do about it?’ Her eyes are as green and level as the baize on a billiard table – only slightly less wide as well.
‘Let’s face it,’ I say. ‘This thing has got to go to court – or there again, maybe it hasn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’ she says.
‘I’d have thought it was obvious,’ I say. ‘If you anti up a few bob out of court we may be able to avoid a lot of unpleasantness. I mean, imagine the effect on a jury of seeing that poor creature out there and knowing that he was never going to sing Mozart’s “Cosy fanny” again.’
‘Cosi fan tutte,’ she says.
‘Just as you like,’ I say. ‘If you prefer the original it’s all the same to me. This is no moment to split hairs over the arts. There are more important issues at stake – that man’s future for example.’
The bird looks at me levelly and then takes a step to my side.
‘I zink I know what you are getting at,’ she says. She suddenly slaps the rubber sheet on the trolley bed and there is a loud ‘swalch’ which makes me jump. ‘You are trying to bedmail me.’ She reaches up and pinches one of my ears.
‘Ouch!’
‘If I sleep with you, you will forget the ’ole thing?’
‘Look,’ I say. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. Nothing was further from my mind. I was thinking purely in terms of a financial settlement to compensate for the injuries received by my unfortunate brother-in-law. Anything that might occur between us would arrive naturally in the fulness of time and as a result of a deep and meaningful relationship. It would be spontaneous and very beautiful.’ I glance at my watch. ‘Are you doing anything this evening?’
‘I ’ave no money. I ’ave only my body.’
It is strange but a feeling of relief accompanies my reception to these remarks. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, what about that car?’
‘It belongs to the business. My Uncle Pietro, ’e ’olds everything.’
‘He was the geezer who opened his trap outside the Highwayman?’
Valentina nods. ‘’E is an ’ard man.’
No doubt about that. And probably well connected to the Mafia to boot. Start putting the squeeze on him and you could end up with half a dozen unfilled cornets up your khyber. Best to reconsider the lady’s offer. After all, Sid is in good hands and the whole thing was his own fault when you think about it.
Valentina walks her fingers up my chest. ‘We make love and you forget about the whole thing. It was an accident, no?’
‘What kind of heartless brute do you think I am?’ I say. ‘Abandon my own brother-in-law for the call of the flesh? You Italians aren’t the only ones with family feelings. Tight-knit is the word for the Leas – or maybe ‘tight nits’ would be better. Anway, I keep the thought to myself.
‘Very well.’ Valentina tilts her head aggressively. ‘There is nothing else I can do. You will ’ave to sue.’
‘And anyway, we can’t do it here,’ I say. ‘Anybody could come in. I’ve been caught like that before.’ I start to panic a bit when I realise that I might end up with nothing after that diabolical cup of tea and all those old magazines with the crosswords filled in.
‘We could go to my ’ouse.’
Uhm. That sounds a lot more tempting. Goodbye, Sid. ‘Very well,’ I say, trying to make it sound as if I am struggling with myself.
‘So, it eez to be my body. Will you shake on it?’
‘I expect so,’ I say. ‘More a shudder than a shake really.’
‘I mean, will you shake ’ands to confirm your agreement?’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ I shake hands feeling a bit of a berk and Valentina tosses back her hair and walks to the door waiting for me to open it. I must say, she is very businesslike about the whole thing.
Sid is sitting in a chair with his head tilted back as we come in. I see his eyes swivelling towards me. ‘Well, we’re off now, Sid,’ I say light-heartedly. ‘If they offer you a transplant I’d think very seriously about it.’ I see a worried look spreading over his face and I lower my head to one of his lugholes. ‘We’re going to have a little business chat,’ I whisper. ‘She’s got an angle and I think there could be something in it.’
Sid nods. ‘If you hang on for five minutes, I’ll come with you. I’m nearly through, here.’
I think quickly. ‘Best if we go on,’ I say. ‘If you’re still stuck here when we leave it looks more serious and puts me in a better bargaining position.’
Sid pats my shoulder. ‘Good thinking,’ he says.
I return to Valentina and shake my head. ‘Looks bad,’ I say.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘He may never be able to sing again.’ I can’t help feeling that there is a trace of sarcasm in her voice and it is in silence that I follow her out into the car park. I hope I am going to enjoy what I have lined up for myself. Valentina is not exactly bubbling over with hot-blooded Italian vitality and I am a very cold starter when met less than half way. Even as I think about it I can feel the heart dropping out of my winkle. I can actually feel it shrinking – like a slug dropped on a block of ice. I must try and turn my mind to something else – like England’s chances of qualifying for the World Cup Finals. No, there is no point in torturing myself. There must be something else. But no, my thoughts keep returning to the void between my legs. The void once occupied by a vibrant organ eager for the fray – and blooming nearly frayed on more than one occasion. There is no doubt about it. The best times have always been the unexpected ones. When a spot of nooky sort of slunk up behind me. I don’t think I could ever have it off with a tart.
I mean, I always remember the first time on Clapham Common with Sid’s Aunty Lil – well, strictly Speaking, it wasn’t the first time, was it? Not with me getting it tucked under her suspender strap and never realising. How green I must have been in those days. How refreshingly innocent. Anyhow, I was useless with Lil and that was because it wasn’t for real. I was just ten minutes of Lil’s time. And what am I with this bird? Not Marcello Masturbati, that’s for sure. Just a way of buying off trouble. It’s not the stuff of great romance by a long chalk. Maybe I should tell her to stop and get out – I mean, me get out. But, on the other hand, that’s being cowardly, isn’t it? That would be turning my back on an experience. If I do that I will never know what might have happened. I will give my old man an even worse complex than it has got at the moment. Once it knows that I am pulling it out before it has even had the chance td get in I will be creating big problems. And there is not just this bird to think about. There must be others – in the future – somewhere in the future. One has to face up to failure sometime. It’s inevitable. That’s what makes one human as opposed to someone who believes what they read in Cosmopolitan. Even if it is a total disaster with Valentina and she tells all her friends – what the hell! There must be about fifteen million shaftable birds in this country and she can’t know all of them. Even if she does, it’s not the end of the world. Women like a challenge – some of them, anyway. If she can’t convert Percy into fifteen and a half centimetres of nether ramrod then there must surely be others prepared to have a try. I mean, if you reverse the situation, I’ve never held it against a bird for being untutored in the ways of love – in fact I frequently have held it against her. Not only held it but propelled it forward urgently until the only tight band in her life was a recollection of Nat Temple’s lot playing at the opening of a brewery extension.
‘’Ere we are.’ I blink and look up. Amazing how times flies when the mind is wrapped in thought. I am certain it was the same for Isaac Newton and the rest of the boys. They must have felt as if they hardly lived.
‘Very nice,’ I say.
Actually, it is just the same as all the other semi-detacheds in the street but one likes to appear willing, doesn’t one? The front garden isn’t a patch on the one next door but then you don’t expect the eyeties to go a lot on gardening. They are probably busy teaching the kiddies to hold a mouthful of spit until the referee’s back has turned. Valentina carefully locks up the car and then produces another key for the front door. I start to get a funny feeling in my stomach as I see it turning in the lock – the key, not my stomach. Will I be able to come across with the love offering? What started out as being solid and turning to liquid now seems to have converted itself into air. I don’t believe there is anything there at all. How embarrassing when I take my trousers off. ‘And I always thought you had to have an operation,’ I can say with a light laugh. Of course, she might cap it by being a bloke in drag but somehow I don’t think so. Those curves look as natural as the ones that stop the moon from being a square.
‘Nice places you have here,’ I say mesmerised by her knockers. She does not reply but looks at her face in the mirror of the hallstand and pushes a few wisps of hair into place. I pick up an electricity bill and give it to her. ‘It keeps going up, doesn’t it?’ I say. Of course, I am referring to the price of electricity but from the way she looks at me I wonder if she understands this. Better not try and explain or I might make matters worse. She puts the bill on the hallstand without a word and starts up the stairs. Half way up she turns and looks down at me.
‘Come on. You want to come, don’t you?’ I follow her without saying anything and she pauses on the landing and points to a half open door. ‘Bathroom.’
I take the hint and go inside. Very nice pong and Jesus holding a soap rack. First sign of the Catholic influence. There is also a bidet with an attachment for directing a jet of water at your balls. It is a shame I have to find this out by turning on the hot tap. I nearly flatten my nut against the ceiling. I have a squeeze of toothpaste and rub it round my cakehole with a finger and contemplate a spot of lily of the valley over the gonads. In reality I am playing for time. Putting off the evil moment. Evil moment! I must be round the twist. Millions of blokes would give their mother-in-law’s right arm to be in my position. What is wrong with me? Why am I cursed with this ultra-sensitivity when the chips and knickers are down? Why can’t I be like the kind of people who read these books? I will really have to examine my scruples. Having said that I sprinkle some talcum powder over them and stand further back from the wash-basin so that I can take a good gander at myself in the mirror. Uhm. Three and half inches at a rough guess and shrinking fast. It is most disturbing. Usually a spot of hot water and a gentle tug brings it on a treat. When I look down my body I can hardly see anything. It is like overlooking a wren’s nest in the ivy. Honestly, I can’t go up there like this. It would be letting down the British Empire – and if you let it down any further it would be in Australia. Pull yourself together, Lea. Tuck your socks in your Hush Puppies, sling your dicky dirt over your arm and get in there. A big boy like you shouldn’t be frightened of an Italian ice cream vendor’s niece. I look out of the window and see that it is raining. That could be nasty. Supposing Uncle Pietro decides to chuck it in early and pop round to see how his niece is bearing up under the strain of having nearly garrotted somebody? That might put a very unhealthy strain on Anglo-Italian relations. Oh dear, I wish I hadn’t thought of that. It does not help in my present condition. I look down at Percy and there is a slight movement towards the window. I think he wants to get out. Well he can’t! I set my jaw for three thirty and march towards the stairs. A man has to try and do what a man has to try and do. Which room is she in? Another feeling of panic grips me. We don’t want one of those jokes in which you open the door stark bollock naked to find the local Women’s Institute settled down for a talk on ‘Soil Erosion in the Southern Hebrides’.
‘Valentina?’ I am almost whispering but there comes a muted ‘Si’ from behind one of the doors. I open it and go into a room with the curtains drawn. I am grateful for that for a start. Maybe the darkness will bring my old man on like it does with tomatoes. At least the shrinking menace of the miniscular Mad Mick will be concealed from her eyes other than by the shoe I am holding in front of it – it could be snitched from a doll’s house and still do a good blot-out job the way I am shaping up at the moment.
Valentina is lying in bed with the sheets pulled up to her chin and I am grateful for that as well. Her clothes are hung over the back of a chair and there is a pleasing pong of perfume in the air. ‘Come.’ She means get into bed and I do just that making her wince as my cold hand brushes against her back. I should have soaked my mits in hot water. They are always a bit like fish fingers to start off with. I lie there between the sheets and wonder what to do next. Valentina seems poised and expectant even though her back is to me. She is waiting too. I put my hands between my thighs and wince. They are cold.
Valentina turns her head. ‘What is the matter? What are you waiting for?’ She sounds suspicious.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I’m just getting used to you.’
She shrugs her shoulders and says something under her breath in Italian – probably ‘what a berk!’ I advance a ginger finger to see how Percy is responding to the romantic surroundings. Not a sausage – not even a blooming chippolata. In the realm of foodstuffs he is more like a soft roe waiting for a small bit of toast to make a cocktail snack for a midget. I raise my fingers slowly to my mouth and start blowing on them. ‘What are you doing now?’ This time Valentina sounds irritated.
‘My hands are cold,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to warm them up.’
‘Typical English,’ she says. ‘Cold ’ands, cold ’eart.’
‘We say cold hands, warm heart,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘It means if you have cold hands you have a warm heart.’
‘Why?’
I think hard. Yes, why? ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It’s like lucky in love, unlucky at cards.’
Valentina sighs and lies her head back against the pillow. ‘I never understand the English,’ she says.
‘No,’ I say. ‘It does take a bit of time. It’s not easy to get inside another person.’
Valentina turns her head and I can see her eyes glistening in the darkness. ‘No,’ she says with feeling. She moves over onto her back and holds out her wrist towards the curtain so that she can read the time. ‘Look. I think you want to make love to me. That is what we agree, no?’
‘I do,’ I say. ‘I just don’t want to rush it.’ I put my hand on her shoulder and she winces. ‘See?’
She looks up at me and then suddenly pulls me on to her mouth so hard that our teeth grate. Without taking her north and south away she rises up and presses me back against the pillow. She is stark naked and her breasts flop against my chest. In goes her tongue and her spare hand dives down to the root of my problems. ‘A–a–a–a–h!’ she says. ‘This eez what we are waiting for. No?’ She makes a growling noise and disappears under the sheets. I watch her billowing down like a snowball turning into an avalanche and then with another growl she parks her molars round my hampton. By the cringe! This is romance with a capital ‘Argh!!’ I have heard of blow jobs but this is more like a testicular typhoon. This girl’s suction power could put Hoover out of business. I only wish that I could say that it was having a positive effect on my growth potential but it isn’t. This is terrible. Normally a bird only has to blow my old man a kiss and it rakes the skies like an anti-aircraft gun. Now it is slacker than a trainee wolf cub’s granny knot. What has happened? If a blow job fails then what help is there for me? This must be the beginning of the end – or the end, more like. I might as well start looking for a hobby – like diving off Nelson’s column with a Mills bomb in my cakehole.
‘Gentley, Bentley,’ I say. ‘There isn’t a fire, you know.’
‘You can say that again,’ says the bird unkindly. ‘I ’ave never known a man like you.’
‘That’s your bad luck,’ I say. ‘I can’t help having a bit of refinement of feeling. I’m a roman candle not a bleeding thunder flash.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says.
‘I don’t expect you do,’ I say, swinging my feet off the bed. Frankly, I am pissed off and the first satisfaction of the afternoon comes in knowing exactly what I am going to do next – get dressed and get the hell out of it. I am not really angry with her, just myself. I was a prick to ever get mixed up in this scene. I feel in the Hush Puppies and recover one of my socks. ‘Bugger!’ I say.
‘What’s the matter?’ She sounds genuinely puzzled. I turn and there she is. Sitting up in bed with her hair over her eyes and one of her breasts sticking out at an angle so that you can see its silhouette sharp as a knife. She looks like somebody else. I wouldn’t recognise her. I don’t recognise her. She is someone else. Not the bird I was getting uptight about but a warm, curvy, screwable chick who is suddenly popped up and propped up kissing inches away from me. I move my head forward and her mouth twists and opens fractionally. I pause and a great relief surges through me – all through me. We twist a little more and like two pieces of a lock clicking together to a predestined pattern we kiss. It is so nice that we do it again. And when we break for breath we nuzzle each other. She rubs her nose up and down my cheek and I push my lips into her hair and brush against her ear. The tips of her breasts touch my chest and because it is unexpected and delicate and very, very teasing it is far more exciting than the blow job – the big blow job, the hurricane blow job, the sensational suck that yielded no sensation except despair.
‘Hello,’ I say – because I am meeting her for the first time.
‘’Allo,’ she says.
She tilts her mouth up and gently takes one of my lips, her eyelashes lying flat against her cheeks. I slide my arms round her and encase her thin frame. How powerful I feel when I see my forearms near hers. How like a giant dealing mercifully from strength. I place my hands tenderly on either side of her cheeks and kiss her gently, marvelling at how easy it all suddenly is. I have stopped thinking about my body as a separate entity from my feelings and am just coasting, letting things happen. I move my chest from side to side so that I can feel the nipples hardening and tug back the sheets that form a skirt round Valentina’s waist. She moves so that she is kneeling and I drop my hand and raise my finger pads under the moist arch of her parted legs. Uhm! That responsive, wanting slipperiness charges me like a battery. I kiss harder and glide two fingers deep as they will go. Valentina shivers and tightens her teeth about my lower lip. She makes a noise at the back or her throat and closes her hand about my cock. Yes, my cock. I had forgotten that. Now it is primed. Hot. Furled. Eager. Valentina pulls at it impulsively and sinks back against the bed drawing me with her. How strange that it can now be so easy. Perhaps the strangeness is that it was so hard before. Valentina is now breathing deep and irregularly as if suffering from a fever. Every breath seems to be launched in uncertain anticipation of what is now inevitable.
I lie over her and enjoy the feeling of warmth that binds me to her. Physical, mental, everything. Very natural. Like the position of my body. Where it ought to be. I rise up and start to slot myself into her. Very slowly because the pressure of her arms on mine and her half-open, tilted mouth tells me she likes it that way. Inch by inch till she sighs, purrs and folds her arms to me. I leave it there and then start to rock. Very, very gently at first. She nods with the rhythm and as she presses her lips together I feel the muscles tightening about my cock. She can grip like velvet fingers and I feel myself being drawn Out as if strong threads run deep into my body. She fastens herself to my mouth and her tongue drives in and out in time with my cock. Up and down my back run her fingers and they slip down to dive between the cleft of my arse. The orgasm is building and I clamp my hands to her and impose my own rhythm. Her mouth breaks free and she digs her nails into my back calling out in Italian. I start to yelp as the juice runs through me and we gasp, groan and sigh until we lie hot, sticky and contented in each other’s arms.

CHAPTER TWO
In which Valentina’s mum arrives and an unexpected love idyll is rudely interrupted.
‘Boum!’ The noise comes from a long way away, echoing through the house. I don’t take a lot of notice of it but burrow deeper into Valentina’s warm, friendly body – but Valentina’s warm, friendly body suddenly isn’t there any more. It is sitting up and looking anxiously towards the door.
‘Basta!’ she hisses. That is not very nice, is it? After all we have been through. It is only afterwards that I find it doesn’t mean what I think it does. ‘Mamma!’ Now I know what that means – trouble. The sound was the front door slamming. Suddenly I am very much awake. For the second time I swing my legs off the bed and start searching for my clothes.
‘Valentina!’
She has her sweater over her head in half a second flat – not flat, very curvy. ‘In the cupboard!’ she hisses. I grab my shoes and scuttle through the door. She picks up a sock and throws it after me. The door closes with a scraping noise. It is not a clothes cupboard but more like a stock room. There are shelves with piles of stationery and pieces of advertising material ‘Frascati’s original blend old Italian ice cream’. I must say, the stuff does taste good. I remember it as a kid. Still, flavour of the month is not my preoccupation at the moment. I hear the sound of the door flying open followed by a babble of Italian. Blimey! Valentina’s mum goes on like Vesuvius in full spate. She is obviously having a go at her little girl and wanting to know why she is having a kip in the middle of the afternoon. I hope Valentina is a good talker. She can hardly get a word in edgeways at the moment. I lean forward to get a better idea of what is going on and my elbow brushes against a pile of pamphlets. I spin round to stop them falling and knock a wadge of notepaper on the floor with a loud ‘crump!’ Mamma’s voice cuts out like you have lifted it off the turntable and my stomach drops. The cupboard door is nearly torn off its hinges and I am looking into a pair of blazing eyes fringed by ragged jet black hair. Valentina’s mum clocks the unpleasant sight before her for a few long seconds and then turns to her daughter. Wham! Biff! Sock! – and anything else you used to read in your favourite comic book. Poor Valentina cops some terrible right handers and runs out of the room in tears. I take the opportunity to get one of my feet in my trousers but this turns out to be a bad mistake as Mamma turns on me and starts chasing me round the room. She would be a difficult person to dodge at the best of times – but hopping? It is out of the question.
‘Ani-mal, ani-mal!’ she shouts. ‘You bring dishonour on our family. My daughter will never be married in white!’ Well, I don’t know about that but if Valentina was a stranger to the one-eyed bed snake then you can call me Johann Cruyf.
‘Think of the money you’re going to save on the dress,’ I say. ‘Ouch!’ She is strong, Valentina’s mum, there is no getting away from it. Much bigger than her daughter and with knockers like the corners on a cement bag. She snatches my shirt from my hands and rips it in half. ‘Hey! Watch it!’ I say. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry – well, I was just going to.’
She is working herself up to a terrible state and when she picks up a pair of scissors I start to get really worried. ‘And now I cut it off!’ she shouts.
Oh dear, what a way to go. She picks up my trousers and starts hacking through the bit round the zip. Very symbolic. You don’t need to watch a lot of Wednesday plays to get the drift. I can just see the headlines in the Balham Courier: ‘Stop me and buy one. “I wanted a cassata not a castrata”, squeaks Clapham youth.’ More like ‘I scream’ than ‘Ice cream’. ‘Y-a-a-argh!’ Blimey! It is like a Jewish wedding when they find that the bridegroom’s Barclaycard is out of date. God knows what the neighbours must think. She is going to do herself an injury before she does me at this rate. She throws me back on the bed and dives on me so that the scissor blades are inches from my throat. Cancel my last statement.
I struggle desperately and succeed in getting the scissors away from her. I throw them across the room and she drags her nails down my chest. ‘Youch!’ Now she is biting me. I wrestle myself on top of her and pin her arms out. My face is inches from hers and she spits into it. Charming! I bet Barbara Cartland wouldn’t carry on like this if she caught you dunking your doughnut with Lady Lewisham. What huge knockers she has got – I don’t mean Lady Lewisham. I mean Valentina’s mum. They are performing a seismic eruption beneath me.
‘Ani-mal! Ani-mal! Dirtee ani-mal!!’ She struggles to free her wrists but I am too strong for her – just. How long can this go on? I only have the strength of three men.
‘Mmmmmmm!!’ She hooks her legs over mine and suddenly arches her back and delivers a plonker on my rose hips. It is not so much a kiss as an attempt to rearrange the whole architecture of my face beneath nose level. What is so amazing is that it seems to have the stuff of genuine passion in it as well as all the natural juices. That is without the panting and morning. Is she on the level or trying to make me loosen my grip so that she can practise more mayhem? There is only one way to find out.
I let go of her wrists and she clasps her powerful hands to my nut and starts manoeuvring it round her mouth like it is some kind of mechanical love aid. She is wearing a cardigan over a blouse and I ping open the buttons and feel the ribbed pattern of her bra rough against the palm of my hands. The unexpectedness of everything has had a very salutary effect on my old man and I can feel it poking uncomfortably against the restraining web of my y-fronts. I slide a hand down and quickly free it while Valentina’s mum pulls a sheet about us. Her eyes are closed and I reckon she has purposely worked herself up into a kind of trance so that she can cop the consequences without feeling any guilt or responsibility. Her hands move to her side and she unzips her skirt and arches her back so that she can pull it off beneath the sheet. I don’t think she would like it if I started looking at her body. I slip my arms round her and fiddle for the catch on her bra. It comes apart almost first time and I can stick my head under the sheet and start guzzling. Ooh! That really turns her on. Some women seem to have very sensitive breasts. Often the ones with the big, soft, knockers. Stands to reason, I suppose. And talking of standing – yes, Percy has remained in what one might describe as rude good health. As hard a hombre as ever rode out of Gonad Gulch.
Still snorkelling in the valley of the boobs, I get my hand down underneath the sheet and establish contact with the quivering quim. This fun feature is pulsating against the smooth sheen of the silk panties like a traction engine with its motor racing. The moment my fingers touch it Big Mamma digs her nails into my arm and I get the message that this is a very, very sensitive lady – mind you, she wasn’t going to great lengths to conceal the fact. And, talking of great lengths – yes, fifteen and half centimetres of metric monster is waiting impatiently for an introduction. It would be positively uncivilised to restrain the impulsive pair for longer than is necessary to tug down the fabric fence that divided them. I hook my thumbs over the elastic and move my mouth up so that we kiss while I push the panties down. Kiss? I suppose you could call it that. Catch as catch can with mouths, cakeholes at twenty paces, assault with a deadly gob. I knew that female spiders are inclined to eat their mates after mating but I don’t think this bird can wait that long.
I move my head down underneath the sheets in order to steer her knicks over her heels and she immediately stations her mits over her pussy. I think she is terrified that I am going to give her a muff job. I suppose it figures. If you are that sensitive, a touch of tongue over the velvet void could destroy you. Still, what is sex without violence in some shape or form? I remove the panties and then start licking the fingers that guard the nether nirvana (look it up. For what a paperback costs these days you are entitled to an education). After licking I start nibbling, and after nibbling, biting. After that there is not a lot I can do as I forgot to bring my sticks of dynamite with me. I prise two fingers aside and sink my tongue into the gap.
‘YeeeeeeeeeeeH!!’ Big Mamma grabs me by the hair but has to take away a hand to do it – that’s the problem with only having two, folks. I seize my chance – I’m seizing hers, really, but she doesn’t seem to appreciate that – and delve into a passionate guzzle that would force a cynical truffle pig to slap its trotters in unwilling appreciation. ‘Yee-owch! !’ Light the blue touch paper and retire immediately. Her fanny quivers above the bed like a hovercraft taking off and she lets out a noise like I am hurting her.
From all the signs it does not look as if she gets a bucketful of the Larry Adlers and I wonder what her old man does during the long winter evenings. From what I have heard the eyeties are handier with the chat than they are with the oil drilling and it seems as if Signor is no exception. Valentina’s mum has now removed her other hand and I have complete freedom of the ball park. Up and down goes my tongue like the pound on the foreign exchange market and the enraptured lady makes noises like Dean Martin’s mum hearing that Jerry Lewis has fallen down a well.
I continue until the withholding of proud Percy becomes something that should be outlawed by the Geneva Convention. Drawing myself up her body I surmount the barrier of the mighty knockers and receive the enraptured benediction of her lips. What more could she ask for and what less could I give her? Once again, my hampton with its uncanny sixth sense – or should I say, sexth sense? (No, you shouldn’t, Ed.) (All right. No need to be like that, T.L.) – has taken up position perfectly at the mouth of the love shaft and it only needs a quick flex of the knees to be in the honey. I drive forward and the lady’s hands clamp round my bum like bear traps. There is no chance of me nipping across the road for the racing results – not that it matters because the only hot tip I’ve had this afternoon is the kind you can’t put money on. Her snatch is not as tight as Scrooge but then it isn’t as soft as Bob Cratchit either. Well preserved for a lady who has steered her passage half way through life and is clearly only too happy to hand over the helm to me for a few minutes. I pull Percy out to the dimple in his dome and then wang him in until my bollocks jangle at the entrance to her snatch. Slow and regular – like Desert Island Discs. She clearly likes it not a little because the noise she is making makes me wonder if the cracks on the ceiling were there before we started. Then Valentina comes in.
Oh dear. You should see her face. Like Mr Callaghan studying the results of the latest by-elections – or bye-bye elections as far as the Socialists are concerned. She goes bananas. I thought her Mum was bad but she has improved on the routine. She starts whacking me on the back and trying to scratch Ma’s eyes out. Big Mamma uses me as a human barrier and the whole scene has a very unproductive effect on my love life. It is like trying to have it off during a log rolling contest. Such a shame as I was just beginning to warm to my work. Still, why should I jack it in because of this impulsive entry? Valentina had her golden moments without interruption. Why shouldn’t Mum? I hunch my shoulders and cling to the lady in question like I am Lester Piggott and she is odds on favourite for the four fifteen.
The way things are building up I reckon I could come into the straight before she does. Wwwhhhh! Steady, boy! Don’t get carried away. But it is no good. Pink Beauty is undoubtedly galloping towards an appointment with orgasm and I am just there for the ride. So, apparently, is Valentina. She jumps onto my back and starts belting me round the lugholes. Looks like it could be a photo finish because Big Mamma is making a noise like the death rattle of a King Cobra caught in a cocktail shaker – ‘and the winner, Big Mamma with Timothy Lea up’. I can hear Clive O’Sullivan – wait a minute! No I can’t. Clive O’Sullivan doesn’t shout up the stairs in Italian. It could be Katie Boyle but she is not a man. We are narrowing down the possibilities fast.
‘Pappa!!’ Yes, that seems likely – WHAT!!? Somebody’s Italian daddy arriving at a moment like this. How thoughtless and blooming typical. Pausing only to slim down to my escaping weight by the release of a few million sperm cells, I rise like the first stage of a moon rocket and send Valentina crashing off the back of the bed. I don’t mean to do it but her untoward behaviour did deserve redress – and talking about redressing – yes, the sooner I get some threads on and the window open, the better. I dive off the bed and start scrambling into these items that Big Mamma has not carved up. A pile of leaflets has flipped out of the cupboard and I read ‘Frascati Recipes – Secreto’ before sweeping the pages up with my jacket.
‘Thanks for having me,’ I say obligingly and head for the window.
Valentina is refusing to give back her mum’s knickers and the ladies are getting very heated. Best not to repeat my farewell but test the sash cords. I have got one leg over the sill when the door flies open and I cop a gander of a short, thick-set man with greasy black hair swept back from his mug. I catch a glimpse of a few gold teeth grinding together while he takes in the scene and then launch myself into space. I am wearing one sock and a pair of trousers and trying to hang onto everything else. Slumf! That is the noise of Timothy Lea landing up to his ankles in rain-sodden flowerbed. ‘Aaaarghouch!!’ That is the noise of Timothy Lea discovering that he has a piece of split cane stuck up his bum. Fancy the Frascatis bothering to tie up their petunias. I limp onto the lawn and head for the fence at the end of the garden. Behind me I can here screams and the sound of the window being forced wider open. I chuck my stuff over the fence and start to scramble after it.
‘Woof! Woof!’ Bugger! I should have looked before I chucked. There is a bloody great alsatian waiting like I am teatime. Bye, bye clothes. I jump down and turn to one side. ‘Boom!’ Just as well. A shotgun blasts a jagged hole out of the top of the fence. Blimey! Don’t say it’s the fifth of October already. I fly towards the fence on the left-hand side of the garden and immediately break the British pole vault record. This is tremendous news because I don’t even have a pole. Maybe our training methods are all wrong. I don’t have time to worry about it because another shot rings out and a burning sensation peppers my back bumpers. Murdering wop swine! Fancy wanting to commit murder just because you find someone in bed with your wife and daughter. Some people have no sense of proportion. I drag my maimed body over the fence and drop onto the rockery. Yes, the rockery. Fantastic, isn’t it? After all I have been through, some stupid herbert has to slap his rockery right up against the north-west corner of the mad wop’s garden. I hope the cabbage whites gnaw his cauliflowers down to the roots.

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