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The Confessions Collection
Timothy Lea
Rosie Dixon
The complete Timothy Lea and Rosie Dixon confessions from the CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.Save over £30 on the individual purchase RRPContains:Timothy Lea’s Complete ConfessionsCONFESSIONS OF A WINDOW CLEANERCONFESSIONS OF A DRIVING INSTRUCTORCONFESSIONS FROM A HOLIDAY CAMPCONFESSIONS FROM A HOTELCONFESSIONS OF A TRAVELLING SALESMANCONFESSIONS OF A FILM EXTRACONFESSIONS FROM THE CLINKCONFESSIONS FROM A HEALTH FARMCONFESSIONS OF A PRIVATE SOLDIERCONFESSIONS OF A POP STARCONFESSIONS FROM THE SHOP FLOORCONFESSIONS OF A LONG DISTANCE LORRY DRIVERCONFESSIONS OF A PLUMBER’S MATECONFESSIONS OF A PRIVATE DICKCONFESSIONS FROM A LUXURY LINERCONFESSIONS OF A MILKMANCONFESSIONS FROM A NUDIST COLONYCONFESSIONS OF AN ICE CREAM MANCONFESSIONS FROM A HAUNTED HOUSEAnd Rosie Dixon’s Complete ConfessionsCONFESSIONS OF A NIGHT NURSECONFESSIONS OF A GYM MISTRESSCONFESSIONS FROM AN ESCORT AGENCYCONFESSIONS OF A LADY COURIERCONFESSIONS FROM A PACKAGE TOURCONFESSIONS OF A PHYSICAL WRACCONFESSIONS OF A BABYSITTERCONFESSIONS OF A PERSONAL SECRETARY
The Confessions Collection
by Timothy Lea and Rosie Dixon
CONTENTS
Title Page (#u7015a218-f9fc-587e-ab56-ac1db8c357ba)
Publisher’s Note
Introduction
Confessions of a Window Cleaner (#ub66d277d-8996-5bfb-bfb3-f5235450e9aa)
Confessions of a Driving Instructor (#uba5c4f07-4732-5299-8387-1a626994c699)
Confessions from a Holiday Camp (#ub4ab19b4-82b5-5d55-8985-658f2cbb2822)
Confessions from a Hotel (#u03a3f7f6-8e46-5c38-ad15-61adef108567)
Confessions of a Travelling salesman (#ucf2c8fde-5a89-5c22-b920-dbf6d4c5f6e1)
Confessions of a Film Extra (#ub84f042e-b799-5879-b530-1e35e5f0cf69)
Confessions from the Clink (#ufe9880d5-69f0-560c-98e5-b9a300ca49f2)
Confessions from a Health Farm (#ude63f882-900d-5c42-b4e8-e6aa61d78c09)
Confessions of a Private Soldier (#ua9cb1c79-1adf-52de-85d5-6939a1bf62b1)
Confessions of a Pop Star (#u5f3807bf-4d79-51f8-a877-f849ac654613)
Confessions from the Shop Floor (#ua781469b-3384-5911-bfdf-bcd016716b37)
Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver (#udea1f24d-9f8d-5817-8204-dc3ee2631fa1)
Confessions of a Plumber’s Mate (#ueda31370-5aab-5eec-b37c-4fd02aab5eb8)
Confessions of a Private Dick (#ude9819ea-5005-5ad9-b16d-6813feab1993)
Confessions from a Luxury Liner (#u6e379ec4-a530-53d2-97e4-d67939f0dac1)
Confessions of a Milkman (#ub15d5c65-9098-5542-945b-f1cb3a55ab90)
Confessions from a Nudist Colony (#u60ce2608-e55d-5a33-8628-6a61d60dc832)
Confessions of an Ice Cream Man (#uac6c9f05-744a-5151-9171-c83020ff13b1)
Confessions from a Haunted House (#u1c937981-0d0b-5418-b395-39b107872127)
Confessions of a Night Nurse (#uedf432ae-46f6-5bdb-9529-a383c08cae0c)
Confessions of a Gym Mistress (#u7425033c-7bab-5e23-ac8c-4ad71cde30fb)
Confessions from an Escort Agency (#u11fc5b09-a8fc-5279-83e4-263709b27564)
Confessions of a Lady Courier (#udc17ba4c-42fb-513a-8802-f1cbdc509035)
Confessions from a Package Tour (#u16c0478d-3f8e-58cb-9fef-88fc604e1c22)
Confessions of a Physical WRAC (#u98290aa5-25d7-5479-b543-50a97f57146c)
Confessions of a Babysitter (#u33270ec5-7869-550d-8727-ede18fedd015)
Confessions of a Personal Secretary (#uf96232c3-ef6c-5ff4-8fc1-90d708ded0b8)
About the Author (#u08089b83-5b2c-5d33-ad0d-e50be78c3985)
Copyright (#u02e43303-83c9-564d-92fe-0dc3fba29c56)
About the Publisher
Publisher’s Note (#ude04bd37-124b-5a00-95b0-0d476dcdfb14)
The Confessions series of novels were written in the 1970s and some of the content may not be as politically correct as we might expect of material written today. We have, however, published these ebook editions without any changes to preserve the integrity of the original books. These are word for word how they first appeared.
INTRODUCTION (#ude04bd37-124b-5a00-95b0-0d476dcdfb14)
How did it all start?
When I was young and in want of cash (which was all the time) I used to trudge round to the local labour exchange during holidays from school and university to sign on for any job that was going – mason’s mate, loader for Speedy Prompt Delivery, part-time postman, etc.
During our tea and fag breaks (‘Have a go and have a blow’ was the motto) my fellow workers would regale me with stories of the Second World War: ‘Very clean people, the Germans’, or of throwing Irishmen through pub windows (men who had apparently crossed the Irish sea in hard times and were prepared to work for less than the locals). This was interesting, but what really stuck in my mind were the recurring stories of the ‘mate’ or the ‘brother-in-law’. The stories about these men (rarely about the speaker himself) were about being seduced, to put it genteelly, whilst on the job by (it always seemed to be) ‘a posh bird’:
‘Oeu-euh. Would you care for a cup of tea?’
‘And he was up her like a rat up a drainpipe’
These stories were prolific. Even one of the – to my eyes – singularly uncharismatic workers had apparently been invited to indulge in carnal capers after a glass of lemonade one hot summer afternoon near Guildford.
Of course, these stories could all have been make-believe or urban myth, but I couldn’t help thinking, with all this repetition, surely there must be something in them?
When writing the series, it seemed unrealistic and undemocratic that Timmy’s naive charms should only appeal to upper class women, so I quickly widened his demographic and put him in situations where any attractive member of the fairer sex might cross his path.
The books were always fun to write and never more so than when they involved Timmy’s family: his Mum, his Dad (prone to nicking weird objects from the lost property office where he worked), his sister Rosie and, perhaps most importantly, his conniving, would be entrepreneur, brother-in-law Sidney Noggett. Sidney was Timmy’s eminence greasy, a disciple of Thatcherism before it had been invented.
Whatever the truth concerning Timothy Lea’s origins, twenty-seven ‘Confessions’ books and four movies suggest that an awful lot of people share my fascination with the character and his adventures. I am grateful to each and every one of them.
Christopher Wood aka Timothy Lea
Confessions of a Window Cleaner
BY TIMOTHY LEA
CONTENTS
Title Page (#ucfb5f372-ae64-5e2f-99b4-27fda2e20de9)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ONE (#ue44d0578-73ec-52f9-b849-19b18e055cfb)
The window cleaning lark first begins to appeal to me one evening when I am up at the pub with my brother-in-law. It is on Clapham Common and we are sitting on a bench outside, watching the sun go down and this big bird with the white silk blouse on. It is a bit small – the blouse I mean – and rides up from her waist so you can see her two tone flesh and the top of her knickers.
She has been in the sun, that is for sure. She has dyed hair, too much lipstick and a diabolical eyebrow pencil beauty spot that dates her a bit, but if she is going down hill I can think of a few blokes who wouldn’t mind waiting for her at the bottom – me included.
“Sup up,” says Sid. “You’re supposed to drink it, not pour it all over your balls. You’re right out of practice, aren’t you?”
I nod and correct the angle of my glass. Sid is right. I am straight out of reform school, ‘for the holidays’, my poxy father says, and there haven’t been a lot of opportunities for elbow bending – or lapping up birds like Silk Blouse. She has a black bra underneath it which I think is a bit of a liberty. Sid looks at her as if it is an effort to keep from yawning. “I’ve had her,” he says, switching his gaze to his finger nails. Very neat they are, too. Say what you like about Sid – and most people say plenty – but he keeps himself in good nick.
“Oh yes,” I say. “You and who else?”
“I don’t know about that, do I?” he says. “But I know I have. Why, don’t you believe me?”
“If you want to put it like that – no?” I say. I mean, she is with two blokes who look sharp as tin tacks and have a white Jag to prove it. I can’t see our Sidney with her legs up against the dashboard of his mini van.
“Hang on,” he says. “I’ll show you.”
Before I can say anything he picks up my glass and slides off towards the bar. The bird hasn’t noticed him up till then, but when she does I begin to believe Sid might be right. She half smiles and shoots a quick glance at one of the blokes she’s with. You can see she doesn’t quite know what to do. Sid is a gent because he nods to her ever so politely like she was his Sunday school teacher and carries right on into the pub. I can’t help it, I’m impressed. Seeing Sid must have done something to her, for her fag goes out and she starts tugging her blouse down and smiling slightly out of time with the conversation she’s supposed to be part of; as if there’s something on her mind. I look at Sid through new eyes when he comes out of the pub. He’s quite a good-looking fellow, I suppose. Not tall, but with very broad shoulders and narrow hips. Looks a bit like one of those poufdah ballet dancers you see on the telly before you turn over to the wrestling. I know my sister thinks his arsehole plays ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ every time he farts.
“Try and keep this one inside you,” he says, handing me a pint. “You look as if you’ve pissed yourself. I’m ashamed to be seen with you.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, kneading in every wave – Sid has lovely hair, even my mum remarks on it – and gives Silk Blouse a big smile as she glances at him. She blushes and turns away double quick. Sid shakes his head and stares out over the common towards the pond where the kids and the middle-aged wankers sail their model boats. It’s as if he doesn’t want to be the cause of any embarrassment to her. Very thoughtful.
“Well?” he says. “You saw that?”
“Yes,” I say. “She looked pretty twitched up. Who are those blokes she’s with?”
“I don’t know. Her husband travels, I believe. I expect she gets a bit lonely in the evenings.”
“How did you meet her?”
“On the job, how else?”
“What, window cleaning?”
“I haven’t got any other jobs, have I?”
I’m registering surprise because Sid and Rosie, my sister, have been married for three months and Rosie is already great, too great if you ask my mother, with child, which everybody in the family, and even a few of the neighbours, are prepared to accept as Sid’s. What’s more, Sid has only been cleaning windows since they came back from their honeymoon, which is what they called the weekend they spent at Brighton where one of Sid’s friends was supposed to have a boarding house. In fact, they never found a trace of the friend and spent two nights trying to sleep rough at Butlins before they were thrown out. I missed the wedding because I was being reformed at the time and heard all about it, and the honeymoon, from Rosie, who could not be accused of exaggeration because she was bonkers about Sid and would burst into tears every time Dad said he was a ponce.
“What about my sister?” I say, feeling I’d better show a bit of family loyalty.
“She’s getting all she can handle,” says Sid. “You haven’t heard her complaining, have you?”
This is true. I’ve heard my old man complaining about the row they make but not a squeak out of Rosie. In fact, Rosie doesn’t make much noise of any kind. This evening we’ve left her at home in front of the telly, knitting some woolly horror for ‘her Sid’ and I know she’ll be in exactly the same position when we get back, with her head jutting towards the screen and just a few more rows of puce to show for it. She and Sid have been living with us since the wedding and show every sign of continuing to do so until they find ‘the right place’ as Sid puts it. Dad says that Sid’s idea of the right place is the one he seems to be finding every night and he can hardly expect his daughter to be a contortionist as well as a wife. Mum tells him not to be dirty, though she doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about. She just knows Dad.
“Anyhow, I’m doing it for her, aren’t I?”
I give him my ‘pull the other one’ look.
“Oh, you can act all disapproving, but you’ve no idea what it’s like. I’m trying to build up a business, aren’t I? Half of these birds don’t just want their windows cleaned. You say no dice and they swear blind you did it anyway. I’ve been told that. Straight up, I have. One terrible old bag, she blackmailed me, said if I didn’t give her what she wanted, she’d start screaming the place down. What could I do? You soon get the message. Put yourself in my position.”
I steal a quick glance at Silk Blouse and wish I could.
“You want to keep them happy, don’t you, because you want the work; and you’re only human, aren’t you? When a bit of stuff like that starts offering to squeeze out your chamois, you don’t start retracting your ladder, do you?”
“I suppose not,” I say. “But is it really like that? I mean, you hear all those stories about milkmen, but I never believe half of it.”
“I don’t know about milkmen,” says Sid. “But you wouldn’t coco some of the things that have happened to me, and I haven’t been in the business four months. I won’t start to tell you, because you wouldn’t credit it. I think maybe it’s because you look more athletic cleaning windows. You might laugh but sometimes I feel I’m almost hypnotising them when I sweep the old squeegee backwards and forwards. I always wear a T shirt or white nylon – that’s favourite because when it gets wet they can see your nipples. Press up against the window and give ’em a smile occasionally. You can see their hands shaking as they put the kettle on.”
“So that bird isn’t the only one?” I say slowly.
“God, no. It’s a bad week in which I don’t get half a dozen solid offers – and that’s new business, not my old customers.”
