Confessions of a Milkman

Confessions of a Milkman
Timothy Lea

Fresh, creamy and delicious – the milkman who always asked whether they wanted it delivered in front or round back…Available for the first time on ebook, the classic sex comedy from the 70s.‘It’s terrible what you milkmen do to get business,’ she says, squirting another load of foaming suds into the bath. ‘You stop at nothing, do you?’I don’t answer her at once because it had never occurred to me that there was a business angle to what I am doing – or about to do. … There was I, feeling a bit guilty about being on the job when I should be on the job, and all the time I am on the job … with this happy thought bubbling through my mind I step forward briskly.Also Available in the Confessions… series:CONFESSIONS FROM A HOLIDAY CAMPCONFESSIONS OF AN ICE CREAM MANCONFESSIONS FROM THE CLINKand many more!

‘It’s terrible what you milkmen do to get business,’ she says, squirting another load of foaming suds into the bath. ‘You stop at nothing, do you?’

I don’t answer her at once because it had never occurred to me that there was a business angle to what I am doing – or about to do … There was I, feeling a bit guilty about being on the job when I should be on the job, and all the time I am on the job … with this happy thought bubbling through my mind I step forward briskly …

CONFESSIONS OF A MILKMAN

Timothy Lea

CONTENTS

Title Page (#uf9b8ecd1-03f0-5eaa-b3be-3e1c6aa129a2)

Introduction (#ua4438a4e-11c9-5135-99d1-ab0198d26019)

Chapter One (#u69f3bc49-44e4-5fd1-802e-d230ea2b8939)

In which Timmy has a disturbing dream sparked off by his new profession.

Chapter Two (#uc77c30ce-daf1-5938-8afa-24a96e48b874)

In which Timmy begins to get the hang of his new job under guidance of fellow milkman, Fred Glossop, and obliging customer, Mrs. Nyrene Gadney.

Chapter Three (#udd6916dc-3798-5f3c-9080-bb47cb39b0d0)

In which brother-in-law, Sidney Noggett, expresses an oblique interest in becoming a milkman.

Chapter Four (#u023d6276-c6af-593b-97b5-114aa902d225)

In which Timmy goes on a course and has his eyes opened by well-stacked instructoress, Betty Tromble.

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

In which Timmy gets to grips with Mrs. Farley who has got a bit behind – she has not been paying her bills either.

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

In which Timmy becomes involved with Sue Dangerfield of the Milk Marketing Board and a dissatisfied customer.

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

In which Sid gets an idea of how to make a bit on the side and Timmy’s girlfriend is got at.

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

In which Timmy is taken out of himself in unusual circumstances by a lady called Hermione.

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

In which Timmy becomes sucked into the vortex of the Balham Self Service Society and gets involved in an unusual competition.

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

In which Timmy is interrupted whilst getting to grips with a new customer.

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

In which Timmy and Sid take Daisy to the Festival of Milk.

Also Available in the Confessions Ebook Series (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

INTRODUCTION

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

CHAPTER ONE

What I can’t understand is why all the taps in the bath are shaped like Sid’s mug. I mean, if he was sticking over the side of a church with water pouring out of his cakehole like one of those gargoyles I would not be surprised – but a gold tap! If you are going to mess about with gold you want to do something nice with it, don’t you? Anyway, I haven’t got time to worry about that. Not with all the young maidens bearing pitchers of ass’s milk and emptying them into the bath – don’t ask me how I know it is ass’s milk. It just feels like it. Fresh from the ass too, I should reckon, because it is quite warm.

Some of these birds are fantastic. Naked to the waist – going downwards, of course – and slim as England’s chances in the next World Cup. They are of what you might call dusky hue and their knockers dangle temptingly like inverted foxgloves. I can imagine how they feel; soft and silky, satisfyingly full … Steady Lea! Control yourself.

The bath is beginning to fill up fast now – and not just with ass’s milk. The girls empty their pitchers and then get in the bath. I suppose it helps to raise the milk level but it does seem a bit unusual. Still the line of girls stretches back out beyond the marble pillars and disappears through the wrought-iron gates so there should be no shortage of supply. Those loin cloths are attractive. Simple and so easy to release. You just tug the knob at the waist and – ooh! That was a bit cheeky. Perhaps she tugged the wrong knob by mistake. But no! She’s done it again. What lovely eyes she has. And that smile. Revealing Teds as white as the milk that is now lapping round our navels. Her barnet is held in place by one of those little caps like they wear in Joe Lyons and, now I come to think of it, she is a dead ringer for the bird who sold me the Cornish pasty at dinner time. Still, she couldn’t be. How would she get from Joe Lyons to the Sultan’s harem in just a few hours? There was a swarthy geezer behind me in the queue but I only heard him ask for a couple of doughnuts – ooh! She’s done it again. This must be love. Either that or the bath is so full of crumpet that you can’t help bumping into it. And still the line of vase-carrying beauties stretches away into the distance. I suppose that is what they mean out here when they talk about ‘going to the pitchers’. Oh! Now there is another of them at it. It’s a good job that ass’s milk is not transparent otherwise it might be embarrassing. Aaarh. What a soft, beautiful mouth. It seems to have appeared from nowhere and is now browsing on my lips. Tingles run through my system and I feel myself growing, growing … blimey! Is that me? That huge tutti-frutti all rooty with the birds nibbling it like they are playing a giant flute? It cannot be true. Soaring out of the milk it is like a nuclear sub breaking through the icecap. And the sensations! And all those lovely girls pressed against me! Oh, it’s too much, it really is. I don’t think I’ll be able to hold on much – Wait a minute! Who’s the geezer with the scimitar and the baggy trousers? The turban with the cockade and the mean expression on his mug? Why is he wading through the milk towards me. ‘Sid!’ I shout the word but no sound comes out of my mouth. I try to move but the weight of birds on top of me makes it impossible. Only my enormous hampton trembles in the slipstream of Sid swinging back his sword. ‘No!!’ Again, not a sound. Sid’s features set in an evil smile and the muscles in his arms tighten. ‘You can’t!’ I am using every ounce of strength I possess but not moving an inch. It is as if I have been drugged, as if I am standing outside myself trying to get back in. ‘Whooosh!’ “Yaaaaaaargh! ! !” I am so relieved to hear the sound of my own voice shouting into the night that I nearly shout again. Night! A second wave of relief arrives almost simultaneously with the first. I have been dreaming. Clammy and half strangled by sheets, I shake myself free and listen to a distant train. 17, Scraggs Lane seems quiet as a grave – which it resembles in many ways. I wonder if I have woken Mum and Dad? Contrary to what one might think, Dad is a light sleeper. He gets so much kip at the lost property office where he works and in front of the telly that he is quite perky during the time the rest of the world gets its head down.