Confessions from a Luxury Liner

‘That’s right,’ says Greasebonce. ‘Now, how many couples on the floor are married?’ Half a dozen hands go up. ‘You’re out! You’ve got your prize already. Carry on dancing.’

‘Why are you just standing there?’ says Natalie.

‘Everybody is looking at me,’ I say. ‘I’m making a fool of myself. Let’s get off.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she says. ‘We could win a prize. I’ll lead. You follow me.’

I do not think that I have ever felt a bigger berk in my life than in the few minutes that I stumble round that floor. Natalie is trying to do the whole ‘Come Dancing’ bit and I am more flushed than the toilet in a prune tasters’ commune. I wish the floor would open and swallow me up. Why won’t the music stop? Why—? Boum-ting!

‘Oh! It’s exciting, isn’t it! What shall we do now?’ Greasebonce pretends not to hear when one of the band tells him. ‘Right! Who’s got a birthday in November?’

‘I have,’ I say.

‘Ssh!’ says Natalie. ‘He’ll have us off.’

‘Me, me!’ I shout. I am practically jumping up and down.

‘Anybody else?’ There is a long pause and then another geezer sticks his mitt in the air.

‘Right! We’ve got our finalists. Everybody else off the floor, please.’

‘Oh my gawd!’ I close my eyes.

‘Smashing! You are clever.’ When I open them again, Natalie is looking at me with something approaching admiration.

‘It’s nothing,’ I say. ‘I get involved in a lot of road accidents as well.’

To my horror, I see that Greasebonce is approaching us with a couple of balloons in his mitt. ‘Right!’ he chortles. ‘One of these on each of your heels. The first couple to burst both the other couple’s balloons is the winner.’

‘I can’t stand it!’ I whimper.

‘Don’t be like that,’ says Natalie. ‘You’ve been stamping on my feet all evening. Surely a couple of balloons won’t give you any trouble?’

‘Couldn’t they just shoot me?’ I say.

‘Finalists at opposite ends of the ballroom, please.’

‘Good luck, Natalie!’ Gloria is grinning like an oval xylophone and next to her I see Sid bury his face in his hands and start shaking his head. I feel like a prisoner dragging an iron ball as I trudge down to the band rostrum. If it was near one of the exit doors I would make a break for it.

‘When you’re ready, maestro.’ Greasebonce turns to Ted Bennett – him of ‘Ted Bennett and the Bennettmen’ – and Ted stops picking his nose with his baton and wipes it under his armpit – his baton, not his hooter. Everybody is cheering and shouting and I wish I could feel the adrenalin running through my blood – come to that, I wish I could feel my blood running through anything. ‘Ready, steady, dance!’

‘Right,’ says Natalie, very firm and determined. ‘Keep cool. Left foot back. One, two, three. One, two, BANG!

I have only stood on my own balloon, haven’t I? A roar of laughter goes up and something inside me snaps. A Lea can only take so much. If these herberts want to take the piss then I will give them something they can really get their teeth into. Fed up with trying to dance, I grab Natalie and charge towards the other couple who are gliding towards us like they are on roller skates. I see the bloke’s eyes widen in terror but it is too late for him to take defensive action. He is locked into a complicated spin turn and at my mercy. I am not quite certain what I intend to do with the lovely creature in my arms but, as so often happens with me, fate takes the decision. I get my feet wrapped round the balloon string and pitch forward so that I throw Natalie on the floor. There are two bangs almost simultaneously and a roar from the crowd. When I prize my hooter off the boards it is to find that both the opposition balloons have been burst and that ours is still intact. The other couple are hopping mad and Greasebonce is clearly undecided what to do. Fortunately, Sid makes an opportune appearance.

‘Great dancing, Timmy,’ he says. ‘That last stem Christie was really something. You’ll soon be on to parallels.’

‘Dancing!’ says the beaten finalist in a voice that sounds as if someone has opened an umbrella down his throat. ‘He can’t dance a step! He threw his partner at us.’

‘That’s his ballet training,’ says Sid. ‘You reveal your ignorance when you talk like that. The Russians have been after him for years.’

‘Rubbish!’ says the bloke.

‘Careful, Dame Margot!’ says Sid. ‘If you don’t learn to be a good loser my boot will be doing a double reverse spin turn up your khyber!’

‘That’s nice!’ says the bloke. ‘That’s very nice.’

‘I was afraid you’d think so,’ says Sid. ‘Tell me, are those white streaks in your hair natural or do you keep pigeons?’

‘I don’t know quite what to do,’ says Greasebonce.

‘I’d declare him the winner,’ says Sid, pointing at me. ‘It would be nasty if violence broke out and the hall was wrecked. I happened to be here the last time there was a spot of bother and I remember how unpleasant it was. It took months to get the place operational again – and, talking about operations, I’m trying to remember how many stitches the MC had—’

‘The winners, ladies and gentlemen! Let’s give them a big hand.’ Greasebonce snatches up my mitt like he is scared it might blow away and raises it aloft with Natalie’s. There is a roar from the crowd and a louder roar from the bloke we were dancing against. Sid has just stood on his instep.

‘Here, blow your nose on this,’ says my brother-in-law, wrenching the silk rose from his partner’s dress so that her knockers bounce out like they have been rung up on a till.

‘Ooh, how wonderful!’ squeals Natalie. She clings to my arm and only breaks away long enough to hug Gloria. Sid catches my eye and winks. ‘Nice going, Timmo,’ he says. ‘We’ll be in like Flynn after this lot.’

‘But when are we going to talk to them about getting on a boat?’ I say.

‘There’s plenty of time for that,’ says Sid. ‘The night is young. Go and collect your prize.’

Natalie is thrilled out of her teeny mind because she cops a wicker basket full of picnic stuff and I am not exactly choked to receive a blooming great bottle of champagne. We even get our photograph taken by a bloke from the Sentinel. It is practically film-star treatment by SW12 standards.

‘Ooh, I can’t wait to get it home and look at it properly,’ coos Natalie, hugging her basket. ‘The knives have got bone handles.’

‘Fabulous,’ breathes Sid. ‘We’ll be able to christen the beakers with Timmy’s champagne.’

‘Oh yeah,’ says Natalie, looking at Gloria.

‘Yes,’ says Gloria. They look at each other like their minds are keeping pace with Sid’s and I have the feeling that we may be on the verge of a nooky feast. Certainly both birds seem to be much more attuned to my magnetism since I revealed my terpsichorean talent (it’s all right, you can’t get arrested for it).

‘Is it all right if we go to your place?’ says Gloria.

‘Yes,’ says Natalie. ‘I’ve got enough Nescafé.’

‘Nescafé?’ says Sid. ‘You just give us the goblets.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ says Natalie, coming on like Mary Whitehouse finding that someone has dropped the bog paper down the Karsi.

‘I said, give us the goblets,’ says Sid. ‘Honestly, girls, you do jump to conclusions.’

‘You live alone, do you?’ I say as I snuggle down with Natalie in the back of Sid’s Rover.

‘I do when my husband is away,’ says the lovely creature.

‘Is he at sea, as well?’ I ask.