Confessions from the Shop Floor

Confessions from the Shop Floor
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You get a bit more bounce than you bargained for in this bed shop!Another exclusive ebook reissue of the bestselling 70s sex comedy series.Timmy and Sid can’t go wrong at the bed shop, surely? It seems a nice, soft option!But that is before they factor in the Rightberk brothers who run the firm, Professor Nuttibarm, who designs the beds, and all of the ladies – Jean from the bed-testing center, the Russian Bed Union Comrade Nitya Pullova, and all those ladies desperate for a new bed to help with their sleepless nights…Also Available in the Confessions… series:CONFESSIONS OF A WINDOW CLEANERCONFESSIONS OF A LONG DISTANCE LORRY DRIVERCONFESSIONS OF A TRAVELLING SALESMAN


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Confessions from the Shop Floor



Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Also available in the CONFESSIONS series

About the Author

Also by Timothy Lea & Rosie Dixon


About the Publisher

‘I’ve answered this advertisement in TheTimes,” says Sid.

‘TheTimes?’ A note of surprise enters my voice. My brother-in-law is not exactly what you might call a typical Times reader. He tends to find ExchangeandMart a bit highbrow.

‘Oh yes, Timmo. It’s a very good paper. Excellent foreign section, very sound on the arts — and it takes 10p worth of chips, no trouble.’

I might have guessed. Sid does all his reading off the magazines Mum cuts up to put in the toilet, or what he finds down at the doctor’s when he is trying to get a medical certificate.

‘So what was it about, Sid?’

‘Some geezer wanting capital to extend a profitable business venture.’ Sid takes a reflective sip at his pint and my blood runs cold. Sid’s business brain works with the remorseless speed of a blue glacier and his eye for a good thing is matched only by a rabbit trying to have it away with a bacon slicer. He reads my expression. ‘It can’t do any harm to have a look, can it? I mean, if it’s in TheTimes it must be all right.’

‘It doesn’t mean it’s all right,’ I say. ‘It just means it doesn’t read dirty. They don’t check everything.’

Frankly, I am amazed that Sid still has any money left. I believe he did all right out of the insurance when Beauty Manor burned down — you read all about that in ConfessionsfromaHealthFarm, didn’t you? — but he doesn’t talk about it a lot. Frankly, I am not surprised. Sid’s relationship with Sir Henry Baulkit and Wanda Zonker was confusing and probably very unhealthy and I think that when Wanda disappeared Sir Henry was only too glad to lash out a hefty slice of the insurance money to keep Sid’s mouth shut.

‘What does this bloke do?’ I say.

‘He makes beds,’ says Sid.

‘Domestic help?’ I say. ‘You don’t want to get mixed up in that, Sid. You’ll end up with water on the knee. That’s women’s work.’

‘Manufacturing beds, you berk!’ rasps Sid. ‘Not farting about with hospital corners. Gordon Bennett! Can you see me as a housemaid?’

‘Roll your trousers up and I’ll tell you.’

‘Get stuffed!’ Sid knocks back his drink and shoves the glass towards me agressively. ‘It’s your turn to get them in. I’m not made of money, you know.’

‘Everybody knows that,’ I tell him. ‘They call you Mr Abstinence because you never go for a p.’

‘Piss off!’ Sid always descends to coarseness in the face of superior word power and I take our glasses to the bar and wonder what harebrained scheme he can be considering. The more half-witted it is, the more likelihood there is of Sid parting with some mazuma. I remember Hulapog — the game where you hurled surplus pogo sticks through unwanted hula hoops. He sold four sets. Still, beds doesn’t sound too outlandish. Lots of my best friends have beds. I have passed many a happy hour on them myself. Many people actually sleep on them. Could it be that Sid has actually found a product with a future? I am not sorry to be getting the beers in because — apart from the fact that I am one of nature’s givers — they have a new bird behind the bar who is quite an eyeful. She is of the tinted variety and though not as dark hued as Matilda Ngobla — whose dusky loins I once decorated — she is considerably browner than most brands of toothpaste. She has a lovely pair of top bollocks — slung like cannon balls waiting to be bunged into the breach — and a dark red mouth that makes me think of the texture of rose petals — you can tell I haven’t had my end away for a couple of weeks, can’t you?

‘What is your pleasure?’ she says.

This is the kind of question that can get a few funny answers even though the Highwayman does cater for a nicer class of person these days. Because I think I might get a bit further with a sophisticated approach I resist the easy descent into roguish raillerie and suggest that the consumption of another couple of pints from the wood might go some way towards satisfying my desires.

‘Not many people about,’ I say, gazing down the front of her dress as if I expect to find a pair of feet sticking out from between her knockers.

‘It’s always quiet on a Monday.’

‘I haven’t seen you in here before, have I?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not your eyes.’ While I think about that, she pushes the pints towards me with short jabs of her fingers and gazes into my minces. ‘I help out sometimes when Gladys wants a night off. We probably haven’t overlapped.’ She smiles when she says it like the word ‘overlapped’ means to her what it means to me. ‘32p, please.’

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