A Singular man – part 2

Somewhere buried in the primeval recesses of the female mind lurks the feeling that a female interloper, or indeed any interloper, and it doesn’t matter what kind unless it is four-legged or over four score years and ten, is likely to be on the prowl.
A few days lounging round the pool, a few days and nights sipping a glutinous concoction of strange alcoholic drinks and strange things happen to the libido of even the most placid of husbands. And so the wife dare not speak to the lone female, in case it stirs her 'usually docile' husband into flirtation mode and the husband daren't speak in case his wife thinks it.
Was it not Noel Coward, who so vividly described the midday sun and Englishmen?
Strangely enough this barrier doesn't apply to men travelling on their own. A spare man is like manna from heaven. Wives welcome them in with open arms, an added element of excitement, a hint of spice in an otherwise boring meal. And the husband? They are pretty well acquainted with their wife's libido after thirty years of marriage, and are not the slightest bit bothered by a harmless flirtation. In any case, after three days round the pool they are in desperate need to chat to someone about football or fishing.      The following morning, once again armed with a determination to make this holiday something other than bloody awful, I attend the travel rep's welcome meeting, where the rest of yesterday's intake are gathered. A pathetic sight, no wonder the rep plies us with drink. Most you will never see again, except on the coach taking you back to the airport. Instantly forgettable with white legs and arms, new holidays clothes, wearing their 'easily pleased' antenna, they are busily signing up for every excursion going. There are also the obligatory complainers, severe-looking couples who are determined to make their displeasure felt to anyone that will listen, because thus far the holiday does not resemble the brochure in the slightest;
And of course a trio of men travelling alone.The youngest of the trio is very young, very pale, very serious, with glasses and long, neatly pressed grey shorts. There is no way he can attract covetous glances from the opposite sex. The best he can aim for is to awaken long-dormant maternal feelings in the bosom of some of the more elderly ladies scattered round the pool.
The second man is overly large with flamboyant patchwork shorts, his shirt failing in its attempt to restrain the metre of flesh that protrudes windward. And it takes no time at all for him to tell all those unfortunate enough to be within range, that he is here to lose weight. He could be okay. He knows about football.
 … And then there is Alan.     It is impossible to decide what hits you first. The chin? Spiked with greying stubble, it protrudes way beyond the rest of his face. Or the electric blue Lycra shorts and shirt, presided over by a black cap? The garments identify him as a dropout from the Tour de France and he is carrying a fold-up bicycle to boot. Thankfully (but tragically for him) this has been damaged in transit and is being reported to the holiday rep. He is also somewhat bent  with a serious chest deformity, on which your gaze immediately becomes fixated; a misshapen bulge pushes out the skin-tight Lycra shirt, running from waist to shoulder. It's almost as if the surgeon, treating him for a hunched back, effectively cured it by popping the bulge to the anterior with a sledgehammer ...