LITMIR.BIZ

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are lifted on to the shoulders of six Spanish waiters. In this manner it is intended to bear them down to the beach but our plans are nearly disrupted when some joker pulls down the grass skirt of one of the waiters, revealing that he is uncircumcised and a bloke who does not believe in lashing out on underwear. The waiter lets out a squeal of rage and releases his hold on the litter so that Miss D. and Sir Giles are nearly toppled from their perches and only saved by the prompt intervention of the crowd.

      This catastrophe averted, the procession gets under way and we march down to the beach with much cheering and shouting. Miss Dribble dismounts and is handed a torch with which to ceremonially ignite the barbecue pit. I should have realised that something was wrong when I smelt the petrol, but you know what it is like when you have had a few. I am as slow as anybody and we only wake up to the danger when the flames have soared to cliff height. Luckily, Maureen’s duties are nearly over so it does not matter too much about her eyebrows and eyelashes, and I personally think she looks much better without the fringe. Anyway it is a nasty moment and it is just as well that we have the Hawaiian punch standing by. I am a spot disturbed when the ladle we had left standing in it comes out steaming and without the spoon bit on the end, but, once again, it is too late to do anything about it because the customers are getting very thirsty.

      Frisky, too. Quite a few grass skirts are rustling without any help from the wind and when Ted turns the music on they start grappling with each other like they are trying to press transfers on to each other’s bodies. The whole thing is going even better than expected and I see Sir G. desperately looking round for someone to start rabbiting to.

      “O.K. darling,” I murmur to Carmen, who is panting for action beside me, “get out there and do your stuff. And remember, this could be your ticket to Hapstead Garden Suburb.” Without another word the Great Spanish Breasts plunge into the scrum of bodies and the next thing I see, Carmen has tucked her rose down the front of Sir G.’s grass skirt and is leading him on to the dance area. Who says romance is dead?

      Certainly not Nat and Nan. As the light from the barbecue pit flickers over their well-stacked bodies they begin to shed their garlands and caress their bodies to the music as if they are appearing in a new toilet soap commercial. Nat is first to strip to the Plimsoll line but then Nan loosens the band at her waist and the grass skirt flutters to the floor. Soon they are both completely starkers and swaying gently before each other with arms outstretched and fingers beckoning.

      “The goat is as tough as old boots,” says Ted, appearing beside me. “Hello! That’s a bit of alright, isn’t it?”

      Some people seem to think so because a couple of the Spanish waiters start to do their thing in front of the girls.

      “Hey, they’re for the paying customers,” says Ted. “How many times do we have to tell those bleeders?”

      “It doesn’t matter, Ted. Let them get on with it. It’ll help get things going.”

      Not half it won’t. The girls are beginning to shudder like a couple of three-ply shit house doors in a hurricane and their eager little fingers stretch out to explore the grasslands before them. Almost simultaneously the waiters’ skirts hit the deck and there are two naked couples gyrating before a responsive crowd.

      “Look!” I say. “Look at that!!” I refer to a bare-breasted Carmen leading Sir Giles away towards the rocks but there is no one there to hear me. Ted is being taken in tow by a bird I have never seen before and who I imagine must come from the new intake. It doesn’t take them long to get the idea when you give them a little guidance, does it?

      In no time at all I am alone with the music, the spluttering fire and a beach full of shadowy objects which might just be large turtles with a dose of hiccups.

      “Hello there.”

      Well, almost alone. It is Judy, the girl who helped to make me a fish hater.

      “Hi,” I say. “Having a good time?”

      “It could be better,” she says wistfully. I prick up my ears.

      “Has your old man gone fishing again?”

      “No, I don’t know where he is. Out there on the beach, I expect. There’s been no holding him since that afternoon.”

      “Amazing. Can I get you a drink?”

      “No. I feel tiddly enough as it is.”

      So do I, actually. I also feel that Judy has appeared as a reward for all the good work I have done lately: happy holidaymakers, satisfied Sir Giles. Now it’s time for Timmy to have a little fun.

      “You’re looking gorgeous,” I murmur.

      “I hoped you’d say that.”

      “That perfume you’re wearing. Marvellous!”

      “I’m not wearing any.”

      “It must be you, then. Even better.”

      “You say fantastic things.”

      I do, don’t I? Oh well, you’ve either got it or you haven’t. For those who haven’t: tough. Very tough.

      “It’s easy when there’s someone like you about.”

      I slide my hands inside the grass skirt and the naughty girl isn’t wearing any knicks. Some of them really ask for trouble, don’t they?

      “Don’t you find this scratches?” I murmur.

      “It wouldn’t if you cut your fingernails.”

      “I didn’t mean that. I meant—oh, it doesn’t matter. Let’s go and make love.”

      “Let’s.”

      Feeling good like a Timmy Lea should I lead her towards the rocks and a patch of sand which has not been claimed by other Funfrall clients. We kiss again and she slides out of my arms and stretches full length on the beach.

      “Take me,” she says.

      I am glad she has got over her inhibitions and I drop on my hands and knees to show her how I feel about it. The lower part of her body flexes temptingly and I part the curtain of grass at her waist and lower my friendly mouth—

      “Ouch!” she screams.

      “I haven’t touched you yet.”

      “Something burned me.”

      “It must be some sparks from the barbecue.”

      “Ouch! There’s another one. Look!!”

      I look up and see what she is on about. A cloud of sparks drifting down from the cliff top and a great glow illuminating the sky beyond.

      “Christ! The camp must be on fire.”

      “Fire! Fire!” hollers Judy, springing to her feet. “Help! Fire! Help! Help!”

      All around us couples start breaking up like horses getting to their knees but I don’t stop to watch. I lead the rush to the cliff path and find myself shoulder to shoulder with Sid.

      “Have you seen Dad?”

      “I haven’t seen anybody!”

      “Jesus Christ!”

      We sprint to the top of the rocks and before us the whole centre of the island seems to be ablaze. Flames are leapfrogging from hut to hut and clouds of burning thatch are being snatched away by the night breeze.

      I rush forward, putting together a jigsaw puzzle of Dad with every step. I remember all the little acts of human kindness which characterised the man: the time he gave me his old tobacco tin to keep my earwigs in, the space helmet he brought me back from the Lost Property Office – of course it was a gold fish bowl, but Dad believed in teaching a kid to be imaginative.

      Suddenly, he is there before me; an unforgettable figure in his Steptoe-issue long underpants and blackened face.

      “Dad, Dad,” I scream. “Are you alright?”

      “No

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