LITMIR.BIZ

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direct to Mr. Francis. I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t.”

      Marvellous, isn’t it? Twelve hours, two fucks and I am out of a job again.

      “Listen,” I whine, “you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Look. You can see where I was checking the plug.”

      I snatch up the dismembered plug triumphantly and suddenly find that slugnipples is standing very close to me.

      “Of course,” she says, plonking down her Ajax on the bedside table, “he doesn’t have to know.”

      Oh, no! I think. “After all, we’re only human, aren’t we?” Her fingers play with the buttons on the front of my shirt. “A little bit of what you fancy doesn’t do you any harm.” She looks up into my eyes. “I can keep a secret …” My arms obediently steal round her body and she sighs as our mouths meet. “I don’t want to get anybody into trouble.”

      Not much chance of that happening very often, madam, I think to myself as I ease my shoes off. Honestly, I have half a mind to tell her to piss off and go and tell Francis anything she likes, but one has to do one’s bit to help keep the unemployment figures down, doesn’t one?

       CHAPTER FOUR

      “Do you like kids?” says Ted.

      “Not particularly,” says I.

      “Just as well,” says Ted. “We had a bloke once that did – you probably read about it in the papers.”

      It is a few days after my little chalet party and by running like a bloody greyhound every time a bird comes near me I have steered clear of the dreaded ‘hanky panky’. Neither Janet nor Avril has made a direct assault on my person and I am learning that it is quantity, not quality that counts in this place. The more Holiday Hosts a bird lays the happier she is. The way some of them come at you, you would think the old bloke who stokes the boiler would be safer with a padlock on his flies. And it is not only the paying customers who have a case of the galloping hots. Most of the chalet maids make the beds from the inside.

      “Get over to the Nipperdrome and give Sam a hand for a couple of hours,” says Ted. The Nipperdrome is where the Funfrall nippers enact a grisly replica of their parents’ games and competitions and is full of screaming kids who would sharpen a used razor blade on your throat if they could be bothered to dig it out of the toe of their bother boots.

      “Then you can supervise the quarter finals of the croquet competition.”

      “But I don’t know anything about croquet.”

      “That doesn’t matter. Just stop them using the mallets on each other. We’ve had to replace a lot of equipment lately. Then there’s the archery. That can be very ticklish. At the first sign of them not using the targets – finito! Some lunatic shot Francis’s cat once; wanted to take it home and stuff it. Can you imagine? Our leader did his tiny nut. If you’ve got any time before trough-bashing you can potter round to the roller-skating rink. Things can get a bit out of hand down there, too.”

      “Why don’t we just issue them with machine guns and let them got on with it—”

      “Now, now, don’t be like that. You direct your energies to sapping theirs and keep a smile glued on your mug. That’s what you’re paid for. Oh, and by the way, it’s the Holiday Queen contest tonight and we’ve only had six entries. Take a handful of entry forms and dish them out to any half-decent bird you see. If we’re stuck with the bunch of stumers we’ve got at the moment, we might as well turn it into a nobbly knees contest. If it’s any inducement, you can sit on the judging panel.”

      So off I trip to the Nipperdrome where Uncle Sam is surrounded by kids blowing up balloons as their contribution to the coming evening’s gaiety. Uncle Sam is a character, which means he is the only Host on the camp who does not smile all the time. In fact, he never smiles. His relationship with the children is based on mutual loathing and seems to work as effectively as any other around the place.

      “Don’t do that, son,” he snarls at one of his charges. “It’s not nice, and it’s not good for you. And you, I’ve told you once. Blow them up!! You’ll do yourself an injury messing about like that. Hello, Timmy. What have you done wrong to be sent to this penal settlement?”

      “Nothing that I know of. Ted told me to breeze down and give you a hand.”

      My attention has been seized by a tall bird, wearing slacks and dark glasses who is standing by one of the kids’ roundabouts. She is also sporting a bikini top and this reveals an outstanding pair of knockers well worthy of a place in the “Holiday Queen” contest.

      “Why don’t you take some of these kids off and organise a football match. You’d like that, wouldn’t you boys?”

      There is a chorus of enthusiastic “yes’s” and one equally loud raspberry from a child with a complexion that resembles the before part of an acne advertisement.

      “Get those balloons out of your pullover!” hisses Uncle Sam. “Hold the fort for a minute, Timmy. I’m just nipping into the office for a quick snifter. I can see it’s going to be one of those days.”

      Ten minutes later two teams of tiny tearaways are kicking the stuffing out of each other and I can wander over to the bird by the roundabout.

      “Hello there,” I smile warmly, “I expect you’ve heard about the Holiday Queen contest tonight. I wonder if you’ve had time to fill in an entry form.”

      “What, me?” She seems genuinely surprised. “I’ve got three kids.”

      “Never! I thought you were looking after your kid sisters.” O.K. so it’s pretty corny but have you ever known a married woman unpleasured by such a remark? “Come on, you must have a go. There’s nothing much to beat.” The minute I say it, I realise I could have put it better. “Just pop your monicker down here and be at the stage entrance of the Happydrome with your bathing costume at seven thirty.”

      “Well, I don’t know what my husband will say.”

      “He’ll be proud of you. And if you win this, you’ll be in the area final and then there’s the chance of a trip to London and possibly a jet flight to Los Angeles for a screen test. Come on, it’s all good fun, isn’t it?”

      She takes off her glasses and looks me straight in the eyes. “You don’t think I’d make a fool of myself?”

      “Good heavens, no. I wouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t thought you were in with a chance.”

      She looks across the beach thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t half give Ron a surprise to see me up there. He’s always saying—oh, it doesn’t matter.”

      I can see that all she needs is a nudge so I deliver one.

      “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’m one of the judges and I can assure you that I don’t think you would be making a fool of yourself.”

      “Well, if you really think I have a chance.”

      “Definitely.”

      “Alright then. Where do I sign?”

      An hour later, and heavier by the weight of a flick knife confiscated from the inside right of the Club Cubs, I am listening to the gentle click of croquet balls and keeping my eyes open for future beauty queens. Most of those playing are of the Darby and Joan variety but there is one little raver with competitor written all over her. Emitting a screech of delight, she whangs her opponent’s ball into the roses and lines up a shot which sends her own trundling neatly through the hoops.

      “Oh, give over, Else,” whines her consort who obviously hails from the fair city of Birmingham. “I’ve had enoof.”

      “Well, I haven’t,” says his partner firmly and lashes her ball another twenty yards up the green. “It takes

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