Grace Dent

Curse of the Mega-boobed Bimbos

It's the day the LBD had been dreaming about for months.
  Saturday 14 August!
  The Big Beach Bootie Quake!
  Destiny Bay, which is hectic at the best of times, is absolute bedlam. Kids are flocking from miles around, pouring off trains and jumping off buses, road-blocking the surrounding streets with their cars, each one reverberating with pumping bass lines and loud hip-hop. It's 11 a.m. and the sun's already blazing down. There isn't a singular cloud in the sky, nor on the horizon, which means most of the kids flooding down on to the sand are already in states of undress, revealing their skimpiest bikinis and pumped abs. Down on Misty Beach several huge Outside Broadcast vehicles and dozens of stressed-out staff are working away on today's live TV show, which is beaming out on MTV, the Extreme Sports Channel and Entertainment News Europe! Everywhere you look hairy, sweaty technicians are fiddling with TV cameras, speakers and lighting rigs or congregating around the various marquees and sound-stages, checking clipboards and barking into walkie-talkies. Meanwhile researchers are dispensing green VIP wristbands to various important bods as they enter the front gate. In the midst of this chaos, Claude and I are running as fast as we can, apologizing to Fleur on my phone for being so very, very late.
  'But you were meant to be here two hours ago! The Demonboard competition has started,' Fleur screeches into her mobile phone. 'You've missed round one! Saul's just paddling out for his second now!'
  'It's not our fault. Scrumble made us do breakfasts!' I cry, feeling terribly guilty, as we battle our way through the crowd. 'Then we hitched a lift from Harbinger Hall with Raw-T, Psycho Killa's sushi chef. But one of the tyres blew coming down the coast road! We've had to run the last mile!'
  'Well, you're here now anyway, so just hurry . . . up!' shouts Fleur, suddenly sounding rather distracted. 'Ooh . . . oh noooo . . . Oh bad luck, Saul! Never mind!'
  'What's happening?' I gasp.
  'Errrr . . . it doesn't matter.' Fleur shouts. 'Just get down here now! The Extreme Channel cameras keep floating past filming crowd shots! Paddy has just called! He says he's already spotted me on channel 214, wearing next-to-nothing, chatting up surfers! He says if I don't put a cardigan on immediately he's going to drive down and take me home! Ha ha ha!'
  'We're coming!' we yell.
  Eventually, amongst the mêlée of oily bodies, we spotted Fleur's fuscia sunhat, blonde locks and huge aviator sunglasses. She looks totally radiant in an emerald bikini top and black hotpants, standing beside the Demonboard Surf Contest judges' marquee. Her ruby lipgloss is glinting in the sun.
  'Fleuuuuuur,' we shout. 'We're here!'
  'Hurray!' she smiles.
  'Where's Saul?' I say. 'How's he doing?'
  'He's over there in the competitors' enclosure,' says Fleur. 'Those gorillas dressed as security guards over there say I've not got a green VIP wristband to get in.'
  Over in the enlosure, I can just about make out Saul Parker's crazy brown dreads amongst the nine other competitors. Saul looks really unhappy. Like he might almost cry. Just then, a rapturous applause sweeps through the crowd as Finn Talbot, a blond shaven-headed guy with huge pecs from New Zealand catches a perfect wave and begins ripping along it, right on the end of his board for well over twenty seconds. Saul's shoulders slump down further.
  Right that moment, I'm filled with an urge to run across the sand, hug Saul and tell him that this whole daft surf contest just doesn't matter, but I know that would go down like a cup of cold vomit. Surf-gods must look macho at all times, you see? There's a lot of testosterone splashing about amongst these extreme sports guys. I mean, some of them are even having arm-wrestling competitions whilst waiting for their round. Sad, I know.
  'OK, so things aren't so good,' Fleur wince. 'Santiago Marre, the Argentinian dude, is in the lead as he's surfed two great waves. Then Finn Talbot, that blonde guy with the shaven head, is in second place. And y'see that dark-haired lad over there with the ponytail and the huge shark bite on his back? He's in third.'
  'And Saul?' I ask.
  'Sixth,' winces Fleur. 'His first wave was pretty good, but on the second he wiped out after about five seconds.'
  Saul looks rather awkward as we all stared silently towards the enclosure. All the other competitors look totally at home there. They all have more expensive surfboards than Saul and hi-tech wetsuits with their sponsors' names splashed across the chests. None of them looked like they've spent a month living in a loft, existing on stolen biscuits. Inside the competitors' enclosure, a gaggle of beautiful models in tiny bikinis with huge boobs are frothing around, fawning over the surfers.
  'Oh good luck, Sandybago darling!' shouts one plummy-mouthed brunette girl. 'You can do it!'
  'Accchhhhoooo,' sneezes another of the girls. 'Will somebody fetch me a parasol, please? This direct sunlight is making me sneeze. I'm a photophobic, don't you know?'
  Ugggh! I don't believe it. Cressida, Panama and the other witches are in the competitors' enclosure! 
  'Nooo!' I groan. 'It's them! They've got green wristbrands,'
  'Oh God,' sighs Fleur. 'The Argentinians must have sorted them out with VIP passes. That's who they must have been having dinner with last night.'
  Claude says nothing, she just rolls her eyes then ignores them.
  'That's totally unfair,' tuts Fleur, as Panama purrs and bats her eyelashes at Santiago and he struts around in front of her like a caveman flexing his muscles. They make a hilarious couple.
  'But I've been giving Santiago the full Fleur Swan flirty-flirt treatment for over two weeks now!' moans Fleur. 'And I've got nowhere! It's illogical!'
  As Saul paces around, nervously watching the other surfers' performances, he spots me in the crowd. He nods towards the scoreboards and looks sort of embarrassed.
  'You can still do it,' I mouth.
  'Thanks, babe,' Saul mouths back, looking rather unconvinced.
  'Hang on. I've been thinking. This isn't as bad as it looks,' announces Claude, pointing at the scores. 'Quite a few of contestants have had a terrible third round so far. So if Santiago really messes up his last wave, and Saul can pull off something special, then logically Saul can get still take third position.
  'And there's prize money for third, isn't there?' says Fleur.

  'Yeah,' I say, as the compère calls for Santiago Marre to come down for round three.
  Quickly Santiago Marre, who looks as conceited as a human face would physically allow, begins paddling out for his third and final wave. Once he's out, floating where the set waves are crashing down, the Argie heart-throb bobs around for a while searching for the perfect break. On the shore, the Windsmore Suite witches are leading the encouragement,
  'Oh, get on with it, Sarabongo!' shouts Panama helpfully.
  'Oh, this is so boring,' moans Cressida. 'Is it time to get ready for the beauty contest yet?'
  But then things began to go awry for Santiago. The surf appears to be dying down dramatically. In fact, for the next long five minutes, dozens of little ripple waves proceed to wash past him, doing nothing except sweep the surf-god back to the shore. And, with the pressure growing to perform, the Argentinian appears to be losing his nerve. Eventually, Santiago spring to life, catches a wave and jumps up . . . before losing his footing and crashing back into the water headfirst!
  Santiago Marre has wiped out after two seconds!
  'Oh, bad luck,' says Fleur as Santiago grabs his board and staggers sulkily back to the shore, swearing loudly at anyone who commiserates him. Panama immediately runs up and wraps herself round his salty torso like a giant limpet, trying to nibble his shoulder.
  'Does that kick Santiago off first place?' mutters Fleur.
  'I'm not sure,' I say, squinting at the scoreboard and trying to do the maths.
  I look for Claude to help me, but she's vanished.
  'Next up, third round is Saul Parker,' announces the compère.
  I can barely bring myself to watch. 'Oh, come on, Saul!' I will him, half-covering my eyes, as Saul walks to the water looking terrified.
  What's up with him? I know he's more than capable of beating any of these surfers. Only last night, I slipped down to the private beach and watched Saul tackle far bigger, crazier waves than these. I know he's more than capable of impressing the judges. I mean, sure, he may be of no fixed abode, with no firm plans for the future, no qualifications, in fact as wild as wild could be, but the one absolute certainty about him is that he can surf like a professional.
  If only he can do that now.
  As Saul paddles out, the waves are whipping up again, crashing hard and fast around him. Without time to hesitate, Saul chooses a wave and goes with it, quickly leaping up on to his board with total confidence.
  'Yessssssss! Come on, Saul!' I shout, beginning to roar loudly.
 
 
Curse of the Mega -boobed Bimbos © Grace Dent, 2006.  Published by Puffin Books.