Just Doomed!

by Andy Griffiths

  ‘Oh, I think we will,’ I say. ‘In fact, I think I want mine so much that I’ll be keeping them on, thanks.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid you won’t be able to holiday here,’ chuckles the nude man.

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ I say, heading for the door. I turn to the others, who are already starting to undress. ‘See you all later, have a great nude holiday!’

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ says Mum.

  ‘Home,’ I say. ‘It’s a long walk, but the sooner I start, the sooner I’ll get there.’

  ‘But you can’t walk home!’ says Dad.

  ‘And you definitely can’t go out there with your clothes on!’ says the nude man.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I say. ‘Just try and stop me!’

  I make a dash for the door and run outside.

  I run past the fountain and down the drive, but I can hear footsteps behind me.

  I look over my shoulder.

  Oh no! It’s the nude man!

  I’m being chased by a nude man!

  I dive into a clump of bushes. I crawl through them to the other side and make a dash for the mini-golf course. I can hide behind one of the dinosaurs. I choose the biggest one—a brontosaurus.

  I rest for a moment, panting. I peep over the dinosaur’s tail. The manager is still back at the bushes, looking for me.

  I’m trying to think of where to go next when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  I look up.

  It’s a boy. He’s about the same age as me, but, unlike me, he doesn’t have any clothes on.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, ‘how come you’ve got clothes on?’

  ‘Because I’m not a nudist!’ I tell him.

  ‘My dad says we’re not nudists,’ he says. ‘We’re naturists!’

  ‘Naturists, nudists—whatever!’ I say. ‘It’s the same thing.’

  ‘It is not!’ says the boy.

  ‘Is!’ I say.

  ‘Is not!’

  ‘Dad!’ yells the boy.

  ‘Shut up!’ I say. ‘Can’t you see I’m trying to hide?’

  If he can, he doesn’t seem to care.

  ‘DAD!’ he yells, even louder this time. ‘There’s a boy hiding behind the brontosaurus! And he’s got clothes on!’

  The kid’s dad appears.

  It goes without saying that he’s naked, but I’ll say it anyway.

  He’s naked.

  And he’s got a mini-golf club in his hand.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at, young man,’ he says, whacking the golf club across the palm of his hand in a threatening manner, ‘but it’s not particularly funny.’

  ‘I’m not trying to be funny,’ I say.

  ‘Then why are you all covered up like that?’ says the man as he approaches me. ‘Textiles aren’t welcome here, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do know,’ I say, standing up and backing away. ‘And if you’ll just let me pass I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘I don’t think so!’ says the man. ‘You come back here. You and I are going to see the manager!’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen too much of him already … way too much!’

  I sprint as fast as I can away from the mini-golf course across the lawns. Behind me I can hear the man and his son shouting.

  Luckily I can run faster than they can—even with my clothes on—and I soon leave them behind.

  The trouble is that I’m not quite sure where I am anymore.

  I’m running blind when I see some sand dunes up ahead.

  I run to the top and immediately wish I really was blind, because there before me, on the private beach that Dad was so excited about, is a game of beach volleyball.

  Nude beach volleyball.

  Twelve nude beach volleyball players jumping and yelling and hitting and diving—it’s an ugly sight.

  Suddenly one of them stops playing, points at me and yells, ‘TEXTILE!’

  The rest of them stop playing as well and stare at me. Somebody yells, ‘GET HIM!’ and they forget about their game and charge up the dune towards me.

  I turn around to run away but I come face to face with the boy and his father.

  Uh-oh.

  He’s still waving that mini-golf club—twirling it in fancy patterns like it’s a samurai sword and he’s some great (nude) samurai warrior.

  I look back at the beach.

  The twelve nude volleyball players are charging up the dune in an angry pack, led by the guy who spotted me. The rest are fanned out behind him.

  Suddenly I know exactly what to do.

  I drop to the ground and start rolling down the dune towards them.

  I hit the legs of the leader and he falls backwards into the rest of them.

  They scatter like bowling pins.

  Strike!

  I get to my feet and take off along the beach.

  Although it gets me away from the angry volleyball players and the boy and his father, I realise I’ve chosen the wrong direction because now I’m heading towards a bunch of nudists having a sausage sizzle!

  They’ve got their backs turned towards me—they’re all looking at something going on a little further along the beach.

  Which is kind of good. Because, in spite of all the stomach-churning sights I’ve seen this morning, I’m feeling really hungry. It must be all the fresh air and exercise.

  I run towards one of the barbecues, grab a sausage and shove it in my mouth.

  ‘Hey!’ says a lady wearing an apron—but nothing else—and waving a pair of barbecue tongs. ‘Put that back!’

  ‘Too late!’ I yell through a mouthful of sausage.

  ‘Stop!’ she yells. ‘Sausage thief! With clothes on!’

  I’m not sure whether the sausage-stealing or my clothes-wearing is the greater crime, but whichever it is, suddenly, in addition to the nude beach-volleyball players, I’ve got an angry mob of sausage sizzlers on my tail as well.

  Gee, these nudists sure take their nudism—and sausage sizzles—very seriously.

  But not as seriously as I take my right to wear clothes—or, for that matter, to help myself to sausages from an unguarded barbecue.

  My only regret is that I didn’t take two.

  Ahead of me I see some wooden steps leading up from the beach and over a low sand dune back into the resort, but there’s a huge group of nude people milling around on the beach between here and there.

  Oh no.

  Just my luck.

  It’s a sand-sculpture competition!

  There are nude families everywhere, and if they take their sand sculpting as seriously as they do everything else I’m in BIG trouble. Because there’s no way to get to the steps without going right through the middle of them.

  Oh well, it has to be done.

  ‘Excuse me!’ I say as I hop over a shark and skip over a starfish only to land right in the middle of a mermaid’s face. ‘Oops, sorry!’

  By the time I make it to the other side of the sand sculptures I’ve destroyed three mermaids, two castles, five sharks and a platypus. At least I think it was a platypus—I was moving pretty fast.

  Not only have I left a trail of destroyed sand sculptures behind me, but I’ve also managed to upset and anger a whole new bunch of nudists, who are just as unforgiving as the other Sunnyland holidaymakers I’ve already met and are only too happy to abandon their competition and join in the chase.

  I take the steps in three enormous bounds and before I know it I’m on the other side of the dune and right in the middle of the Sunnylands holiday units.

  The units are nestled in among lots of ferns and palm trees, and each one has its own patch of lawn out the front.

  I’ve got to admit that, despite all the nude people lounging around working on their all-over tans, it looks pretty nice.

  And there are lots of places to hide!

  I run to the side of one of the units.

  Just in time, too.

  The angry group of nude beach-volleyballers, nude s
ausage sizzlers and nude sand sculptors comes surging over the sand dune like a swarm of angry bees.

  Angry nude bees, to be precise.

  Then again, I guess all bees are nude, if you think about it.

  I wait for them all to pass, and when the coast is clear, I leave the unit and head in the opposite direction.

  ‘Andy?’ says a voice.

  Oh no. How embarrassing! I mean, it’s bad enough to be in a nudist camp, but to be recognised in a nudist camp, well, that’s another level of embarrassment altogether!

  I turn around.

  It’s Mr and Mrs Bainbridge sunbaking on banana lounges.

  IN THE NUDE!

  ‘Mr Bainbridge?’ I say. ‘Mrs Bainbridge? What are you doing here? Don’t you realise this is a nudist resort?’

  ‘Of course we do,’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘Though we prefer the term “naturist resort”. We’ve been coming here for a while now, ever since we caught you and your father buck naked outside the office, actually. You really made us think that day. We spend so much of our lives hiding underneath our clothes … but who are we really when we take them off? The search for the answer to that question led us to Sunnylands. But the real question here is: why do you have your clothes on? Don’t you realise that this resort is not clothing optional, young man? I thought you, of all people, with your constant public nudity, would be able to respect that.’*

  ‘Wrong!’ I say. ‘All those times I ended up nude in front of you were accidents! I love my clothes! And I love wearing them!’

  ‘I must say I’m shocked at your attitude, Andy!’ says Mrs Bainbridge. ‘Shocked and disappointed.’

  ‘So am I,’ says Mr Bainbridge. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself! You’re making a mockery of the principles of naturism. Here you have the opportunity to find out who you really are underneath your clothes and you’re not taking it. I’ll never understand young people. Never!’

  That’s when I hear the mob returning.

  ‘Well, I’d love to stay and chat,’ I lie, ‘but I’ve got to be going.’

  ‘Stop him!’ says one of the angry nudists.

  Mr Bainbridge leaps up from his banana lounge and tries to grab me.

  He’s surprisingly sprightly without his clothes on but I’m too fast.

  I take off down the road.

  I glance behind me.

  It’s the usual load of nude people with Mr and Mrs Bainbridge along for the chase as well.

  I’ve got to say, this holiday isn’t quite working out the way I expected.

  I mean, millionaires surely don’t spend their holidays running around being chased by a bunch of nude people.

  Then again, how do I know what millionaires do for fun?

  I’m so busy looking behind me at my pursuers that I don’t see where I’m going and suddenly the ground goes all soft and spongy!

  Before I know it I’m about ten metres in the air.

  I look down.

  Uh-oh.

  I just hit one of those bouncy pillows—you know the ones—like a giant inflated trampoline.

  Up, up, up into the air I go …

  And then down … down … down …

  Under other circumstances this would be a lot of fun … but not when you’re being chased by a group of angry nude people!

  And especially not when those angry nude people are bouncing on the same bouncy pillow … and not just them but all their … oh, it’s too horrible to describe … oh, the nudity … oh, the humanity!

  As I manage to bounce off the bouncy pillow and run towards a low hedge, I’m wondering if this day could possibly get any worse.

  I hurdle the hedge and find myself in the middle of a lawn-bowls green in the middle of a lawn-bowls tournament.

  Yep. The worst day of my life just got worse.

  ‘Get off the green!’ yells an angry voice.

  ‘Get out of the way of our balls!’ yells another.

  ‘Get your clothes off!’ yells yet another.

  They’re pretty feisty for a bunch of old lawn-bowls-playing codgers.

  And pretty fit, too, I discover as they abandon their game and join in the chase, hurling a fusillade of lawn-bowling balls at me as they run.

  Balls to the left of me!

  Balls to the right!

  I dodge them as best as I can but I’m getting tired.

  And hot.

  And a bit lost, until ahead of me through some bushes I see the nude statue fountain.

  That’s it!

  That’s the answer!

  Why didn’t I think of it before?

  I rip my clothes off, throw them into the bushes and then dive into the fountain and strike a pose underneath the spinning beach ball.

  The angry nude mob rush straight past without noticing me.

  I’m safe!

  I’m also cool, thanks to the fountain water splashing all over my body … all parts of my body.

  And warm at the same time, thanks to the hot sun on my skin … all parts of my skin, some of which have never felt the sun before.

  It feels great.

  I think I could get used to this.

  ‘Hey, you in the fountain!’ says a familiar voice.

  Oh no.

  Sprung!

  Now I’m in for it.

  Those nudists are going to rip me apart.

  I try to stay still, very still.

  ‘It’s no use trying to hide,’ he says. ‘I know there are only four statues in the fountain … and you make five!’

  I turn.

  It’s the nude manager.

  He’s going to kick me out for sure … and just when I was starting to like the place, too.

  ‘Have you seen a boy?’ he says. ‘He’s about your age, same height, similar build … except that he’s fully dressed.’

  ‘Fully dressed?’ I say, pretending to be shocked. ‘Really? At Sunnylands?’

  ‘Yes,’ says the manager. ‘I’m afraid so. We’ve got to find the rotten little textile before he upsets any more of the guests. And what are you doing in the fountain anyway? If you want to play in the water, why don’t you go around to the super-duper water fun park?’

  ‘You’ve got a water park?’ I say incredulously. ‘A super-duper water fun park? Here?’

  ‘Yes, of course we have,’ says the nude manager, pointing behind him. ‘Didn’t you read the information pack we gave you when you checked in? It’s got a wave pool, eight different types of water slide and a maelstrom-maker … all the water fun you want around there!’

  ‘Thanks, mister,’ I say, jumping out of the fountain and running off in the direction he’s pointing.

  Wow!

  This is going to be the BEST.

  HOLIDAY.

  EVER!

  *If you want to read the long version, see the story called ‘Mudmen’ in Just Crazy!

  *Mr Bainbridge is referring not only to the ‘Mudmen’ incident in Just Crazy!, but to three other unfortunate instances of accidental public nudity. If you must read all about them, see ‘Cockroach’ in Just Tricking!, ‘In the shower with Andy’ in Just Annoying! and ‘Runaway pram’ in Just Stupid!

  Andy Griffiths was doomed from the day he was born. Andy is now much older than he was on the day he was born but is just as doomed as ever. Nevertheless, Andy enjoys a full and happy life and tries not to dwell on the fact that he lives on a doomed planet 150 million kilometres away from a doomed star (known as the Sun) which, as it dies in an estimated 7.5 billion years, will expand, boil away the Earth’s oceans and turn the planet into a molten ball of rock.

  www.andygriffiths.com.au

  www.terrydenton.com

  ALSO BY ANDY GRIFFITHS AND ILLUSTRATED BY TERRY DENTON

  Just Tricking!

  Just Annoying!

  Just Stupid!

  Just Crazy!

  Just Disgusting!

  Just Shocking!

  Just Macbeth!

  Just Doomed!

  The Bad Book

  The Very
Bad Book

  The Cat on the Mat is Flat

  The Big Fat Cow That Goes Kapow

  What Bumosaur is That?

  What Body Part is That?

  The 13-Storey Treehouse

  ALSO BY ANDY GRIFFITHS

  The Day My Bum Went Psycho

  Zombie Bums from Uranus

  Bumageddon: The Final Pongflict

  Schooling Around:

  Treasure Fever!

  Pencil of Doom!

  Mascot Madness!

  Robot Riot!

  COMING SOON FROM PAN MACMILLAN

  The 26-Storey Treehouse

  If you’re like most of our readers, you’re probably wondering how Terry and I met. Well, it’s a long story, but it’s a pretty exciting one—and it’s mostly true! Come on up, make yourself comfortable and we’ll tell you all about it … just don’t go in the maze—we’re still ironing out a few bugs.

  Well, what are you waiting for? Join Andy and Terry in their newly expanded treehouse featuring 13 brand-new storeys, including a dodgem car rink, a skate park, a mud-fighting arena, an anti-gravity chamber and a maze so complicated that nobody who’s ever gone in has ever come out again … well, not yet, anyway.

  TO BE PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER 2012

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM PAN MACMILLAN

  Just Tricking!

  By Andy Griffiths

  Illustrated by Terry Denton

  Is this the right book for you?

  Take the TRICKING TEST and find out.

  YES NO

  Do you ever pretend that you are dead to get out of going to school?

  Do you like to ring up people you know and pretend to be someone else?

  Do you leave banana skins in the middle of busy footpaths?

  Do you own any of the following items: fake dog poo, rubber vomit, gorilla suit?

  Do you wish that every day could be April Fools’ day?