by Grace Dent
Meanwhile, beside them, Leeza is beginning to boil over. “Right, who’s got my bikini top?” she snarls, rifling through her Louis Vuitton carryall. “Hey you! Fake blonde with the bedraggled mop! Precious, is it? Where’s my top?”
“Who, me?” whimpers Precious. “I’ve not touched your bag.”
As Claude and I change into our swimwear, trying to ignore the fuss, Leeza becomes noisier and more personal.
“Somebody in here has stolen my bikini top! I can find the bottoms, but not the top!” Leeza fumes, her huge boobs juddering under her dressing gown. “Hey, Ruskie!”
“Ja?” replies Svetlana Varninka, throwing an icy glare.
“I know you’ve got it,” Leeza bitches. “I mean, that bikini top would keep your peasant clan back home in potato vodka for a year.”
“What did she say?” gasps Svetlana, pulling herself up at least two inches taller than I remembered her. “She called my family what?”
As the rest of the room winces, waiting for the inevitable bloodbath, Abigail begins to weep even louder. “Oh, borrow mine, Leeza!” Abigail cries, throwing her bikini top at her friend. “I won’t need it now anyway.”
“Cuh, that won’t fit,” tuts Leeza. “I had to preorder a doubleD cup from Gucci in New York. It was the biggest one available! I packed it into my carryall to bring here last night. And now it’s gone!”
Leeza simmers silently for a second before swiveling around to where Fleur is sitting sadly with her face in her hands, totally devastated about her Round One ejection.
“Oi, Swan!” shouts Leeza. “Want to give me my bikini top back? Now. Or else.”
Fleur glares at Leeza with total revulsion in her eyes before throwing her head back, somehow finding the energy to defend herself. “Oh, my turn now, is it?” she yells. “Well, I’ve not touched your bikini top! In fact, what would I do with it anyway? Throw it over my dad’s car in cold weather, you mega-boobed mutant?”
“Well said!” shouts Precious.
“Oh, shut it, thunderhips,” snarls Panama, jabbing Precious in the chest and sending her flying backward into her makeup bag.
“Achhhhhooooooo!” splutters Cressida, standing meekly in her magenta bikini, rifling through her Miu Miu vanity case. Cressida’s eyes are puffed up like golf balls. She’s getting sneezier by the second.
“Leave Precious alone,” roars Svetlana, waving her finger menacingly at Leeza, “or I’ll paint you all over that wall!”
And with that, a tremendous fight erupts between Svetlana, Panama, Fleur, Leeza, Precious and almost every other female in the room. Makeup brushes are hurled, girls are shoving each other, all sorts of insults and accusations are being thrown. And all the while, one little Miss Claude Cassiera is calmly painting strawberry lip gloss onto her full lips and adjusting the straps on her camouflage bikini.
“Claude,” I whisper as Svetlana begins to drag Leeza around the room with her hands gripping each of her earlobes, replicating some sort of World Wrestling Entertainment tackle, “what exactly have you done with Leeza’s bikini?”
“I beg your pardon?” says Claude innocently, with just a soupçon of minx in her voice. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Claude,” I say, shaking my head slowly, trying not to smirk. “The truth, now.”
“Look, Ronnie,” says Claude quietly. “If Leeza packed the bikini into her bag last night, then surely it must be there. Well, unless somebody went in her suite and moved it.”
“Claude!” I gasp, looking around the room at the growing carnage. “And . . . and . . . what about Cressida? Is that your work too?”
“Who?” says Claude mischievously, powdering her nose.
“Cressida Sleeth,” I repeat.
“Oh, her. Well, you know what Cressida’s like,” smiles Claude. “The slightest thing sets her off, doesn’t it? Dust, detergents, dog hair. She’s so fortunate that she doesn’t need to work near them every day. Like I do.”
Claude pauses for a second to stare across at the one-woman snot mountain. Cressida is waving something in the air that looks like a necklace while simultaneously shouting and sneezing.
“But then,” continues Claude, looking at me and winking, “Cressida’s so blessed her mother isn’t dependent on her for money.”
But by this point Claude’s voice is being drowned out by Cressida’s wailing. “Who is Trixiebelle Frou Frou? Is it a dog?” she squeals, standing beside her vanity case, waving what we can now see is a pink dog collar with a diamond-encrusted name tag. “Why is there a dog collar in my vanity case? Achooooooo! This is an outrage! I’m very, very highly allergic, you know!”
Just that moment Candice appears.
“Girls?” she yells. “What’s going on? I could hear the shouting down the hallway. Is everything okay?”
“I’m unwell,” bleats Cressida, brandishing the dog collar.
“Oh dear,” says Candice. “Well, would you like to give Round Two a miss?”
“Yes,” sniffs Cressida pitifully. “There’s terrible negative energy around here. The marquee needs to be cleansed of its heavy aura. Do you have a shaman on staff?”
“Listen, Candice,” butts in Leeza, “some thieving scumbag has stolen my bikini top from my bag. I’m going to have to go out topless. Okay?”
“Noooo!” howls Candice. “It’s not that sort of contest.”
“Tsk,” tuts Claude, watching the brewing chaos. “All that money. No class.”
“Well, this is just wonderful!” shouts Leeza, pointing at Fleur, Claude and me. “Just because I’m in a different league of beauty from these ugly hounds, someone’s sabotaged my chances of winning.”
Candice rolls her eyes and looks at her wristwatch. “So Leeza, are you telling me you’re not competing in the swimwear round? Because I need you to be ready, right now.”
“I’m ready,” smiles Panama, checking her perfect reflection in the mirror and heading for the door. “I was born ready. Catch you later, losers.”
“Well, I’m ready too then,” quacks Leeza. “Abigail, give me that bikini top. I’m wearing it in this round.”
“But I thought it was too small,” Abigail says.
“Shut up,” huffs Leeza, flinging off her dressing gown and beginning to wrestle herself into the groaning top. Leeza’s boobs look like they’re being strangled to death. The left one keeps making a bid for escape, but Leeza keeps pushing it back in while nagging Abigail to tie the clasps tighter around the back. If that bikini top manages to survive one whole round without exploding, it will be miraculous.
“See?” says Leeza, checking herself in the mirror. “Not too shoddy, huh?”
“No, Leeza,” winces Abigail. “You look great!”
“Oh, and incidentally,” says Leeza, as she heads toward the door, “good luck, everyone. Especially you, Ronnie—you’re going to need it.” Leeza nods at my less ample cleavage with a little smirk. “Huh! No prizes for guessing what you’d spend your prize money on.”
But as Leeza passes by, I spot something very, very wonderful indeed. Unbeknown to her, there’s a large patch of brown goo smeared all over the back of her bikini bottom. It smells exactly like chocolate, but it looks like something very, very different.
“Oh my God,” Fleur gasps. “Look! Look at Leeza’s bikini briefs!”
“Ugh,” I howl, laughing till tears ran down my face. “That’s chocolate sauce, right?”
“Right,” winks Claude, with a small self-satisfied grin.
So, okay, “Round Two: Swimwear” is a bit embarrassing.
But not a fraction as embarrassing as it is for Leeza.
Because with the entire crowd cheering and the TV cameras rolling, Leeza trots out onto the stage, sucking in her cheeks like a supermodel, with one hand on her hip and her nose aloft, totally oblivious to the large chocolate stain all over her cream bikini bottoms. As Leeza reaches the photo pit at the front of the stage, where snappers from the Daily Mirror, The Sun, The Star and NME ar
e all gathered, they begin to snigger and point. Rapidly, the news spreads throughout the crowd. Then a slow handclap starts and some comedians begin to shout some rather uncharitable stuff.
“Hey, lady,” yells one lad, as the entire crowd cracks up, “maybe that chicken vindaloo last night was a mistake!”
Leeza blows him an extra-special kiss.
“Hoo hoo!” squeals another girl. “Don’t think your whites would pass any doorstep challenge. Think you need a better detergent!”
“Ha!” beams Leeza, turning to Panama, who’s frantically signaling to her to get the heck off the stage. “See? They love me!”
“Keep the cameras rolling! This is priceless!” yells the MTV director to his cameraman as Leeza proceeds to strut to the front of the stage. She turns around and wiggles her bum suggestively at the camera, sending the crowd wild with glee. But suddenly, Miss Scrumble, who’s been watching this whole pantomime with a thunderous expression, can’t bear the agony a moment longer. She leaps up from behind the judges’ table, whips off her Harris Tweed jacket and scurries toward Leeza, intending to wrap it around the offending chocolate stain.
“Unhand me, you mad old hag!” Leeza squeals, batting her away. Then, somehow in the ensuing tussle, Scrumble manages to garble something into Leeza’s ear, making her stop dead in her tracks. Leeza slowly turns and examines her rear end with a look of growing horror.
The entire crowd falls silent, waiting for Leeza’s reaction. Eventually a deafening scream pierces the air.
“Nooooooo,” Leeza bawls. “Nooooooo! It’s not what it looks like! It can’t be!”
And with the crowd now in fits of hysterics, there’s nothing left for Leeza to do but turn and leg it, trying to cover her bum with both hands as she runs.
After Leeza’s humiliation, walking about in a bikini is a piece of cake by comparison. Claude and I simply throw our shoulders back and laugh our way through the whole thing. And when the judges’ scores come back, Leeza and her chocolate bum have been eliminated . . . and me, Claude and Panama Goodyear have made it through to the final five.
little miss personality
It’s crunch time.
The final “Interview” round.
First up with Lonny is Harbinger Hall’s very own Precious, who, although sickeningly pretty and bodily perfect, is a tad, well, dull. Precious’s interests seem to consist of aerobics, aqua-aerobics, yoga, going to the hairdresser’s and most riveting of all, “collecting teapots.” Thank God someone has a Klaxon horn in the crowd or else we’d all have fallen asleep.
“That was Precious, everyone, give her a big hand!” shouts Lonny, rubbing his eyes. “And next up, let’s hear it for Claude!”
Claude is a different matter entirely, waltzing onto the stage in black hipsters and a hot-pink boob tube, shaking things up by announcing that one day she fully intends to be Claudette Cassiera: prime minister. The crowd really loves that. Especially when Claude announces her parliamentary manifesto, which includes banning balding men from combing their last hairs horizontally across the bald patch; government grants for sparkly lip gloss and nail extensions; and last but not least banning family members over the age of thirty from disco dancing or playing air guitar at weddings!
“Wooooooo! I hear you, sister!” yells one girl while the crowd roars with delight. As Claude totters offstage, we all know she’s made a huge hit.
Next along is Tina from Iceland, who floats onstage in a Hessian smock, carrying some sort of piccolo under her arm, only to tell Lonny that her Demonboard Babe prize money would be donated to War Moggy, a charity that rescues kittens with sore paws from war zones. Tina then grabs the microphone and starts singing “a song for peace” called “Whiskers Across the World.” It isn’t very good. Despite Freaky D and Sebastian Porlock trying to clap their hands supportively, the crowd appears to be turning on her.
“Look out, Tina!” yells Claude as something whizzes a fraction of a millimeter past Tina’s ear and splats all over the stage.
I didn’t realize people could be so accurate when flinging plastic cups of beer. I hope it was beer anyhow.
As Tina shuffles off, Lonny announces the next contestant, Panama Goodyear, who strides onto the stage snapping the straps of her purple bikini, then doing a little pirouette, wiggling her bottom, all to rapturous applause. Even some of Saul’s gang on the front row are cheering wildly.
But that’s the thing with Panama Goodyear—until she opens her big nasty mouth, you never know the hideousness that lies within.
“Hello, Panama,” says Lonny. “And can I just say, you look gorgeous today.”
“Yes, I do, don’t I?” agrees Panama matter-of-factly.
Lonny starts giggling. He thinks she’s being kooky.
“Now, there’s some big prize money up for grabs,” continues Lonny. “What will you do if you win the money?”
“Oh, well,” Panama says, looking slightly distracted. “Don’t know really. How much is it again?”
“It’s twenty thousand pounds,” Lonny reminds her.
“Oh. Not that much then,” shrugs Panama. “I’ll probably pay off my AmEx with it. It took quite a battering last month when Leeza and I did lunch, then hit Bond Street.”
“Ha ha!” laughs Lonny, trying to cup Panama’s waist. “Isn’t she great? Such a dry sense of humor!”
“I don’t like being touched,” says Panama, picking Lonny’s hands off her.
While most of the boys in the crowd are giggling, the girls are simply staring at her, not quite believing she’s real.
“Anyway, Panama, you’re a big hit with the lads today,” says Lonny. “I just wonder, if a normal, everyday boy in the crowd wanted to ask you out, what chat-up line would win your heart?”
Panama looks at Lonny like he’s berserk.
“A normal everyday boy,” repeats Panama. “You’re joking, yeah?”
“Er, no, not really,” stutters Lonny.
“You know who I go out with, right?” coughs Panama. “I’m with Santiago Marre, the international king of pro surfing. I’ve got a green VIP wristband, for God’s sake. I’m a VIP!”
“Oh, whoopie do!” jeers a female voice in the crowd.
“Hey, Panama,” yells a male voice in the front row. “I’m a VIP too! Look!”
When we all look down, all we can see is a pair of bum cheeks mooning Panama from the front row. They appear to belong to Saul’s friend Danny.
“Ugh!” squeaks Panama. “Put that away, you horrible, unwashed pig! See, Lonny, that’s why I don’t mix with commoners.”
And with that Panama turns on her heel and storms offstage, winning the most rapturous applause of the day.
“Just relax, Ronnie,” Fleur tells me as I wait nervously in the wings. “Deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, as the crowd cheers and my name is called. “I’ll just be myself, eh?”
“Erm, yeah,” yells Fleur. “Just, y’know, not too much. Good luck!”
Five seconds later, I’m back out onstage, in front of the crowd, as well as millions of people worldwide, with a TV camera almost stuck up my nose.
“Well, hello there, Miss Ronnie Ripperton,” smiles Lonny, wrapping his arm around my waist.
“Oooh, er, howdy!” I laugh, doing a weird military salute.
Noooo! My evil hand, which seeks to destroy me, is coming to life again!
“Having a good time today?” Lonny asks.
“Everything’s just wonderful, thanks!” I beam, my thumb twitching to be held aloft beside my face in a wacky manner.
It won’t get the better of me.
“So, Ronnie,” says Lonny. “What do you do in your spare time? Any hobbies? Sports?”
Hobbies or sports? Errrrrrrm. My mind suddenly goes blank. I used to play a bit of swingball with my dad when I was seven. Noooo! Don’t say that! What do I do in my spare time? Think, Ronnie, think.
“Oooh . . . erm,” I mutter, examining m
y fingernails. “I’ve not got . . . I mean . . . er . . .”
“She surfs!” shouts a lad’s voice in the front row. It’s Saul! I look down, and all I can see is his crazy brown hair and impish eyes waving back at me.
“Oooh yeah, I go surfing!” I smile, suddenly finding my tongue. “And I play bass guitar. And I love hip-hop and metal. I try to get to a lot of gigs. And I’m into partying and just having a laugh really. Y’know?”
“Wow, Ronnie,” tuts Lonny, “you sound like the perfect woman. You’ll be telling us your dad owns a pub next!”
“Er, he does, actually,” I reply, feeling slightly confused.
“And can I ask what you’d do if you won the Demonboard Babe money?” asks Lonny.
That’s easy. I know that one. “I’m giving it all to my best friend,” I tell him.
“Ha ha! Good one,” laughs Lonny, throwing his head back with a chuckle. The crowd laughs along politely at my little joke.
“No, seriously,” Lonny smirks. “What would you blow it on?”
“I am being serious,” I say, feeling a little indignant. “I’ll give it to my best friend. ’Cos . . . well, she sort of really needs it right now.”
I look to the wings of the stage where Claude and Fleur are standing. Claude winks at me. She looks a little bit emotional.
“Blimey,” says Lonny. “You must be the world’s best mate.”
“Well, I try my best,” I say, feeling a bit puzzled again. “I mean, isn’t that what friends are for? To help each other out when there’s a crisis?”
The crowd isn’t cheering now, though. They’re sort of mumbling among themselves. They obviously think I’m some sort of freak.
I’ve totally blown it.
As I walk off stage, Scrumble, Freaky D and the rest of the judges are in a huddle, arguing furiously. I even hear my name being mentioned a few times, mostly by Scrumble, who doesn’t exactly sound like she’s my biggest cheerleader. She’s obviously telling them what a dishonest, work-shy employee I am, just for good measure.
Eventually, after what seems like forever, Candice passes a gold envelope with the results to Lonny Larson. “And we’re back!” shouts Lonny, signaling to the sound deck to turn down the music. All the original Demonboard contestants are gathered on stage now, Cressida, Abigail and Leeza included.
