Friends Forever! (27 page)

“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.

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 my 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.

As Fleur wraps her arms around Claude and my shoulders, my heart's beginning to thump harder and faster. “Get on with it!” I mutter as Lonny stalls for time, pretending to be having trouble with the envelope.

Finally, he begins to read. “And in third place, winning the It's a Girl's World voucher worth five thousand pounds is . . . Precious Elton!”

Precious lets out a huge eardrum-piercing scream, clearly imagining blowing £5000 on Lycra aerobics thongs.

Claude and I look at each other fearfully.

“And in second place,” reads Lonny, “winning a fabulous holiday for two to Barbados is . . . Tina Gunttersdorf!”

What? Miss Save the Kittens has won second place?

As Tina bursts into tears and begins to crank up a song of thanks on her piccolo, Panama swivels around and looks at the LBD with a large grin.

She's won and everyone knows it. It's Panama Goodyear, for crying out loud. As if I ever had a chance against her.

“And the Demonboard Babe first prize goes to . . . ,” says Lonny, “with a three-versus-one judge decision
. . . Ronnie Ripperton!
”

Pardon?

Have we heard that right?

Suddenly everything seems to move in slow motion. Fleur is jumping on me, hugging me and squawking. Panama is jabbing Lonny in the chest and demanding to see his “superior.” Claude is standing by herself in the middle of the stage sobbing. The crowd is cheering and dancing to Warren Acapulco, who's stuck on his hit track “Undercover Lover” and cranked up the volume on the decks. And somehow in all the bedlam, I've ended up clutching a vast five-foot-long cardboard check made out for £20,000.

“Here, Cassiera,” I smile, walking over to my friend and placing it in her arms. Claude looks at me; her face is stained with happy tears. She slowly shakes her head, like she can't believe what's happening.

“Thank you, Ronnie,” she says. “Thank you so much.”

“Hey,” I smile. “Told you we wouldn't let you down.”

It's time to celebrate!

With Psycho Killa and the entire Mortuary Team just about to hit the stage for a live performance, Saul, Finn Talbot, Claude, Fleur, a dozen of Saul's surfer buddies and I are trying to exit the Demonboard Babe marquee and follow the crowd to the main soundstage. As our little gang makes its way through the throng, kids are stopping me, wanting their picture taken, hugging me and asking me to record voice-mail messages on their mobile phones. I sign an autograph for some girls from Wales while Claude scoots off to give an “exclusive” to her journalist friend from
The Mirror
whom she met at the pool yesterday. Apparently, he wants the LBD lowdown on our fight to stop her move to Mossington.

We reach the main stage area, and it's absolute bedlam, with thousands of kids jumping and yelling to the familiar opening bars of Psycho Killa's “Graveyard Time.” As some loud samples of machine-gun fire boom out, the entire crowd begins chanting Psycho Killa's catchphrase “Bag you up! Bag you up!” while the rest of the Mortuary Team leaps onto the stage, clutching mikes and shouting all sorts of hilarious nonsense.

We reach the outer fringes of the main crowds, and I turn to make sure Fleur is still with us. Behind me, my blonde chum is standing looking rather perplexed, examining a small white piece of cardboard in her hand.

“You okay, Fleur?” I shout above the din.

“Yeah, think so,” Fleur replies, looking at the card again before passing it to me.