Ben Elton - Dead Famous

“So what’s a sweatbox when it’s at home?” asked Gazzer.

“It says here that it’s an ancient Native American tradition,” Hamish replied.

“Native American?”

“Red Indian to you, I imagine,” said Dervla.

The housemates had been given their instructions for the weekly task, and so far Gazzer was not impressed.

“So what the fahk is it?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” said Hamish, who was reading the instructions. “A box in which you sweat. From what it says here it sounds pretty similar to a sauna, except a bit more friendly. It says this is a historical task because they were used by Native American fighting men.”

“And women,” Sally interjected. “Native American fighting women.”

“Were there any?” asked Kelly. “I thought they were just squaws.”

“That’s because history is written by men,” Sally assured her. “Women warriors have been denied their place in the chronicles of war, just like women artists and scientists never got credit for doing an amazing amount of art and science which their husbands took credit for.”

“Wow, I had no idea,” said Kelly, genuinely surprised.

“Well, think about it, Kelly. History… his story.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Can we get back to this fahkin’ sweatbox?” Gazzer protested. “What are we supposed to do about it?”

Hamish applied himself once more to Peeping Tom’s note. “Well, we have to build one, for a start. They’ll give us instructions and all the stuff we need, and when we’ve built it we have to use it.”

“Use it?” Dervla enquired.

“Well, apparently after these Native Americans had had a fight, or a sports day or whatever, they’d wait till it got dark and then get into a hot confined space all squeezed up tight together and sweat.”

“It sounds totally homoerotic,” said Sally. “Most military rituals are, if you didn’t know.”

“Homoerotic, oh, for heaven’s sake,” Coleridge snapped.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Hooper replied.

“Yes, of course it does, sergeant! So easy to say, so impossible to contradict. Why is it that everybody these days insists on presuming a sexual motive for absolutely everything? Military rituals homoerotic? Why , for heaven’s sake!”

Was Freud to blame? Coleridge rather thought that he might be, or else Jung, or perhaps some imbecile from the sixties like Andy Warhol.

“Whatever you say, sir,” said Hooper.

Coleridge let it go, as he let so much go that bothered him these days. At the end of the day, as the inmates of the house were so fond of saying, it wasn’t worth it.

“I still cannot quite believe that these people actually agreed to do this task. I mean, four hours in that thing, naked.”

“Well, Dervla tried to object, didn’t she?”

“Ah, yes,” Coleridge thought, Dervla objected, the one he secretly rather liked. For a moment he felt glad that she had objected. Then inwardly he cursed himself. He had absolutely no business liking any of them, or being glad about what they did or didn’t do.

The sweatbox, which the housemates had been instructed to build in the boys’ bedroom, was half finished. The false floor had been laid, underneath which the heating elements were to be installed; the support poles for the roof were in position and work had begun on stitching the thick plastic for the walls. The construction so far looked rather small and uninviting, with very little prospect of its looking any better when it was finished.

“I am so not sitting naked in that thing with a lot of nude boys,” Dervla said.

“For four hours, they say,” said Jazz.

“No way,” Dervla repeated.

“Why not? None of the rest of us fookin’ object,” said Moon.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Dervla asked.

“Well, what’s so special about you is what I’m saying? Anyway, don’t you want to look sexy on the telly?”

Of course Dervla wanted to look sexy on the telly, or else she would never have applied to be on the telly in the first place, but she also understood that real allure depended on retaining a bit of mystery. She had a good body, but she knew that like all bodies it was even better when left to the imagination. Besides which, she had her misty green eyes and sparkling smile to rely on; she did not need to go flashing her knockers about the place.

Dervla went to the confession box and asked to be allowed to perform the task in her bathing suit. “It’s high cut on the thigh and a lovely pattern,” she said.

The answer when it came was broadcast to the whole house.

“This is Peeping Tom,” said a much sterner voice than usual, a voice that normally did ads for BMWs and aftershave. “The traditional Native American sweatbox experience was undertaken naked, and this is the manner in which Peeping Tom requires the task to be performed. As with any of the group tasks, all housemates must comply with the rules and if any single housemate fails to do so then the whole group will be deemed to have failed and will therefore lose a percentage of their food and drink for the following week.”

It was jaw-dropping cynical and Geraldine knew it, which was why she had no intention of allowing this outrageous instruction to be aired publicly. Clearly she was blackmailing Dervla into stripping, but the public were to be given the illusion that the housemates one and all simply could not wait to get their clothes off.

“I cannot believe they’re trying to get away with this,” Dervla fumed.

Then Sally spoke up. “Actually, Dervla, I really think that we should do this, because I am worried that we might come across as racist if it looks like we think we’re too good for a legitimate ethnic custom, particularly one with such obviously homoerotic overtones.”

Sally was pleased that Peeping Tom had provided her with an opportunity to hold forth on the one area about which she felt truly passionate.

“As a lesbian woman of mixed race I know what it’s like to have my customs and rituals held in fear and contempt by the majority community. Peeping Tom is offering us the opportunity to experience the bonding rituals of an oppressed indigenous group. I think we should try to learn from it.”

Bob Fogarty waited until the following morning’s production meeting to make his complaint. He wanted his objections to be noted publicly. It was difficult for him to find his moment because Geraldine was roaring with laughter so much as she recalled Sally’s unlikely take on the weekly task.

“All I’m trying to do is persuade them to feel each other up and it turns out I’m a champion of minority rights. Anyway, all ethnic and sexual bollocks aside, Dervla will have to get ’em out for the lads or nobody gets a drink next week.”

Fogarty had to stand up to get her attention. “Geraldine, we are coercing this girl into taking her clothes off against her wishes.”

“Yes, Bob, we all know that. Why are you standing up?”

“Because I think it’s morally corrupt.”

“Oh, do fuck off.”

Fogarty had finally had enough. “Ms Hennessy, I cannot prevent you from using profanity to punctuate your sentences, but I am a grown man and a highly qualified employee and I am entitled to insist that you do not use such language towards me or those who work under me.”

“No, you’re fucking not, you cunt. Now sit down or fuck off.”

Fogarty did neither. He just stood there, shaking.

“You think you can do me for constructive dismissal?” Geraldine asked. “For swearing? Grow up, Bob. Even this cunt of a country isn’t that pathetic yet. If you walk out it’s a straight resignation and you get bugger-all. Now, are you staying or are you going?”