again, this time with a fiendish question, which was ‘Do you help your mum with the housework?’ These things passed as entertainment and all the boys got
a stick of rock. The winner’s name – the boy with the best blood-curdling cry – had his name written down on the clipboard for the prize-giving show.
There was a half hour break before we ran the Bathing Belle competition designed for young women aged between 16 and 21. This time I got to be a judge along with a fresh pair of holidaymakers
and Nikki did the interviewing. It all went fine but the heat was building. At the hottest part of the day the girls were forced to swat the flying bugs as they described their hobbies and
expressed an interest in World Peace.
We agreed on a pretty winner and Nikki made the announcement. Nikki embarrassed me by declaring that part of the prize was the chance to give me a kiss. I took it all in good part as the winner
planted her lips on my cheek. It wasn’t exactly a hardship.
As the Bathing Belle competition was wrapped up, half a dozen sexy promotions girls dressed in hot-pants and low-cut blouses moved about the campers with trays of cigarettes. The hot-pants
livery matched the design on the cigarette pack. It was a marketing drive for a cigarette called Players No. 6, a market-leader of the time.
One of the No. 6 girls went into action on me, but I explained I was a non-smoker. I got chatting and she said all the girls were ‘models on assignment’. I didn’t know what
that meant. To me they looked like pretty girls peddling coffin nails; though the girls were okay and I kept that opinion to myself. I noticed that Nikki, also a non-smoker, was sniffy with
them.
Nikki and I took our clipboards and tin bins – emptied of candied rock – away from the pool and went to the cool of the cafe. I had a question for my fellow Greencoat. ‘Nikki,
is everyone here on the take?’
I wasn’t just thinking about what Nobby had told me. I was also flashing back on Colin’s words on my first day.
Give ’em a cigarette but don’t never buy ’em a
drink.
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Dunno. I thought we were just paid to give everyone a fun time. But it seems like everybody’s got an angle.’
As I spoke, one of the No. 6 girls drifted near plying her wares, all smiles, full of easy charm.
‘Watch that girl,’ Nikki said.
The girl, a willowy brunette, made a sale to a beefy looking man seated at a table with his wife and three children. Everyone was sucking on a straw dipped in a vividly coloured milkshake. Money
exchanged hands and the girl took a pack of cigarettes from her tray. She popped the cellophane wrapper, flipped open the pack and flicked the box so that she could proffer one of the cigarettes to
the customer. Then she discarded the cellophane wrapper in her tray. The customer, impressed by this sexy, extra little service smiled happily and the girl moved on to the next table.
‘What did you see?’ Nikki said.
‘Nothing.’
Nikki sniffed. ‘Not very clever for a college boy, are you?’
‘Uh?’
‘She makes the sale. She unwraps the pack for him as a nice little service. She flips open the lid and offers him a ciggie and that’s when she takes the voucher out of the pack. She
tosses the voucher, with the wrapper, back into her tray and lights the ciggie for the dumb customer. Those vouchers trade for goods. It takes an age to save up the vouchers but if you skim one off
each sale it’s worth a small fortune to you. Watch her again.’
I studied the girl making another sale and this time I saw it: a green voucher slipped out of the pack and dumped in the tray with the wrappings. ‘Doesn’t anyone ever
complain?’ I asked.
‘Most don’t notice. Most who do notice, they let it go. When the one person in every hundred complains she’ll apologise and give it back. If the customer complains further she
might even pretend to cry and will claim it’s the only way they get paid.
a stick of rock. The winner’s name – the boy with the best blood-curdling cry – had his name written down on the clipboard for the prize-giving show.
There was a half hour break before we ran the Bathing Belle competition designed for young women aged between 16 and 21. This time I got to be a judge along with a fresh pair of holidaymakers
and Nikki did the interviewing. It all went fine but the heat was building. At the hottest part of the day the girls were forced to swat the flying bugs as they described their hobbies and
expressed an interest in World Peace.
We agreed on a pretty winner and Nikki made the announcement. Nikki embarrassed me by declaring that part of the prize was the chance to give me a kiss. I took it all in good part as the winner
planted her lips on my cheek. It wasn’t exactly a hardship.
As the Bathing Belle competition was wrapped up, half a dozen sexy promotions girls dressed in hot-pants and low-cut blouses moved about the campers with trays of cigarettes. The hot-pants
livery matched the design on the cigarette pack. It was a marketing drive for a cigarette called Players No. 6, a market-leader of the time.
One of the No. 6 girls went into action on me, but I explained I was a non-smoker. I got chatting and she said all the girls were ‘models on assignment’. I didn’t know what
that meant. To me they looked like pretty girls peddling coffin nails; though the girls were okay and I kept that opinion to myself. I noticed that Nikki, also a non-smoker, was sniffy with
them.
Nikki and I took our clipboards and tin bins – emptied of candied rock – away from the pool and went to the cool of the cafe. I had a question for my fellow Greencoat. ‘Nikki,
is everyone here on the take?’
I wasn’t just thinking about what Nobby had told me. I was also flashing back on Colin’s words on my first day.
Give ’em a cigarette but don’t never buy ’em a
drink.
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Dunno. I thought we were just paid to give everyone a fun time. But it seems like everybody’s got an angle.’
As I spoke, one of the No. 6 girls drifted near plying her wares, all smiles, full of easy charm.
‘Watch that girl,’ Nikki said.
The girl, a willowy brunette, made a sale to a beefy looking man seated at a table with his wife and three children. Everyone was sucking on a straw dipped in a vividly coloured milkshake. Money
exchanged hands and the girl took a pack of cigarettes from her tray. She popped the cellophane wrapper, flipped open the pack and flicked the box so that she could proffer one of the cigarettes to
the customer. Then she discarded the cellophane wrapper in her tray. The customer, impressed by this sexy, extra little service smiled happily and the girl moved on to the next table.
‘What did you see?’ Nikki said.
‘Nothing.’
Nikki sniffed. ‘Not very clever for a college boy, are you?’
‘Uh?’
‘She makes the sale. She unwraps the pack for him as a nice little service. She flips open the lid and offers him a ciggie and that’s when she takes the voucher out of the pack. She
tosses the voucher, with the wrapper, back into her tray and lights the ciggie for the dumb customer. Those vouchers trade for goods. It takes an age to save up the vouchers but if you skim one off
each sale it’s worth a small fortune to you. Watch her again.’
I studied the girl making another sale and this time I saw it: a green voucher slipped out of the pack and dumped in the tray with the wrappings. ‘Doesn’t anyone ever
complain?’ I asked.
‘Most don’t notice. Most who do notice, they let it go. When the one person in every hundred complains she’ll apologise and give it back. If the customer complains further she
might even pretend to cry and will claim it’s the only way they get paid.
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