A separate door might then open and a swarm of slightly older, crawling infants appear through it. The crawlers would be shepherded this way or that like a gaggle of slow-moving geese. If they had to go upstairs, they tackled the staircase like professional climbers determined to conquer Mount Everest, a mass of bobbing, well-padded bottoms heading for the peak.
And so it went on. A couple of hundred children aged between zero and six, all encaseds in neat, green-and -white checked gingham pinafores, came here every day. Some started at 8. a. m. and were given breakfast. One of most starling things about these children’s was the tweeness which some were dresses. We had spotted the specialist children’s shops full of powder-blue boys’ outfits and pink girl’s outfits before coming parents ourselves.
But it was when a delicate, powder-blue, knitted.cotton, ribboned baby suit arrived from an acquaintance who was not only meant to be a prominent feminist but also a Socialist minister, that we realised this was just not fashion for 1950 nostalgists. At the nursery school and in the park, we would see parents who looked and dressed like us, parading children dressed in elaborate knickerbockers, smocked dresses, sashes, bows, Peter Pan collars, pin-tucks or matching knickers and bloomers. Often these children would come in matched pairs, their clothes identical or, if boy and girl, made of the same material. The occasional family of three of four kids might be identified by the fact that they were all, despite the age spread, wearing the same clothes, just in different sizes.
From the book “Ghosts of Spain” by Giles Tremlett

It may be a massive eyesore, but spread those tourists out horizontally – the way they have done in Marbella or , further down, the coast from Benidorm in Torrevieja and numerous other spots – and they go on for ever. If Benidorm, with its twenty-four square miles and 12.3 kilometres of coastline really does account for 5 per cent of foreign holidaymakers (38.000 hotel rooms of some 700.000) in Spain, then, in theory, the rest could be plonked on an island the size of, say, Ibiza. Alternatively, more of them could still be shovelled into little Benidorm – where buildings land is by no means all used up.
Benidorm’s beach is still beautiful. But now you have ti hire a top-floor suite at the Bali if you want to appreciate just how majestic those twin curves of gold are. Most visitors are left to glimpse it through a thickt of buildings. The beach is cleaned every night by machines which churn up and filter the sand. This system is now used all over Spain. A reecnt newspaper report tells how a woman who fell asleep on a beach was swallowed up by one of the machines. A sign in one, older, beachside hotel overshadowed by the Bali, reminded me thet Benidorm’s reputation for the cheap and shoddy would never quite go. ?Clients are reminded that reception has a special thinner available to help you remove grease or tat from your feet’, it read.
From the book “Ghosts of Spain” by Giles Tremlett.

It is shortly before 7.00 a.m. on a cool Madrid spring morning. The traffic is still just a purr, though it will soon be a rumble and some time after that, the usual riot of horns, ambulance sirens and roaring motorbike exhausts. This should be a small moment of peace in what must be one of Europe’s noisiest cities. a helicopter, however, has spent the past fifteen minutes poised noisily at roof-top level just a block down our street. The wide-open well of our six-storey apartment block is acting as a sound box that amplifies the relentless chugging and clattering. Sleep in our top floor apartmenmt seems, under this circumstances, impossible. I lie in bed worrying about whether the helicopter – which does this every few weeks – will wake the children. It is not as thogu they went to bed early, even thogh they have school today. One of them, a seven-year-old, got out of bed to take a phone call at 10 p.m. last night. It was another seven-year-old, excitedly inviting him to a birthday party at the weekend. Madrid boasts that it is a party town, a city that never sleeps. But does this really have to aplly to the under eights?
From the book “Ghosts of Spain” by Giles Tremlett

Dervla pushed the bar of soap under her T-shirt and washed her armpits. She was just beginning to get used to showering in her underwear, it had felt very uncomfortable on the first morning and rather silly, like being on a school trip and insisting on undressing under the covers. The alternative, however , meant exposing herself her naked body full frontal to the viewing millions, and Dervla had absolutely no intention of doing that. She had watched enough reality TV to know what the producers liked most and took great care as she lathered under her arms. It would be extremely easy to inadvertenly pull up her vest and expose her breasts and she knew that behind the two way mirrors in the shower cubicle wall a live cameraman was watching, waiting for her to do just that. One flash would be all that was required and her tits would be hanging around somewhere on the Internet till the en of the time.
From the book ‘Dead famous’ by Ben Elton

‘I want to have a house meeting,’ said Layla. ‘So would it be cool if everybody just chilled? So we can all just have a natter maybe?’
Across the room Moon’s bald head poked out from the book she was reading, a book entitled You are Gaia: Fourteen Steps to Becoming the Centre of Your Own Universe.
‘It’s dead spiritual, this book,’Moon said. ‘It’s about self- growth and development and personal empowerment, which at the end of the day I’m really into, if you know what I mean, right?’
‘Yeah, Moon, wicked. Look, um, have you seen the state of the toilet?’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, it’s not very cool, right? And Dervla and I…’
‘I’m not fookin’ cleaning it’ said Moon. I’ve been here for four days and ain’t even done a poo yet. I’m totally fookin bunged up, me, because I’m not getting my colonic irrigation, and also I reckon the electrical fields from all the cameras are fookin’ about with me yin and the yang.’
‘Layla’s not asking you to clean the toilet, Moon,’ said Dervla gently. ‘We just think it would be good to organize some of the jobs that have to be done around the house, that’s all.’
‘Oh. Right. Whatever. I’m chilled either way. But at the end of the day I’m just not scrubbing out other people’s shite when I haven’t even done . I mean, that would be too fookin’ ironic, that would.’
‘Well, I don’t mind doing heavy work, like lifting and shifting,’ said Gazzer the Geezer, pausing in the push-ups that he had been doing pretty continuously since arriving in the house, ‘but I ain’t cleaning the bog, on account of the fact that I don’t mind a dirty bog anyway. Gives you something to aim at when you’re having a slash, don’t it?
From the book “Dead Famous” by Ben Elton.

She was the most beautiful, everybody agreed that, and the most mysterious. Quiet and extremely calm, it was never easy to work what was going on behind those smiling green Irish eyes. Eyes that always seemed to be laughing at a different joke from the res of the group. By the time of the murder Bervla had been the bookies’ number two favourite to win the game, and she would have been number one had Geraldine Hennessy not occasionally and jealously edited against her, making her look stuck-up when in fact she was merely abstracted.
‘So what’s a trauma therapist when it’s at home, then?’ Garry asked. He and Dervla were stretched out beside the pool in the pleasant aftermath of the morning’s champagne.
‘Well, I suppose my job is to understand how people react to stress, so that I can help them to deal with it.’ Dervla replied in her gentle Dublin brogue. ‘That’s why I wanted to come on this show. I mean, the whole experience is really just a series of small traumas, isn’t it’ I think it’ll be very interesting to be close to the people experiencing those traumas and also to experience them myself.’
‘So it’s got nothing to do with winning half a million big ones, then?’
Dervla was far too clever to deny the charge completely. She knew that the nation would almost certainly be scrutinizing her reply that very evening.
‘Well, that would be nice, of course. But I’m sure I’ll be evicted long before that. No, basically I’m here to learn. About myself and about stress.’
From the book “Dead Famous” by Ben Elton

‘Shit, man,’Jazz observed, aghast.’Haven’t you ever heard of soap?’
Woggle had taken up what was to become his habitual position, crouching on the floor in the room’s only corner, his bearded chin resting on bony knees which he hugged close to his chest, his great horned dirty toenails poking out from his sandals.
Woggle was dirty in a way that only a person who has just emerged from digging a tunnel can be dirty . He had come straight to join the House Arrest team from his previous home, a 200-metre tunnel under the site of the proposed fifth terminal at Heathrow Airport. Woggle had suggested to Geraldine the Gaoler that perhaps he should take a shower before joining the team, but Geraldine, ever watchful for the elements that could for the elements that could be said to make up ‘good telly’, assured him that he was fine as he was. ‘Just be yourself,’she had said.
‘Who’s that?’ Woggle had replied. ‘For I am the sum of all my past lives and those I have yet to live.’
Woggle stank. Digging tunnels is hard physical work and every drop of sweat that he had sweated remained in the fabric of his filthy garments, a motley collection of old bits of combats gear and denim. If Woggle had worn a leather jacket (which, being an animal liberationists, of course he would never do) he would have looked like one of those disgusting old-style hell’s angels who never washed their Levi’s no matter how often they urinated on them.
‘Guy, you are rank!’ Jazz continued. ‘You are high! Here, man, have a blow on my deodorant before we all get killed of asphyxiation and suffocate to death here!
Woggle demurred, ‘I consider all cosmetics to be humanoid affectations, yet one more example of our sad species’ inability to accept its place as simply another animal on the planet.’
‘Are you on drugs or what?’
‘People think that they are superior to animals, and preening and scenting themselves is evidence of that,’Woggle droned with the moral self-assurance of a Buddha, ‘but look at a cat’s silky coat or a robin’s joyful wings. Did any haughty supermodel ever look that good?’
‘Too fucking right she did, guy,’ said Jazz, who personally used two separate deodorants and anointed his skin daily with scented oils. ‘I ain’t never gone to sleep dreaming about shagging no cat, but Naomi and Kate are welcome any time.’
Layla spoke up from the kitchen area where she was preparing herbal tea. ? I have some cruelty-free organic cleansing lotions, Woggle, if you’d like to borrow them,’
Layla. Real job: fashion designer and retail supervisor. Star sign: Scorpio.
‘They won’t be cruelty-free after the plastic bottles end up in a landfill and a seagull gets its beak stuck in one,’ Woggle replied.
From the book ‘Dead Famous’ by Ben Elton

‘Nice knockers, girl!’Sally shouted at Kelly, who was just emerging from the pool.
Gary, all muscles and shaved head, was the next to emerge from the house. On seeing Kelly, soaking wet with her skimpy singlet clinging to her fit young body, he dropped to his knees in mock worship.?Thank you, God’ he shouted to the skies. ‘Something for the lads! We like that!’
Garry.Real job: van driver. Star sign: Cancer.
‘Oh the girls!’ Sally shouted back.’You never know, she might play for my team.’
‘You a dyke, then?’Garry enquired, turning to her with interest.
‘Derr! said Sally, pointing to the front of her vest on which were written the words ‘I eat pussy.’
‘Oh, is that what it means? I thought it meant you’d just been to a Chinese restaurant!’ Garry laughed hugely at his joke, which was to provoke a minor scandal when it was broadcast later that evening, being considered highly bold, provocative and controversial.
Inside the house a bald woman in a leopardskinprint mini-skirt was exploring the living area. ‘Check out, guys! There’s a welcome basket! Wicked!
Moon. Real job: circus trapeze artiste and occasional lap-dancer. Star sign: Capricorn.
‘Fags, chocolate, champagne! Wicked!
‘Get stuck in! shouted Garry from the patio doors.
The others quickly assembled around the basket and the four bottles of Sainsbury’s own-brand champagne were immediately opened. They all collapsed onto the orange, green and purple couches on which they would lounge for so much of the long days to come.
‘Right, since we’re chilling out and kicking back, I might as well tell you know,’ Moon shouted in her exaggerated Mancunian accent, ‘because at the end of the day you’re all going to find out anyway. First of all I’m going to win this fookin’ game, all fookin’ right? So the rest of you bastards can just forget it! All right?’ This exhibition of bravado was received with friendly cheers.
‘Second, I’ve done lap-dancing, right? I took money off sad blokes for letting them see me bits. I’m not proud of it, but at the end of the day I was fookin’ good at it right?’
This provoked more cheers and shouts of ‘Good on you’
‘And third. I’ve had a boob job right? I was right? I was dead unhappy with my self-image before, and my new tits have really empowered me as a person in my own right, right? Which at the end of the day is what it’s all about,ain’t it? Quite frankly, at the end of the day, I feel that these are the boobs I was supposed to have.’
‘Gi’s a look, then darling, and I’ll tell you if you’re right! Gazzer shouted.
‘Easy tiger!’ Moon Shrieked, revelling in the attention ‘Take it easy. we’ve got nine fookin´weeks in here, don’t want to peak too soon. Oh God, though, what have I said? I feel terrible. me mum never knew about me being a stripper, she thinks I’m dead proper, me. Sorry, Mum!
‘I’ve nothing against a bit of cosmetic surgery,’ Jazz reflected. I’ve never regretted my knob reduction, at least now it don’t poke out the bottom of me trousers!
The housemates laughed and shrieked and said ‘Wicked!’ but there were some who laughed more than others. A quiet looking girl with raven-dark hair and green eyes only smiled. Sitting beside her was a rather straight-looking young man dressed in smart but casual Timberland.
Hamish. real job: junior doctor. Star sign : leo
From the book ?Dead Famous’ by Ben Elton

One house. Ten contestants. Thirty cameras. Forty microphones. One survivor.
The words punched themselves onto the screen like first slamming into a face.
Frantic, angry rock music accompanied the post punk graphics and the grainy images supporting them.
A spinning hot-head camera.
A barbed wire fence.
A snarling guard dog.
A girl with her back to the camera removing her bra.
A close -up of a mouth , screaming and contorted with rage.
More big guitar noise, More jagged graphics.
Nobody watching could be in the slightest doubt that this was telly from the hip and for the hip. The message was clear: boring people should seek their entertainment elsewhere, but if you happened to be young, bigged up and mad for it, this was the show for you.
Nine weeks. No excuses. No escape.
House. Arrest.
A final blast of swooping feedback- laden guitar and the credits were over.For one last moment the Peeping Tom house was empty and all was calm. A big, bright friendly space, with a wide tiles living area , pleasant communal rooms bedrooms, stainless steel washrooms and showers and a swimming pool in the garden.
The front door opened and ten young people spilled through it, spreading out into the large open plan living area. Ten people who, the pre-publicity had assured the nation, had never met before in their lives.
They whooped, they shrieked, they hugged, they say ‘Wicked! over and over again. Some went into the bedrooms and jumped up and down on the beds, others did chin-ups on the door frames, one or two stood back a little and watched, but everybody seemed to be of the opinion tat the adventure of a lifetime had just begun and they simply could not be starting off on it with a more wicked crew.
Having clearly established the fact that the viewing public were in the company of a party crowd, the camera began to introduce the housemates individually.
The first to be picked out was an impossibly handsome young man with soft puppy eyes, boyish features and long shoulder-length hair. He wore a big black coat and carried a guitar. A graphic stamped itself across the man’s face, letters made out of bricks, like prison walls.
David. Real job: actor. Star sign : Aries
From the book ‘Dead Famous’ by Ben Elton

Jazz fixed Garry with a gaze he clearly believed was both enigmatic and intimidating. Jazz’s body was even better than Garry’s and he too kept his muscles in a pretty continuous state of tension. They seemed almost to ripple up and down his arms as he idly fondled the thick gold chain that hung round his neck and lay heavy on his beautiful honed chest. ‘Gorilla.’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t say “bloke”, you said “gorilla”.’
‘Did I? Well, what I mean is gorillas are big and strong, ain’t they? Like your lot.’
Over by the kitchen units Layla, the blonde hippie supermodel in her own mind, tossed her fabulous breaded braids in disgust, Inspector Coleridge knew that Layla had tossed her lovely hair in disgust, because the video edit he was watching had cut abruptly to her. There was no way that Peeping Tom was going to miss that snooty little middle-class sneer. Coleridge was quickly coming to realize that Peeping Tom’s editorial position was firmly anti intellectual pretension.
‘We consider ourselves to be the People’s Peeping Tom,’ Geraldine was quoted as saying in the article. Clearly she also considered Layla to be a stuck-up, humourless, middle class bitch, for that was how the edit was portraying her.
From the book ‘Dead Famous’ by Ben Elton