‘And, laaadeeez, I’ll be needing you to hold up fingers for points, ranging from one to five. It ain’t gonna be pretty. Rough seas poolside, people! To kick-start proceedings, I’ve drafted in a few of our more substantial crew members. Give it up for BORIS and FLABBA!’

On cue, two of the crew shambled forward, wearing bathrobes and clownfish caps à la Finding Nemo.

‘Okay, you big bruisers, show us what you’ve got.’

With painful reluctance, both draftees sheepishly shed their robes. Barrel-chested and bulging of stomach, their massive groins were incongruously clad in teeny, weeny, bright red and white budgie-smugglers. Shuffling self-consciously towards the diving boards, both crew members looked as though they’d rather endure a freak wave, an iceberg, hull flooding, a full-on pirate invasion or Robinson Crusoe–type marooning than face this public humiliation.

‘Boris! Step forward, bro.’ The tallest, biggest bloke trundled to the pool edge. ‘Boris is one of our sous chefs. So, how have you been training for your belly flop, dude?’

‘Well, I’ve been eating a lot,’ he replied, half-heartedly.

‘Not your own cooking, I bet!’ Brent scoffed.

The big chef looked genuinely baffled and hurt. But the entertainment officer had turned his attention to clownfish number two.

‘So, Flabba, as one of our valuable deckhands, can you tell us what your secret is for keeping in such fine physical condition?’ Brent condescended.

‘Rum and cokes,’ Flabba joked, trying to be convivial.

‘Great. So, you already have brain damage, that’s good – no need to alert health and safety! Right, are there no other takers for the splash competition?’ Brent gave a cursory glance around the crowd. ‘Okay then, let’s get started.’ Brent climbed to his observational perch on the lower diving board. A blast of Carole King’s ‘I Feel the Earth Move’ sounded from the speakers. ‘Now, if there’s a tie, we’ll have a “sudden death mode”, where I choose the prettiest ladies on board to push you in simultaneously, then see which woman gets the wettest.’

‘God,’ Emerald said, leaning up on her elbows for a better look at the entertainment officer’s peacockish display. ‘This wet analogy is making me dry.’

‘Yes,’ I muttered. ‘I’m pretty sure that bloke’s only ever had one long-term lover – his right hand.’

A crestfallen Boris climbed onto the high diving board and flopped in first, sending up a tidal wave of water to drench the front row of women, who squealed playfully. Boris emerged moments later, his pale belly pink from the impact.

‘I didn’t realise it was whale-spotting season!’ The entertainment officer wisecracked, showcasing flawless white veneers. ‘Only, Boris didn’t get that way eating krill, did you, duuuuude? Ladies, your verdict please.’

The audience of tipsy females hollered and hooted their piña-colada-fuelled encouragement, holding varying numbers of digits aloft.