Dead Famous

DAY TWENTY-FOUR. 10.00 a.m.

“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.”