Ok. I am going to purposefully use the Count-without-an-o word twice in this chapter. Sorry about this. You see it coming the first time, so just read that bit with your eyes shut, and the second bit is in Quentin's cabin. So sorry – it's not something I like to say myself on a regular basis, although I noticed I use it a lot more now that I'm writing this… anyway. Enjoy this new chapter – more plot summary than usual, sorry. Next chapter is ninety-nine percent mine (Court's birthday aaand the King is coming! No, not Elvis, you dolts. Iiit's…. Gavin Kavanagh! Yaay!

-for you!

The Kinks were playing so loud that I didn't even hear the girls arrive. It was Saturday, and I was broadcasting; I always did the Saturday midday slot purely because of Sensational Saturday. Apparently, being both Quentin's daughter and female, I could invite someone onto the boat at any time, but I tried to avoid Saturdays.

I felt sorry for Carl - he had found out about the event only yesterday and had had no time to think up an excuse for not having anyone to bring.

So it was Carl, Simon, John, Felicity and I who sat forlornly in the boiler room in silence. Felicity, as usual, immersed herself in dough. I baked cookies with Carl to show him my mastery in the art of procrastination. Then, a warm choc-chip cookie in my hand, I settled down to the unpleasant task.

"You know," Simon said suddenly, breaking the silence that had grown in the room, this really is a very interesting book." I looked at it: My Year With The Woodpeckers.

"Is it?" asked Carl languidly.

"Oh, yeah. You see my father used to collect woodpeckers."

"Did he really?"

"Yeah! No," I snorted.

"It sounds enthralling. I envy you." He gave me a scathing look that plainly said he didn't believe me. "No, seriously, I do. I'm writing to my mother."

"Oh," Simon said knowledgeably. "Fair enough."

"Why?" Carl asked.

"Just thanking her for my birthday present that she sent me."

"Oh, when was your birthday?" Something in his camera clicked into place.

"It's not until Tuesday, but she's super-organised." I saw a thoughtful expression cross Carl's angular face.

"So what was it?"

"Better than normal," I rejoined quickly. "I think she finally wants me back." Simon laughed sarcastically.

The Count walked past with twin blondes in cowboy hats. I tried not to laugh. He made it up two steps towards his cabin, then stopped. "Oh, Simon –" he came back down and pulled something from his back jeans pocket – "I might not be up first thing in the morning, so I thought I'd give this to you now." Simon took it warily. "Just something I've been thinking about." He ushered the twins up the stairs again. "Now, do you two mind if I call you by the same name? Twins can be kind of confusing."

"You can call us anything you want," one of them replied. He shot us a look like he thought he was extremely lucky.

"Oh, Jesus… Um… Fred?" I rushed over to Simon and looked at the piece of paper. Blowjob.

"Oh, that's original," I shouted after him. "Real mature."

"Hey, you shut up or I'll give you a word that just can't be said on national radio," he replied.

"Fat?"

His only reply was a glimpse of his middle finger as he followed the twins up the stairs. I smiled wryly. "Wait!" I called up after him. He stopped again. "I'll say the word you're thinking of if you'll say 'fuck' for your Very Foolish Thing."

There was a pause. "All right. If you're good." Then he was gone.

"What's this?" Carl asked. "What's with the Count and his little bit of paper?"

"Oh, it's nothing, just a sort of old tradition. The Count gives us a word every day that we have to try and fit into our broadcast without anyone noticing. On Monday it's really easy, like a food or an obscene animal, but by Sunday it's… it's pretty hard."

"So can I see what it is? Can I see?"

"Oh, it's not… it's just… blowjob."

"Wow." Carl took the piece of paper and looked at it, grinning.

"It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it," Simon said resignedly. I chuckled.

"You think you've got it bad, did you hear what I just agreed to do? Fuck, that was stupid." Simon patted me on the back.

"I think I can trump that," John said awkwardly. "The Count said he's going to give me fellatio."

I blinked. Nobody said anything as we all wondered whether we'd heard that right. "What was that now, John?"

"I mean – not that, I mean in a note, you know…"

"Oh," Carl said relievedly. "Right." I was still helpless with giggles. "So what are you going to do?"

"I was thinking of pretending he was the Prime Minister of Italy," he said, convulsing me back into stitches. "Seńor Fel-eh-tio?" I fell off the chair next to Simon. "It's not funny, Courtenay!"

Dave walked in. "Ooh," he said, taking in John's pained expression and ignoring me writhing on the floor, "sad room." He mimed crying and sat down opposite Carl. I collected myself enough to sit up again. Dave looked at Carl seriously. "I've come to get you out of your predicament," he said.

Carl looked innocent. "What predicament?"

"The whole 'sad-act, no-girl, unused-pencil-sized-penis' predicament."

I snorted again. "Oh," said Carl awkwardly.

"Walk this way," said Dave, and left the way he had come. I sobered.

"Oh, no, he's not, is he?" I said. But I knew Dave; he almost definitely was going to do what I thought he was doing.

"No," said Simon. "Don' walk that way." Carl looked at me uncertainly. I shrugged.

"You want my opinion? It's not going to work. You might as well try, though, right?"

"No," Simon repeated as Carl stood up. "No, walk – walk woodpecker way." Even Carl snorted.

"Just go," I told him. "It might be fun."

A few minutes later, I subtly walked past Dave's cabin on the way to my own and paused a few seconds. I was just about to assume the 'plan' had worked when I heard a scream. "Aah! No! Wrong room… sorry."

Before I could react, the door in front of me opened and Carl walked out, naked as the day he was born, clutching his genitals. I cracked up laughing and hastily averted my eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing!" I defended. "I'm sorry – I'm not looking – I was just on my way back to my room and I heard you scream…" He stood there for a few seconds while I laughed, then he snorted pathetically too.

"Shut up," he said good-naturedly. "Come on."

Simon started out his Super Sunday Smashes with a record by Whistling Jack Smith. Carl and I sat outside the recording studio, watching through the glass, listening. "So what word were you going to say tonight?" Carl asked me.

I looked at him. "I'll give you a clue. I don't usually say it, and it starts with 'c'."

"Oh."

Simon started to talk and we shut up pronto. "We're going to start out with a record by Whistling Jack Smith. And for any of you who don't know how to whistle, it's simple: just put your lips together and blow–job done!" He looked at us with his arms raised questioningly. I grinned and waggled my fingers at him in a 'so-so' gesture.

John was up next with the news and weather. I was laughing before he even walked into the studio. John's Sunday broadcasts were always the best; he was so serious and the Count unfailingly gave him words like 'cock' that just didn't fit into the News.

"And the Italian liner, Michelangelo, was today launched. Prime Minister Seńor Fellatio was in attendance."

Felicity joined us with popcorn to hear Dave's broadcast around lunchtime. He was busy announcing the winner of a competition they'd had running.

"And it is a great night for everyone on board Radio Rock but especially for our competition winner! Harold, drumroll please!" Harold struck up a vigorous beat on the desk. "And the winner is… Miss Phyllida Nyss!" He made cheering noises. "Hang on – is that Phyllida or Phillipa, Harold?" Harold looked at the piece of paper, which looked suspiciously like it came from the Count's back pocket. "No? All right, well, let's not take any risks, shall we? The lucky winner – who will be joining the other ninety-nine lucky winners on board the Triumph trip to the boat next Saturday – is Miss Penis."

I shook my head sadly. Dave put on a hoarse, Gavin-Kavanagh-type voice. "Radio Rock, 203, enjoy this tune." He put on a record and flicked off his mike. "Penis, done and dusted," he said triumphantly. I kept shaking my head. Pathetic. "Harold, file that under 'Penis.'"

John leaned over me towards the window. "No, Dave, we're not sure about that."

"Why?"

"Pathetic, mate. Penis. You can do better than that." I joined John in giving Dave the thumbs-down.

"Yeah, well, it's penis, isn't it –"

"Yeah, but anyone could just say…" Felicity said doubtfully.

"All right, everyone's a critic," Dave replied huffily.

"Disappointing, Dave," I said. "Disappointing."

The clock wound down slowly. I usually slept in on Sundays because I broadcasted late, but I'd got up at six that morning to watch Simon fit 'blowjob' into his broadcast. By the time Mark stepped into the studio, Carl's eyes were drooping and my stomach hurt from yawning too much.

"Hey, Mark," I said as he entered, "what's your word?"

He stopped. "Fuck," he said absently. I wondered for a second if that was his word, but then he shrugged. I grinned.

I think he played slow music to deliberately put me to sleep. My head almost hit Carl's shoulder several times.

"And now, one of my favorite tracks," he said dreamily, "recorded on November the 8th 1956, from the famous…" he pulled a slip of the Count's paper from his pocket and his mouth twitched as he read it, "…Cocksucker Sessions." I laughed. "What a gathering that must have been."

I started a round of applause. Irritating Mark's slow, dreamy manner may have been, but nothing fazed him. He didn't even break a sweat. The others joined in as he and I switched places. The Count pointed at his eyes, then mine as I sat down in the chair and put on the headphones decorated with peace-sign stickers. I stifled a yawn.

Fuck. How was I going to be able to think straight enough to slip the 'c' word into my show when I could hardly keep my eyes open? Then, as another yawn took violent possession of my mouth, I had an idea. It wasn't brilliant, but I thought it was better than 'Miss Penis'.

I shot the Count a look as I switched on my intro and my mike. "And the time is… um, eleven pm on Sunday night and I'm half-asleep because I got up to listen to Simple Simon's Sunday Smashes! If any of you guys missed it that's too bad because it was a doozy, folks. But now eleven's getting a bit much for me and I'll have to get someone to wake me up at the end of each record, thank God I'm only on for an hour tonight.

"And another thing to thank Him for is that I don't live on the mainland, because then I'd have to drive home and driving while drowsy is very dangerous, guys. Very dangerous. I hear coppers nowadays are actually attempting to make it illegal in this cunt," I said it with finality so that it was noticeable, then faked another huge yawn. "Country. Sorry. Anyway, just in case any of you listeners are nodding off at the wheel, here's something to wake us all up: the new record from Stevie Winwood, Gimme Some Lovin'!"

I flicked it on and dared a tentative look through the glass. Felicity did the thumbs up. Harold was grinning all over his childish face. Carl nodded, but with an 'all right' smile on his face. The looks everywhere were generally approving.

The Count looked crestfallen. I pointed my middle and index fingers at him and mimed pulling the trigger of a gun.

Courtenay: 1, Count: 0.

By Monday, of course, I'd forgotten all about the deal. I was having lunch with Dad in his cabin and discussing how nicely Carl was fitting in when I heard the Count's voice on the radio.

"All right, this was the deal: I asked all of you to demand of me to do a Vey Foolish Thing," the radio gave him a musical stab in the background.

I stood up. "Oh, shit," I said. "I forgot."

Dad looked at me. "What?"

"The Count and I had a deal that if I said… something… last night, he'd say 'fuck' for his Foolish Thing."

There was a pause. Then Dad stood up too. "He can't do that. He can't actually say 'fuck' on national radio."

"Why not? John did it last Sunday. I said 'cunt' yesterday."

"Yes, I heard that," he gave me a severe look, "But you covered it up, albeit badly. He's about to make a grand pomp and ceremony about it." He walked out of the cabin. "I'm sorry, but I can't let him do it."

I followed him hurriedly. "But Dad –" I shut up and listened to the radio.

"You sent in ideas in their millions and one idea has trumped them all. But the real reason I'm doing this today is for the wonderfully charismatic Courtenay, because it is her birthday tomorrow, and I wanted to do something special."

"See, Daddy? He's doing it for my birthday. Please?"

"I'm sorry, darling, but the government will shut us down."

I continued to protest until we reached the studio; the Count had just started the ceremonious process of the 'f' sound at the beginning of the word when Dad opened the door, swiping his hand across his neck.

"Fff… first, though," the Count covered hesitantly, "this very fine piece of music." He slapped the Hollies on and turned to face Quentin expectantly.

"You can't do this."

"Why not?" he asked indignantly. "It's just a word! Courtenay said worse yesterday!"

"Charming thought, but the simple situation is that the authorities already dislike us," said Dad matter-of-factly, "and if you do this then they will hate us and by hook or by crook they will find a way to close us down."

"Uh, they can't close us down," the Count replied. "We're pirates. That's why we're sitting out here in the middle of the freaking ocean!" There were a few cries of 'hear, hear' from outside. I personally enjoyed living in the middle of the ocean, but I kept quiet about that.

"Believe me, they will find a way. Governments loathe anyone being free." I began clasping my hands together in a begging gesture and mouthing the word 'please' behind his back. The others outside were making noises of disgust.

"Okay," the Count said reluctantly, moving back to the desk. I sighed and went to sit with the others. Quentin looked at his mistrustfully. "Okay, I'm thinking about it," he said. Dad folded his arms and leaned patiently against the doorframe. I grabbed a handful of popcorn from Simon.

"He'd better do it," I muttered. "I did not say the 'c' word yesterday for nothing." Simon patted me sympathetically on the back.

"Okay," the Count said again. He turned the Hollies down and his mike up. "My dear comrades," he said officially, "I have some sad news. The powers that be have decreed that the 'f' word is a word too far; but at least, even though our dreams of freedom have died a tragic death, the Hollies are still alive." He turned them up again. I felt like crying; so, the Count had won after all.

"Thank you," Dad said sadly. I noticed that the Count had turned the mike towards Quentin.

"I don't know why you did that," he said. "I was just going to say 'fuck' once. Just one tiny little 'fuck'." I gleefully registered that he was tilting his head towards the mike as he spoke. I whispered as much to Carl and Simon.

"There's no such thing as a 'tiny little fuck'," Dad replied. I was now trying to keep giggles in.

Dave, in the other studio with his headphones on, piped up, "yeah, there is; you should ask Angus's girlfriend." Angus made an indignant noise.

"Be that as it may," Dad maintained, "there's no fucks this morning that won't fuck us up." I snorted once, painfully, as I tried not to give the game away. This was getting good. "One day, in a world of dreams, we'll be able to say 'wank' or 'bollocks' or even 'cock' on the radio," I'd said all of those words seriously before and began to shrink in my chair, "but 'fuck'? Never."

I tapped Harold and nodded. Now, I thought, was the time to end it. He ran around to the door. "Excuse me, your Lordship," he said apologetically.

"Yes, Harold," the Count said innocently. He knew exactly what was going on and for that split second, I loved him for it.

"You've left your mike up in the studio."

"Oh!" he looked at the mike that he'd lifted up with one finger to catch Dad's voice better. "So I have. Uh…" I stood up and clapped enthusiastically while the others laughed. "I, uh… I do apologise to everyone out there for the four… was it five?" I nodded and held up five fingers, "five 'f' words, Quentin." He laughed. "Uh," another spate of chuckles disturbed his speech. "The Hollies will continue undisturbed."

I started to feel slightly bad for Daddy, who looked thoroughly pissed. "Gee, I'm really sorry about that, Quentin. You sounded good, though, you have a lovely voice for radio…" He petered out.

"Fuck off."

I snorted as Dad walked out and the Count turned back to the mike. "That makes it six… and it couldn't have turned out better, in my opinion." He looked at me and saluted me clumsily. I returned the gesture. "Happy birthday, Courtenay."