Rebel Without A Vest

It's 41 degrees, sweat is pouring off me and I'm sitting around in my underwear (bikini), only moving to dunk myself in the pool or the sea, turn a page of my book or take a swig of my drink.  This hotel, however, is filled with men (who surprisingly don't smell terrible) who are fully clothed, running around, filling glasses, sweeping up rubbish, taking towels to the laundry, cleaning tables, picking rubbish off the beach, standing in the full blaze of the sun to keep the riff-raff out.  They all have their own uniforms.  The towel men wear green and purple.  The security guards wear black trousers and white shirts with epaulets, making them look like policemen and really should be given an umbrella to stand under.  The men who pick the litter off the beach have T-shirts, emblazoned with 'Beach Boy' on the back.  I keep waiting for the Beach Boys to burst into the chorus of Good Vibrations, but they never do.  The staff in the restaurants all wear white and it is here that I first notice they all wear vests and now I can't stop looking and they are all wearing vests.  How do they do that?

Then I spot him, the cheeky chappie with the enormous grin.  The one rebel without a vest.