by Harry Hill
‘No I didn’t, she did!’ said the other, then they lunged at each other again. Mr Archer grabbed the two girls firmly by their collars and held them apart like a couple of pit bull terriers.
‘You two had better see me for some extra training after school – and I don’t mean boxing,’ he snapped. ‘Now get to assembly!’ and he gave them a shove towards the school hall.
As the other kids dispersed, Mr Archer leant in and helped Matt up. ‘I see you’ve finally got all the girls fighting over you then, Matt!’ he said with a wry smile.
‘It’s crazy, sir! I’m the same person I was a couple of days ago!’
‘Hmm, not in their eyes. I watched the show the other night – you did a great job and Magda and her mum were thrilled, so thank you for that. Let me know if you get any more bother from those two!’ he said nodding towards the girls who were now arm in arm, skipping to assembly. ‘You’d better get a move on and join them. I hear Mr P is planning a bit of a speech …’
‘Thanks, sir!’ said Matt and jogged after them, maintaining a safe distance.
*
‘Good morning, school!’ said Mr Pavey brightly from behind the lectern.
‘Good morning, Mr Pavey,’ droned the whole school back at him.
‘Mr Pavey can’t hear you!’ said Mr Pavey, punching the air with his fist. ‘I want to hear you make some noise!’
Matt, Ahmed and Rob looked at each other and burst out laughing, closely followed by the entire school. Including the teachers.
‘What is he on?’ whispered Ahmed.
‘Er …’ said Mr Pavey, suddenly flustered and looking at his notes. ‘Not that sort of noise!’
The whole school then immediately started talking to each other.
‘Not that sort of noise either!’ bellowed Mr P, his face red and his composure all but gone. This was the Pavey the kids were used to, the red-faced, shouty one. The school, as one, returned to obedient silence.
‘Thank you,’ said the headmaster with a sigh, taking a moment to pull himself together.
‘Now, many of you will have seen a certain television programme the other night …’
There were a couple of cheers from the back of the hall. Matt turned round to see if he could see who was responsible and realised the entire school was looking at him.
‘… and I don’t mean the Ten O’Clock News! Ha ha!’ continued Mr P, but he was the only person laughing. ‘Oh,’ he said, shuffling his papers. ‘I thought that would go for more. Ahem! No, of course I’m talking about The T Factor and our own pupil, Matt Millz.’
There was a spontaneous round of applause and cheering that seemed to Matt to go on forever.
‘I’m sure you’d like to congratulate Matt on a job very well done. I think you’ll all agree, as you younger generation say, he smashed it!’
Another round of applause started up even louder than the first.
Matt jumped to his feet and took a bow, which sent the kids into a frenzy – they started stamping their feet and chanting his name. For the first time since The T Factor Matt took a moment to bask in his new-found glory. ‘Could things get any better than this?’ he wondered.
*
‘I thought I’d find you in here,’ said Matt’s English teacher Mr Gillingham, bursting into the DMC at first break as Matt, Ahmed and Rob waited for Kitty to turn up to reveal her masterplan. Mr G had been a big supporter of Matt’s right from his and Rob’s attempt at a double act in the school talent show – ‘Anglebrook’s Got Talent’ – just a few weeks earlier.
‘You’re a rather difficult boy to track down, Matt,’ he puffed.
‘We’re hiding, sir!’ said Ahmed.
‘Hiding?’ said Mr G.
‘Yeah, if I go out into the playground I either get mobbed or threatened with physical violence,’ said Matt.
‘Ah, the price of fame,’ said Mr G wistfully. ‘Celebrity is a mask that eats into the face. Who said that?’
‘You did, sir,’ said Matt.
‘No, I mean who said it originally?’
‘Lady Gaga?’ ventured Ahmed.
‘John Updike – an author I’d strongly recommend, but I’m guessing you’ve got other stuff on your mind right now. I thought you were great on The T Factor, by the way, really self-assured – but don’t forget while all this attention is swirling around you that you have an exam at the end of term. You’re good at English, Matt – you’ve got a great way with words and I’d like to see that reflected in your grade.’
‘What about my way with words, sir?’ chipped in Rob.
‘I think we’d both agree you’re better with a paintbrush than a pen, Rob.’
‘Don’t worry, sir, I promise my studies won’t suffer,’ said Matt with a grin.
‘Good, and I do expect another strong issue of “Pavey’s Punchlines” for the school magazine this week, too.’
‘We’re on it, sir!’ said Rob.
‘Was that all you came to tell me, sir?’ asked Matt, swinging his legs absent-mindedly. ‘It’s just when you walked in it seemed like there was something urgent …’
‘Good point, I almost forgot,’ he said. ‘The head wants to see you!’
‘Pavey wants to see me?’ said Matt sitting up with a start.
‘Mister Pavey, yes he does …’
‘What have I done this time?’ said Matt exchanging a worried glance with Rob.
‘I’ve no idea, but you’d better get over to his office pronto. Lessons start in ten minutes.’
As Matt walked up the corridor past the staff room to Mr Pavey’s office, he racked his brains as to what minor infringement of school rules he may have committed. He checked his tie – yup, top button done up. He checked his lapels – no unauthorised badges. He checked his shoes – hmm, they hadn’t seen any polish for a while, so he stopped for a moment to buff each one up in turn on the back of his trouser legs.
As he approached the head’s office he read the brass plaque on the door: Meredith Pavey (NPQH).
‘What do those letters stand for?’ wondered Matt. ‘Not Pretty, Quite Hairless? Um …’
He reached into his pocket for his little black book and scribbled ‘What initials really stand for’. Yes, people were always using abbreviations but what if they stood for something else? That might be a nice little routine.
As Matt scribbled the ideas in his little black book the door to Mr Pavey’s office swung open. Matt looked up and to his surprise out walked Kitty Hope.
‘Hi, Kit! What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve just had a really weird meeting with Mr Pavey,’ she hissed, a slightly perplexed look on her face.
‘Weird? In what way?’ said Matt.
‘Well …’ she hesitated, looking genuinely puzzled, then she leant up and whispered in Matt’s ear. ‘He asked me to represent him!’
‘What?’ exclaimed Matt, his eyebrows shooting skywards hitting his fringe and then bouncing back down to form a frown.
‘Yes, he wants me to look after him for all his “media work”!’
‘Media work?’ said Matt. ‘What media work?’
She shrugged. ‘He seems to be under the impression he’s got a big future on TV! He also said he was going to try and work more comedy into his assemblies …’
‘More comedy?’ said Matt with a smirk. ‘You’re right, that is weird.’
‘And he wants me to organise a big gig at the school for Children in Need.’
‘Well, that’s not a bad idea,’ said Matt. ‘It’s a great cause.’
Just then the door to Mr Pavey’s office opened and the man himself appeared, his bald head catching the bright sunlight that was streaming from behind him through his office window and reflecting it directly into Matt’s eyes. ‘Jeez,’ thought Matt, ‘that head’s so shiny you could send signals with it!’ but before he could jot it into his little book, Mr P had grabbed his hand and started shaking it vigorously.
‘Ah, Matt! Good to see you!’ beamed Mr Pavey, looking very
pleased with himself. ‘Thank you, Kitty, it was very helpful talking to you. Do let me know your decision and rates. This is the start of a whole new era for Anglebrook! Now, Matt, you’d better come on in. We have much to discuss!’ He gave Matt’s hand a yank and pulled him into the fusty wood-panelled office.
Matt felt a sense of déjà vu as he sat down in the battered old red-leather chair opposite Mr P’s desk – he’d been here many times before, usually when he was in trouble. Mr P reached into his desk drawer, produced a dusty old tin, leant across the desk and offered it to Matt.
‘Would you like a toffee?’ he said.
Matt had been caught out by those toffees before – it seemed that Mr P wasn’t aware of things like sell-by dates.
‘No thank you, sir, I’ve already eaten.’
‘Yes well, good,’ said Mr P taking a toffee from the tin, popping it into his mouth, giving it a quick chew then discreetly spitting it out into the palm of his hand and dropping it into the bin. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. We were all terribly impressed with how you conducted yourself the other night on The F Factor—’
‘T Factor, sir,’ interjected Matt.
‘What?’ said Mr P.
‘It’s a T, not an F.’
‘A cup of tea?’ said Mr P. ‘Certainly, forgive me! Thirsty work!’ he leant forward and picked up the handset of the phone on his desk and pressed a button. ‘Steven, could you bring a cup of tea in for my guest please? Thank you. Milk and sugar?’ he said to Matt, putting his hand over the receiver.
‘Er … just milk thanks …’ said Matt, more than a little baffled at how the meeting was progressing.
‘Just milk, Steven, please! What? Steven’s asking if you’d like a biscuit?’
‘Really, I’m fine, sir, thank you!’ said Matt, figuring that if the toffees were anything to go by it was probably best to steer clear of the biscuits too.
‘Good …’ said Mr Pavey hanging up the phone, leaning back in his chair and cracking his knuckles. ‘Now where was I?’
‘Um, you were talking about The P Factor, I mean The T Factor.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mr P sitting forward again. ‘Yes, as I was saying, we all thought you were marvellous on The F Tractor, I mean The T Factor. This could be very good for the school, Matt! We at Anglebrook want to attract the very finest pupils, and the sort of shop window that all this media attention your performance has garnered us could work wonders for the calibre of children applying, and therefore our exam results and our OFSTED report. What’s good for the school of course is good for the head teacher of that school – in other words, ahem, me. You’re sure you don’t want a toffee?’ he said proffering the tin again.
‘I’m fine thanks, sir.’
‘Save one for later,’ said Mr P, taking a moist-looking toffee out of the tin and placing it on the desk in front of Matt. He then licked his fingers and pulled a face like a dog that’s just chewed a stinging nettle.
‘Plenty more where that came from if you play your cards right, Matt,’ continued Mr P, turning to admire his own reflection in the glass bookcase to his right. He licked his index finger and ran it coquettishly over his left eyebrow, leaving behind a small deposit of toffee and spit.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Matt, watching as a large bluebottle landed on the toffee on the desk in front of him. ‘I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not sure what you want me to do.’
The bluebottle took one sniff of the toffee and decided it didn’t fancy it either. Unfortunately its feet were firmly embedded in the ancient sticky sweet and it was stuck fast.
‘Your future is our future, Matt! If you continue to er … smash it …? Is that the correct term?’
‘Um, yes, smash it, or storm it, sir.’
‘Yes, I really must learn some of these terms. Perhaps you could write me a list of useful stand-up-related phrases?’
‘Yes, yes, I can do that, sir,’ said Matt, even more perplexed now.
‘Naturally as headmaster of Anglebrook, there’s been a lot of interest in my input into your success. How I shaped and moulded you, how I recognised this raw, untamed talent and shaped it into the highly entertaining young comedian that you have become …’
‘Is that before or after you gave me a detention for my effort in the school talent show?’ chirped up Matt. He wasn’t going to let Pavey get away with that! The idea that Mr P had created his success really irked him. He’d done well on The T Factor for one reason and one reason only – because he’d spent every spare moment of his free time with Kitty in the DMC working on his routine.
‘Eh?’ said Mr P, pausing for a moment. ‘Oh! Well, yes, a slight misunderstanding on my part! I don’t think we need to dwell on that! I mean it was early days, but even then I noticed something in you, this tiny little burning ember of talent that I fanned and nurtured. I gave it oxygen so that it might grow into the raging inferno that it has become.’
As Mr P continued bigging himself up, Matt noticed that the bluebottle was flapping its wings furiously in an attempt to free its feet from the toffee. Matt snuck a look at his watch – nearly the end of break time! He felt a bit like that fly.
‘Sorry, sir, but lessons are about to start,’ he said looking back up at Mr P, ‘… and I don’t want to be late. I mean it’s really important for Anglebrook that I get good grades isn’t it, sir?’
‘Oh! Yes of course,’ said Mr P. ‘Quite so, yes, the world is watching, Matt! I suppose all I’m saying really is keep me abreast of developments. Let me know if there’s anything you need me to do, you know, if you want me to come along to any of these TV appearances and chip in and so forth … keep me in the loop, so to speak!’
‘Will do, sir,’ said Matt, getting to his feet.
‘Oh, and Matt …?’
‘Yes, sir?’
Mr P hesitated and fiddled with his tie awkwardly.
‘Would you put in a good word for me with Kitty Hope regarding representation? She didn’t seem at all sure …’
‘Well …’ said Matt, but before he could answer, the bluebottle finally managed to become airborne – unfortunately its feet were still attached to the toffee. It rose up from the desk on its toffee hoverboard, lurching first to the left, then to the right, then up towards the ceiling, bounced off the light shade and came to rest on top of Mr Pavey’s bald head and stuck fast.
‘I’d save that for later, sir!’ quipped Matt, quick as a flash. The door opened and in walked Steven with a cup of tea. Seeing the fly, he let out a scream and sent the tea flying. Matt seized the opportunity and headed for the open door.
As he skipped down the corridor he couldn’t wait to tell Rob and Ahmed what had happened.
10
O2 What Can the Matter Be?
‘Rob! Where have you been? We’re going to be late!’
It was ten minutes before the cab was due to pick them up and Rob had only just turned up on Matt’s doorstep. Ahmed had arrived a good forty minutes early but here was Rob looking flushed, breathless and slightly dishevelled and, more importantly, on his own.
‘Where’s Magda?’ said Matt.
‘That’s why I’m late,’ panted Rob. ‘She twisted her ankle playing netball. I’ve just left her at A & E – she’s not coming.’
‘That is so lame,’ said Ahmed.
‘Er … yeah, by definition if she can’t walk on one leg then yes, she is lame – what’s your point?’ said Rob testily – he was clearly under a lot of pressure.
‘Just sayin’ there’s a fifty-quid ticket wasted, bruv. If I’d known, I could have asked Jasmine.’
‘Yeah, you could have asked her and looked like a right idiot when she turned you down,’ shot back Rob. He was starting to get angry.
‘Yeah well—’ continued Ahmed, but Matt stepped in.
‘Listen, never mind all the backchat, you’re here now. Ahmed’s right though, we’ve got a spare ticket.’
Just then the doorbell went.
Matt looked at his watch.
‘That’ll be the minicab,’ he said and went off to answer it. When Matt opened the door, standing before him was an older gentleman in a grey three-piece suit, peaked cap and driving gloves.
‘Master Millz?’
‘That’s right,’ said Matt.
‘My name’s Alf. I’m your chauffeur for the night, sir. Your chariot awaits. Do you have any luggage, sir?’
Matt looked past the gent and standing in the road in front of the house was a shiny black Rolls Royce Phantom.
‘Er … you sure you’ve got the right address?’ said Matt.
‘Oh, very definitely, sir. Mr Hart sent me, to take you and your colleagues to the O2.’
‘Woah! Look at that!’ said Ahmed, mouth agape, peering round the door. ‘Is Justin Bieber in town?’
‘He says it’s for us,’ said Matt.
‘That is some minicab, bruv,’ chortled Ahmed. ‘Rob! take a look at this!’
Rob joined them. ‘You never stop amazing me, Matt,’ said Rob, joining the other two at the door, equally astounded.
‘Ahem!’ said the old gent. ‘I hate to chivvy things along but we really must be going if we are to make the start of the show. Particularly if you have any pre-show refreshments in mind.’
‘Come on,’ said Ahmed, hurtling up the garden path towards the Roller. Rob chased after him and Matt grabbed his jacket and followed suit.
‘Wow! there’s a fridge!’ said Rob nestling into the plush leather seats and pulling open all the little drawers and cupboards.
‘Help yourself to drinks and snacks,’ said Alf from the driver’s seat.
‘Woah! And a TV!’ said Ahmed, pulling open a flap to reveal a TV that was bigger than the one he had in his front room at home.
‘Just the three of you, sir?’ said the chauffeur pulling away from the house and down the steep incline of Bathurst Street.
‘Yeah, the three musketeers,’ said Ahmed.
‘Oh I understood there were four of you?’ said Alf. ‘That leaves one ticket unused. Such a shame as I understand the show is sold out.’