Barry Loser Hates Half Term

by Jim Smith

  ‘Nancy’s dad knows EVERYTHING about flowers and insects and stuff, Donald!’ warbled Bunky down the phone, and I nodded, pretending I was listening. ‘It’s not all about poo - that’s just a way to get people like me and you interested.’

  I held the phone away from my ear and gave it my bored-face look, the way I do when my granny calls me up to talk about her day.

  ‘Anyway, Donald, let’s hook up for lunch sometime soon!’ I said, wondering if Bunky had turned into a comperleet loseroid without me there to keep him keel, and I hung up.

  ‘This bogie island stinks!’ I shouted over my shoulder to Renard and the others, and I started swimming towards the next one.

  ‘This one’s no good either - it’s comperleeterly covered in seaweed!’ I shouted, as I got to the next bogie island. Except I didn’t say it as clearly as that, because I’d put my mum-phone in my mouth to carry it.

  Renard had tied four logs together into a pirate raft and was paddling it towards me, with him, Sally Bottom, Stump Leg, Seymour and all the other kiddywinkles wobbling around on top of it.

  ‘What about the one over there?’ cried Seymour, nodding at a slightly bigger island about three and three quarter metres away. It was made out of sand instead of rock, with nothing growing on it apart from a single tree sticking out of the middle.

  ‘It won’t stink - it’s the only one without any seaweed on it!’ shouted Sally.

  ‘Eet eez our only chance, Barry!’ panted Renard, paddling towards it, and I twizzled round in the water. I started swimming over to the sand island, spotting Gordon, who’d climbed out of Stump Leg’s hole by now and was super-smugly-speed-swimming behind us.

  The raft bumped into the sand island at the exact millisecond I got to it too, and we all clambered on to the sand, me waggling my nose around in the air to make sure it didn’t stink.

  ‘Not smelly at all!’ I said.

  ‘Quick everyone, dig!’ shouted Stump Leg, whipping off her wooden leg and starting to scoop, and the rest of us started digging holes in the sand with our hands, like we were on the shortest summer holiday ever and wanted to make the most of it before going home.

  ‘Nothing!’ I panted, sticking my nose into my treasure-less hole, which was exackerly as deep as my nose, which is pret-ty deep.

  ‘Me neither!’ groaned Sally Bottom.

  ‘We must not geeve up!’ cried Renard, who was standing in his hole, his head sticking out the top of it, and I spotted Gordon, wading out of the water on to the sand island.

  ‘Stand back, you little losers, Gordy-Wordy is here!’ he sneered, dropping to his knees and starting to dig his own smug, ugly hole.

  And that’s when I heard the scraping noise.

  ‘TREASURE!’ shouted Stump Leg, and we all twizzled our heads round, apart from the ones who were already facing her. ‘It’s a treasure chest!’ she beamed.

  I jumped into Stump Leg’s hole, followed by Sally Bottom, then Seymour, then Renard. She’d dug a pret-ty big hole, in case you hadn’t realised.

  ‘Quickly!’ giggled Sally, scraping sand away from a dome-shaped wooden lid at the bottom of the hole, and we all joined in until we’d uncovered the smallest treasure chest any of us had ever seen. I don’t know why it needed four of us to scrape the sand away, actukeely.

  ‘MINE! THE TREASURE IS ALL MINE!’ warbled Gordon, trying to squidge himself into the hole with us all, but luckeely there wasn’t any more room.

  ‘There’ll never be enough treasure in there to make us rich!’ groaned Seymour, as Stump Leg lifted the chest out of the hole. Sally Bottom’s bottom lip started to wobble.

  ‘You must be positeeve, Zeymour!’ cried Renard, as Stump Leg lifted the lid and everybody gasped.

  You know gasps? Sometimes they aren’t because something’s amazing.

  ‘Ooh la la, zees is a big letdown, non?’ said Renard, as we peered into the chest.

  It wasn’t like the treasure chest was empty or anything. It was comperleeterly full.

  It was what it was full of that was the problem.

  ‘WOODCHIPS?!’ I cried. ‘Who in the name of Mogden Island needs more WOODCHIPS?!’

  A humungaloid cloud, kind of the same shape as a pirate ship, floated over, and little raindrops started to pitter-patter on to the surface of the lake.

  ‘NOW what?’ said Sally, as we all floated back to Mogden Island on the pirate raft, Stump Leg holding her treasure chest full of woodchips.

  Gordon waded out of Mogden Lake and limped up on to the beach after us, looking a teeny weeny bit embarrassed about how excited he’d been about the treasure. ‘I TOLD you lot there wasn’t any treasure!’ he shouted, and we ALL rolled our eyes.

  ‘Spose we just sit the rain out in our tents?’ I said, holding out my hand. A raindrop landed on it and I slurped it up, seeing as I hadn’t had a sip of water all day.

  We trudged back into the forest, no-one really saying anything much at all, and I kicked a twig, feeling all let down about the treasure. ‘Looks like we won’t be buying Mogden Island after all. Sorry if I got your hopes up, kiddywinkles,’ I said, my nose doing a droop.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Barry Loser,’ said Sally Bottom, giving me a smile, then all of a sudden the smile turned into a lip-wobble, and she started patting her pockets. ‘Clowny Wowny!’ she wailed. ‘Where’s my Clowny Wowny gone?’

  A raindrop splatted on to Seymour’s glasses and he wiped it away with his sleeve.

  ‘Last time I saw him, we were hiding from Morag behind that extra-wide tree. Maybe you dropped him there?’ he shrugged, which seemed like a good idea to me, so we all headed back to it, seeing as there wasn’t anything else to do.

  We skidded to our stops next to the particukeely wide tree. Not that we really skidded, because you can’t skid when all you’ve been doing is trudging.

  ‘All kiddywinkles successfully captured and returned to camp, Captain Morag!’ smiled Gordon, running in front of us and doing his rubbish salute, and I rolled my soggy gobstoppers, because it hadn’t been him who’d brought us back, we’d come back on our own.

  ‘Good work, Gordy-Wordy,’ grunted Morag, who was still sitting on her porch, reading her holiday magazine. ‘I’ll deal with you ’orrible lot later,’ she breathed, peering down at us through her tarantulas. ‘In the meantimes, Donald Cox’ll be ’ere soon. Give the old camp a sweep for me, wouldya?’ she said, pointing at a stack of brooms.

  ‘Sweep THIS, fat bum!’ shouted Stump Leg, turning her treasure chest upside down, and the woodchips tumbled out on to the ground.

  Morag got up off her rocking chair, then sat back down again. ‘Suit yerself . . . ’s’not like it’s gonna make any difference once Donald Cox starts knocking the ’ole place down!’ she cackled.

  I looked around at Pirate Camp and sighed. A raindrop sploshed on to the end of my nose, and I wondered if maybe it was one of Burt Barnacle’s tears. After all, this place had been his pride and joy.

  ‘Clowny Wowny, where are you?’ cried a little voice, and I snapped out of my daydream and spotted Sally Bottom scrabbling around in the bushes.

  I Future-Ratboy-zoomed my eyes around, looking for her cuddly toy, and I was just about to give up looking, mostly because looking for cuddly toys is comperleeterly boring, when I spotted something familikeels and furry-looking, sticking out from under a bush.

  ‘Clowny Wowny?’ I said, tugging on Clowny Wowny’s hand, and I pulled Clowny Wowny out.

  ‘Sally, I’ve found Clowny Wowny!’ I said, holding Clowny Wowny up above my head.

  And that’s when I saw the thing that was about to make me scream.

  ‘WAAAHHH!!! GIANT WOODLOUSE!!!’ I screamed, dropping Clowny Wowny and doing my world-famous leg-waggle dance.

  I was doing my leg-waggle dance because, scuttling out from under the bush towards Stump Leg’s woodchips, was the ginormerest woodlouse I’d ever seen.

  ‘Clowny Wowny!’ beamed Sally, jumping over the giant woodlouse, and she ran up to me. She picked Clowny
Wowny off the ground and gave him a cuddle, and I wondered if I could sneak off to my tent and give my cuddly Future Ratboy a quick hug, because the giant woodlouse really had given me a shockypoos.

  ‘Thank you, Barry Loser!’ said Sally, and I shrugged.

  ‘It was nothing,’ I said, pretending I hadn’t just screamed and done my leg-waggle dance like a comperleet loser.

  ‘And thank you for making Pirate Camp so fun today,’ said Sally, and Stump Leg, Renard and Seymour all nodded.

  ‘Yeah, Barry, that was the best time ever!’ said Seymour. ‘I wish YOU were in charge of Pirate Camp!’ he smiled, then he glared at Morag, not that she was taking any notice.

  ‘Thankskeels, kiddywinkles!’ I smiled, my nose undrooping, and I gave myself a mini-upside-down-salute in my pocket.

  ‘Unfortukeely, I don’t think I’ll be able to take over Pirate Camp though,’ I said, and just as I was wondering when Donald Cox was going to turn up and take over Mogden Island, one more raindrop hit me on the head and made a lightbulb turn on inside my brain.

  ‘Wait a millikeels,’ I said, pointing at the giant woodlouse, and everyone stopped talking, not that they’d been talking that much anyway.

  ‘What eez eet, Barry?’ asked Renard, walking over and putting his head next to mine, trying to see what I was seeing.

  ‘The giant woodlouse!’ I cried, pulling my mum-phone out of my pocket.

  Renard scratched his head and looked at me. ‘Bof. I am not understanding zees, Barry . . .’ he said, but there wasn’t time to explain.

  I Future-Ratboy-speed-dialled Darren’s number and the phone rang three times, then did a click. ‘This is Darren Darrenofski, I’m busy playing it keel right now, please leave a message,’ said Darren’s voice, then there was a beep.

  ‘Darren, this is Barry, I need to talk to Bunky!’ I cried, and I hung up. I slotted the mum-phone back into my pocket and it started ringing. ‘That was quick,’ I muttered, pulling it back out and pressing the ‘answer’ button.

  ‘Donald Cox?’ I said.

  ‘Donald!’ sniggled Bunky, and I did a sniggle back, even though there wasn’t time for sniggling.

  ‘Donald, listen up,’ I said. ‘Donald Cox is taking over Mogden Island. I need you to get over here - right now!’

  ‘Donald Cox?’ said Bunky, not sure if I was talking to him, or about the real-life Donald Cox.

  ‘That’s right - Donald Cox, Donald Cox!’ I said, beginning to confuse myself. ‘Look, there isn’t time to explain. Just get on the ferry - and bring Nancy and her dad with you too!’

  I slotted the mum-phone back into my pocket. The rain had stopped pitter-pattering and the sun appeared from behind a sofa-shaped cloud.

  ‘What’s the big idea, Bazza?’ said Stump Leg, and then she gasped.

  I twizzled my head round and did another one of those gasps you do when something bad has just happened.

  Standing in front of me was the real-life Donald Cox. He was carrying a briefcase and wearing one of those hard yellow hats people wear when they’re about to knock down a Pirate Camp.

  ‘It’s Donald Cox!’ cried Seymour, and Donald Cox held his arms out wide.

  ‘Somebody say my name?’ he boomed, taking off his sunglasses and grinning, his bright white teeth flashing like a shark’s. His eyes were smaller than I’d expected, and much closer together.

  ‘Had a shocker getting through those nettles, Morag!’ he chuckled, and I glanced down and spotted two dock leaves tucked into his socks.

  ‘Welcome to Pirate Camp!’ shouted Stump Leg, running up to him and stomping on his toe.

  ‘Arrrggghhh!!! Nobody treads on Donald Cox’s toes!’ screamed Donald Cox, even though Stump Leg just had.

  Gordon glided over from the pirate hut with three mugs of tea on a tray - one for Morag, one for Donald Cox, and one for himself.

  ‘Sorry ’bout our little friends, Donald,’ drawled Morag, handing Donald Cox a mug and taking one herself. ‘Soon as we sign the papers I’ll be calling their mums and dads to pick ’em up!’ she chuckled, and I looked at the time on my mum-phone.

  ‘Come on, Bunky!’ I whispered to myself, and I peered into Nettle Forest, waiting for his nose to come bobbing through the trees.

  I carried on peering into Nettle Forest for another ten minutes - enough time for Donald Cox and Morag to finish their mugs of tea, and for Gordon to pour his away when he thought no one was watching.

  ‘So . . . that’s the chit-chat done!’ said Donald, looking at Morag’s tattoo of a chicken drumstick and doing a little face to himself. He clicked the locks open on his briefcase. ‘Now to get down to business!’

  He opened the briefcase lid, and everybody gasped. Again.

  The whole inside of it was filled up with money - not the shiny gold coins you get in treasure chests though. This was paper money, enough to buy the whole of Mogden Island in one go.

  ‘Oooh, that is luvverly, Donald!’ grunted Morag, stroking the notes with her fat hand, and one of her raggedy old fake fingernails fell off, lying there on top of them like a bright red shiny dead woodlouse.

  ‘Urrgghhh,’ shivered Donald Cox, turning his small, close-together eyes away from the nail. ‘Anywaaay . . . shall we get this over and done with, Morag?’

  ‘Get WHAT over and done with?’ asked a familikeels voice, and I looked up and saw Bunky’s face.

  ‘Bunky!’ I cried, calling him ‘Bunky’ instead of ‘Donald Cox’ for the first time in about two weeks.

  ‘Barry!’ grinned Bunky. He was standing next to Darren, who was standing next to Nancy, who was standing next to her dad, Mr Verkenwerken, who was standing next to the particukeely wide tree trunk, looking like he was wondering what he was doing there.

  Donald Cox closed the lid of his briefcase and Morag yelped. ‘What’s all this craziness about?’ he said, looking at Bunky, Darren, Nancy and her dad.

  Morag heaved herself up off the log she was squatting on and took a puff on her asthma pump. ‘’Oo are you lot?’ she breathed, and Bunky, Darren, Nancy and Mr Verkenwerken all looked at each other, then at me.

  ‘Let me explain what’s going on here,’ I said, crossing my fingers and hoping my brilliant and amazekeel idea was as brilliant and amazekeel as I thought it was.

  I walked over to Mr Verkenwerken and gave him a wink, and he peered down at me and wrinkled his forehead, the way dads do when they’re trying to remember if they’ve met one of their kids’ friends before.

  ‘Mr Verkenwerken here is Mogden’s number one expert on nature,’ I said, pointing at his outfit, which was green shorts with loads of pockets in them, a pair of really long pulled-up white socks, a green short-sleeved shirt with even more pockets than the shorts, some binoculars round his neck, and a magnifying glass that was hanging from his belt.

  Everybody nodded, and Mr Verkenwerken stood up straight and put his hands into two of his pockets, looking all pleased with himself.

  ‘I haven’t got time for this, little boy!’ boomed Donald Cox, pulling a pen out of his inside pocket. ‘Let’s sign these papers, Morag - I’ve got a meeting in thirty on the other side of Mogden.’

  He clicked the end of his pen and pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. He handed the pen to Morag and grinned his bright white teeth.

  ‘Good finking, Donald,’ snuffled Morag, scribbling her name on the dotted line. Donald snatched the pen back and held it a millimetre above the page.

  ‘Er, you might want to think about that, Donald,’ I said, as he moved it a billimetre closer to the paper.

  ‘Donald Cox doesn’t think!’ said Donald Cox. ‘Donald Cox DOES!’ and he was just about to sign his name when I whipped Gordon’s little luxury lodges brochure out of his smug, ugly back pocket.

  ‘Ah, I see you’ve seen my brochure!’ laughed Donald, his hand doing a freeze-frame, and I held the brochure up for everyone to see.

  ‘Bunky, would you be so kind as to read out what it says on the front cover?’ I said, and Bunk
y Future-Ratboy-zoomed his eyes in on the brochure.

  ‘Donald Cox’s Luxury Wooden Lodges!’ said Bunky, looking all proud of himself, even though all he’d done was read out some words.

  ‘Thank you, Bunky,’ I said, folding the brochure back up and tucking it into MY back pocket, just to annoy Gordon.

  Donald Cox waggled his eyebrows and held his arms out. ‘And your point is, little boy?’ he asked, peering down at me.

  I stroked my chin, pretending to think a bit, even though I knew exackerly what I was going to say.

  ‘Now, there’s one word on that brochure of yours that interests me, Donald,’ I said, whipping it out of my pocket again. I don’t know why I put it away really, seeing as I was going to get it out again so quickly.

  ‘And which word is that?’ said Donald, looking at his watch. Morag was standing behind him, her arms folded, looking all annoyed at me.

  ‘WOODEN!’ I boomed, slapping the brochure against the particukeely wide tree trunk, and Mr Verkenwerken blinked.