Spud

by Unknown

  Mom finished telling the story and we all looked at Wombat who refused to show any remorse and said that Dingbat didn’t deserve the money because she didn’t even bother to attend her parents’ funerals. Dad shook his head and looked depressed – no doubt he was thinking about inheriting a station wagon instead of a farm. After a long silence Dad went off to book us two rooms in the hotel above the pub while Mom and Wombat drank in silence.

  Mom must be serious about emigrating to Brighton because she’s set up a meeting with a real estate agent tomorrow. Dad looked pale and ill and hardly touched his dinner.

  Tuesday 16th July

  Was kept up all night because Wombat kept moaning in her sleep and crunching noisily on her false teeth.

  We met up with the Brighton estate agent after breakfast. Dad mumbled about the weather and sulked in the back seat of the car. Thankfully Wombat stayed behind at the hotel because she said she had gout problems and blamed the hotel’s pork sausages.

  The estate agent had the ability to talk for ages at a time without stopping to take a breath. She also had a very short miniskirt that crept up her thighs every time she changed gear. Dad called her the Energizer Bunny. He nudged me in the ribs and whispered, ‘And you know what they say about bunnies…’ He then stared at her legs with glassy eyes and his mouth open. The Energizer Bunny told us that she had three places to show us that were more or less in our price range. Dad looked pale and lost interest in staring at the lady’s legs.

  The first place was a one and a half bedroomed hovel that smelt worse than the school bogs. It was dark, poky and miserable, with a partial view of a large rubbish dump where crows were picking around looking for something to eat. The crows obviously sit on the roof because the window ledges were stained with white bird droppings. The Energizer Bunny did her best to emphasize the good points. (Within a mile of the shops, secure parking and a recently renovated lift.)

  Dad said the place looked like a morgue. I went to the bathroom and noticed that the toilet was leaking. The kitchen window had been boarded up and the carpets were stained and showed signs of cigarette burns. Mom looked on the verge of tears, especially when the Energizer Bunny admitted that this was the best flat of the three.

  Dad and I exchanged a very low key high five in the back seat.

  Once the Energizer Bunny dropped us off Mom looked grim and said, ‘Well, I suppose now you two are satisfied.’ We didn’t say anything but Dad looked so happy that his face was shining bright pink. The Miltons are returning to Africa and all emigration plans have been cancelled!

  Thursday 18th July

  After the dodgy trip to Brighton it was great to be back in London. It’s such an amazing city that you get exhausted just by watching the traffic. Feeling a little sad that there are only a few days to go and there’s still so much I haven’t seen and done. The folks bought us some theatre tickets because I made them feel guilty about spending half their holiday in pubs. We’ve booked for Phantom of the Opera for Saturday night and Wombat and I are off to Stratford to watch Hamlet this evening. The Hamlet at Stratford was a slice of sheer luck. Somebody handed Wombat a pamphlet advertising the show. When Wombat saw the words STRATFORD PLAYERS written across the top she knew immediately that it meant quality and booked two tickets on the spot and told me she would show me where Shakespeare lived, died, and wrote.

  18:00 Wombat handed the cab driver the Hamlet pamphlet and told him to take us there immediately. The driver looked at the pamphlet, shrugged and said, ‘As you wish, ma’m.’ Stratford wasn’t exactly what I was expecting from Shakespeare. It was in a terrible neighbourhood of council houses and other dingy looking buildings. I asked Wombat if we were in the right place. She nodded and told me that this is how the people used to live four hundred years ago.

  As it turned out, we were nowhere near the place of Shakespeare’s birth. In fact we were in Stratford East, which is one of the poorest suburbs in London. The Theatre Royal wasn’t quite what we were expecting either and neither was the Hamlet. The show was set in a bathhouse and men played all the women’s parts with huge fake breasts attached to their costumes. Also the words of Shakespeare were mixed with strange song and dance numbers which the cast would lip synch deliberately out of time. After Hamlet sees the ghost he tears off his shirt and sings I Will Survive. The audience, of which Wombat was the only woman, clapped and sang along to all the songs. There was also a nasty scene when Hamlet and Horatio had a shocking kissing moment in Hamlet’s bedroom, with Hamlet’s mom watching from behind the curtain.

  Wombat called the East Stratford Hamlet an abomination and made us leave in the middle of Hamlet’s ‘To be or not to be’ speech which the actor performed with a large jar of Vaseline in his hand. Outside we hailed a taxi and set off for home. Somewhere near the Tower of London Wombat turned to me and said, ‘You’re not a homosexual, are you?’ I blushed and shook my head.

  Wombat stared at me for a moment and then looked away with a worried look on her face.

  Back at the Kensington Palace Hotel, Wombat stormed into the bar and announced to the Miltons (and the other fifty drinkers) that I had dragged her off to a play about sodomites and that I was most probably a homosexual. I staggered backwards out of the bar and tried not to look at the sea of faces that were looking at me and turning away to snigger. Thank God Dad quite literally stood up for me and shouted, ‘Over my dead body is my boy a moffie!’ Wombat didn’t look convinced and said she refused to sleep in the same room as me in case I tried something. Mom ordered Wombat a double J&B and told her to settle down.

  Wombat had two doubles in a row and had forgotten everything by the time her third whisky arrived.

  Mental Note: Never go on holiday with Wombat just because she’s paying. In fact make that: never go on holiday with Wombat full stop!

  Friday 19th July

  After being slandered in the bar last night by my grandmother and then having to put up with Dad’s snoring all night I told the family I was sleeping in and spending the day in the hotel. The rest of the Miltons set off for Richmond to see Hampton Court where Henry the Eighth used to hang out.

  I snuck into breakfast just before ten hoping to avoid the people who were in the bar last night. I loaded up a bowl of yoghurt and tinned peaches and sat down at our table facing the wall. Unfortunately, I then couldn’t see if people were gossiping about me or not. I ate breakfast at top speed and had to put up with the head waiter who kept coming across to chat to me. He even invited me to watch a soccer match with him in his hotel suite. I told him I didn’t like soccer and that I had plans. The real reason I lied is because his pants were pulled up far higher than necessary and he kept licking his lips whenever he spoke to me.

  Made another trip to the corner shop but chickened out because it was too crowded.

  Saturday 20th July

  Phantom of the Opera is a sensational musical. We had seats in the third row and I didn’t miss a thing. I completely lost control during the Music of the Night which the Phantom sings to Christine. I discovered that tears were pouring out of my eyes and I had to pretend I had an eyelash problem in case somebody was watching me. I had a sharp and sudden memory of Gecko. I remember I sang him the Music of the Night the afternoon before he died. He said it gave him goosebumps. Thankfully by the end of the play I wasn’t the only Milton wiping away tears.

  If my voice ever returns and the embarrassment of Noah’s Ark is forgotten, then I’m going to one day play the lead in a West End musical.

  Sunday 21st July

  15:00 The taxi was waiting, our bags were packed and the Miltons were ready to go home. Unfortunately, there was no sign of Wombat. She said she was nipping out to buy some last minute goods an hour ago and has now disappeared.

  15:10 Mom decides that we can’t afford to miss our flights home so we leave messages with reception and head for Heathrow.

  18:30 Mom phoned the hotel but still no sign of Wombat. Dad didn’t seemed too worried at all about Wombat’s disappe
arance and was busy spending Wombat’s money like crazy in the duty free shops. I tried to drive home how serious things were so I exaggerated a bit and told Dad that Wombat could be lying in a ditch next to the road about to be killed by a serial killer. Dad said that was a possibility although we shouldn’t get our hopes up. He then marched over to the duty free counter and bought himself some aftershave with Wombat’s money.

  Half an hour before boarding, Mom burst into tears and said she was going to stay behind in London to find her mother. Dad and I managed to talk her out of it by saying that Wombat knew London better than she knew Durban. Poor Mom eventually boarded the plane and looked miserable all the way to Athens.

  Mom charged off the plane in Athens and went straight to a call box. She called the Kensington Palace Hotel and discovered that Wombat had checked out and then taken a bus to Brighton. Mom then tried to call Dingbat and Neville but nobody answered.

  Monday 22nd July

  ‘Home Sweet Home’

  We finally arrived back at Jan Smuts after nearly twenty hours of airports and aeroplanes. Dad was so thrilled to be home that he tried to strike up a friendly conservation with the Afrikaans security guard who was checking our passports. The Afrikaans security guard didn’t seem very impressed and ordered Dad into a small booth where his suitcase was searched.

  Apparently it isn’t just the country that has gone to the dogs. It looks like Frank and his new ninteen-year-old girlfriend haven’t exactly outdone themselves on the housework either. Mom wrote down a list of problems:

  The pool’s green.

  Blacky has dug up half the lawn in the pursuit of moles.

  Dad’s rose bushes were badly dehydrated.

  Blacky has a patch of luminous green mould on his tongue.

  The bin stinks and is infested with maggots.

  Frank’s nineteen-year-old girlfriend left a pair of undies down the side of the couch in the lounge. (Mom reckons Frank should be arrested for perversion.)

  The liquor cabinet is empty. (After this discovery Dad agreed that Frank had crossed the line.)

  Wombat is alive and kicking. In fact she’s now living in Brighton with Neville and Dingbat. Wombat says she handed over a cheque for ten thousand pounds and Neville and Dingbat invited her to stay for the rest of the summer. Wombat told Mom that she couldn’t die with Dingbat on her conscience and had to give over her fair share. Mom started crying but Wombat cut her off and said they were going out for tea with the Mayor of Brighton and that she didn’t have time for snivelling.

  Dad, who was midway through frying a massive roll of boerewors for Blacky, said that Wombat actually inherited over two hundred thousand pounds from her parents and that the ten thousand pounds she handed over to Dingbat was just five per cent of her inheritance excluding interest and inflation.

  Friday 26th July

  My report card arrived in the post.

  ENGLISH A

  AFRIKAANS A

  MATHS B

  SPEECH & DRAMA A

  HISTORY A

  GEOGRAPHY B

  BIOLOGY C

  SCIENCE E

  Mom and Dad cheered loudly and called me a genius. Dad said my results called for a celebration so he fired up bacon and eggs on the skottelbraai while Mom raced to the shops to stock up on champagne and orange juice. I turned over the card and read Sparerib’s comments.

  John has applied himself far better over the second quarter. Notwithstanding the improvement in Afrikaans, Maths and Geography and his continued good work in English, History and Speech and Drama, it is of major concern that he has neglected both Biology and Science in his studies and as proposed matric subject choices. I advise you, his parents, to pursue this matter with him before the realignment into their matric classes in the coming term.

  John is a well-adjusted boy who remains popular around the house. He does, however, tend towards extended periods of quietness and introspection and is noticeably less gregarious than he was in his first year at the school. I am pleased with his progress and particularly grateful for the way in which he has helped compatriot Vern Blackadder in his difficult adjustment to school life.

  SPARERIB’s REPORT (Written by Spud Milton)

  Sparerib had a poor second term. Not only did he try to get Spud Milton to tell him what he wrote about in his diary, but he also tried to bully him into doing Science for matric. His house continues to run amok and he has no control over the Crazy Eight who now have a secret hideaway right under his nose. He still continues to skulk around the house like a shady detective and there is a rumour that he likes watching boys showering whilst on duty.

  PS Spud Milton wouldn’t have to help Vern Blackadder if Sparerib had tighter controls about allowing cretins and lunatics to attend the school in the first place.

  Sunday 28th July

  The Guv called shortly after dawn. I heard Dad screaming with laughter on the phone and then calling The Guv a maniac. My voice was all croaky when I said, ‘Hello.’ There was a pause at the other end of the line and then The Guv shouted, ‘Milton the Poet!’ before setting off on the Battle of Agincourt speech. He then called me a ‘Callow youth, but sly.’ He announced that I’d received a merit certificate in the Alan Paton creative writing competition. (This means I didn’t come in the top ten.) Before I could reply he shouted, ‘All hail, Milton!’ and hung up. Dad tried to get another celebratory champagne breakfast binge under way but Mom ordered him to shave and shower because we were all going to church to give thanks. I told the folks that a merit award wasn’t worth celebrating. Dad said he wasn’t going back to church because it was a cesspool for communism and that he was scared of being eaten by Mrs Shingle. Mom told him he was talking nonsense but my father was adamant that the Anglican church is a hotbed of communism and cannibalism.

  15:00 Dad staggered up the driveway and said that he had been returning the panties to Frank’s girlfriend. Mom looked foul and asked him why it had taken him five hours. Dad said he had had a beer or two with Shannon’s friends. (Shannon must be the nineteen-year-old.) Mom eyed him shiftily and threatened to nail him for everything he’s got if he even so much as thinks of running off with a nineteen-year-old. Dad tried to put on a fake laugh and told my mother she was being ridiculous. He then went off to bed with Blacky and slept until dinner time.

  Monday 29th July

  On the long trek back to school I tried to make sense of my 26-day holiday that now feels like a long weekend. The bus engine screamed as we creaked up the hills and then thundered down the slopes with great shudders and rattles. I flicked on Joshua Tree and counted streetlamps until I got dizzy. My school uniform feels tight on me – I must be growing after all.

  I dragged my bags through the great archway and into the main quad. Vern was standing on guard outside the house with Roger in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. When he saw me approaching he let go of Roger and gave me a vigorous salute, spilling half his tea down his leg. I couldn’t salute back because I was carrying bags so I smiled and said, ‘Hi, Vern.’ Vern gave me a maniacal grin and said, ‘Spud.’ He then cackled with laughter and followed me up the stairs making funny squeals and breathing like Darth Vader. The Crazy Eight were all waiting and there were loud whistles and a few bleats when I walked into the dorm. Death Breath called lights out and closed the door. Within seconds we were all settled in Rambo’s cubicle. And then the stories began…

  HOLIDAY SCORECARD

  RAMBO Finally bonked his stepmom.

  SIMON Went to Mauritius with his family.

  FATTY Hung out with Heinz (the hotdog king) for half the holiday.

  ROGER Came off second best in a fight with Mr Lilly’s Maltese poodle.

  BOGGO Got savage bat from his girlfriend Ali and says he’s suicidal.

  MAD DOG Shot a wildebeest (gnu), had it stuffed, and has brought the head back to school. Mad Dog says he’s hanging the head up in the Mad House.

  SPUD Wintered in England.

  VERN Reckons he had sex in the holid
ay. Everyone roared with laughter and demanded proof. Vern slipped his hand into his underpants and pulled out a crumpled photograph of himself with his arm around ex-Miss World Anneline Kriel. The only problem was that Vern was about eight years old in the photo and by the looks of things Anneline Kriel was completely freaked out by Vern.

  We took the wildebeest head into the first year dorm to freak out the Normal Seven. Mad Dog held the head in front of his face and made a beeline for the far cubicle which houses two of the Darryls. After forty seconds of Mad Dog’s marauding gnu routine most of the first years had taken flight and were hiding up in the rafters. Mad Dog was about to shoot a couple of them down with his catty when out of the third Darryl’s bed appeared a black face followed by a round black body. Either there was a new first year on the loose or one of the Darryls had returned to school in a clever disguise.

  His name is Bongani Njali. Rambo told him he was the new black Darryl and rechristened him Barryl. Barryl grinned at the wildebeest head and said something in Zulu that nobody understood. His English isn’t very good so the Crazy Eight soon lost interest in him and turned our attention to Fatty and Mad Dog, who stuck Runt’s head in the dustbin and then used Runt’s big toe to switch the lights on and off.

  Julian must have seen the lights flashing because he charged into the dormitory and said he wanted to welcome all his boys back to school. Unfortunately, he then caught sight of the wildebeest head and screamed like he was being murdered. He charged out of the dormitory shouting, ‘Chriist! They’ve got a fucking moose in there!’