Mr Mingin

by David Walliams

  “Mr Ploom, sir?” said Mr Mingin. “Wid ye be sae awfie kind and gie me that touel? Thank you awfie muckle. Ah! I’m as clean as a whustle noo!”

  16

  Rule Britannia

  Mither snowked the air. And snowked it again. Her neb runkled wi pure scunner.

  “Are ye sure ye had a bath, Mr Mingin?” she spiered, as Da drove aw the faimlie and Mr Mingin tae the television studio.

  “Aye, I did, Madam.”

  “Weel, there is an unco reek o pond in this caur. And dug,” pronoonced Mither fae the front seat.

  “I think I’m gonnae cowk,” pronoonced Annabelle fae the back seat.

  “I’ve telt ye afore, darlin. We dinnae say ‘cowk’ in this faimlie,” correctit Mither. “We say we are feelin nauseous.”

  Chloe sleekitly opened the windae, sae she widnae hurt Mr Mingin’s feelins.

  “Dae you mind if we keep the windae shut?” spiered Mr Mingin. “I’m a wee bit cauld.”

  The windae gaed up again.

  “Thank you awfie muckle,” said Mr Mingin. “Sic undeemous kindness.”

  They stapped at some traffic lichts and Da raxed oot for yin o his haurd rock CDs. Mither skelped his haun, and he pit it back on the steerin wheel. She then pit her favourite CD on the caur stereo, and the auld couple in the nixt caur keekit at the Ploom faimlie wi an unco look on the fizzogs as ‘Rule Britannia’ cam beltin oot o the caur.

  “Mmm, naw naw naw, that winnae dae at aw …” said the TV producer as he studied Mr Mingin. “Can we pit some clart on him? He doesnae look tinkie enough. Mak-up? Whaur’s the mak-up?”

  A wummin wi faur ower muckle mak-up on appeart fae aroond a corridor, chawin a croissant and haudin a pouder-puff.

  “Darlin, hiv ye got ony clart?” spiered the producer.

  “Come this wey, Mr …?” said the mak-up wummin.

  “Mingin,” said Mr Mingin proodly. “Mr Mingin. And I’m gaun tae be on the television the nicht.”

  Mither glowered.

  Chloe, Annabelle and Da were led tae a wee room wi a television, hauf a bottle o warm white wine and some foostie crisps, tae watch the programme bein broadcast live.

  The thunnerous title music sterted, there wis poleet applause fae the audience and the bigheidit pompous-lookin presenter, Sir David Skoosh addressed the camera. “The nicht on Question Time it’s an election special. We hae representatives fae aw the major poleetical pairties, and as weel as that we hae a tink that caws himsel Mr Mingin. Weelcome tae the programme, awbody.”

  Awbody aroond the table noddit, apairt fae Mr Mingin wha proclaimed loodly, “May I say whit a delicht it is for me tae be on yer programme the nicht?”

  “Thank you,” said the presenter, a bit taen aback.

  “Bein hameless I hae never seen it,” said Mr Mingin. “In fact, I hae absolutely nae idea wha you are. But I’m sure you are unbelievably kenspeckle. Please cairry on, Sir Donald.”

  The audience lauched uncertainly. Mither looked bealin. The presenter hoasted nervously and tried tae continue.

  “Sae the first question the nicht …”

  “Are ye wearin mak-up, Sir Declan?” spiered Mr Mingin aw innocent.

  “A wee bit, aye. For the lichts.”

  “Ah, for the lichts,” said Mr Mingin. “Foondation?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ee liner?”

  “A bittie.”

  “Lip-gloass?”

  “A daud.”

  “Looks guid. I wish I had some on the noo. Blusher?”

  The audience snichered throughoot this exchynge. Sir David flitted on rapidly. “I should explain that Mr Mingin is here the nicht as he has been invitit tae bide wi Mrs Ploom …”

  “Pluuuuuummmm,” correctit Mither.

  “Och,” said Sir David. “I dae apologise. We checked the pronoonciation wi yer husband, and he said it wis Ploom.”

  Mither turnt reid wi embarrassment. Sir David keekit back at his notes. “Later in the programme,” he said, “we will be discussin the difficult topic o hamelessness.”

  Mr Mingin pit his haun up.

  “Aye, Mr Mingin?” spiered the presenter.

  “Can I jist nip oot tae the cludgie, Sir Duncan?”

  The audience lauched looder this time.

  “I should hae went afore we sterted, but I got the mak-up wummin tae dae ma hair and it took ages. Dinnae get me wrang, I am up tae high doh wi the results; she gied me a waash and blawdry. They even pit somethin cawed gel in it, but I didnae get a chaunce tae go tae the shunkie.”

  “Sure, if ye need tae gang, gang …”

  “Thank you awfie, awfie muckle,” said Mr Mingin. He rose tae his feet and stertit tae shauchle aff the set. “This shouldnae tak lang, I think it’s jist a Nummer Yin.”

  The audience yowled again wi lauchter. In the wee room wi the foostie crisps and the television Chloe and Da were lauchin tae. Chloe keeked at Annabelle. She wis tryin no tae lauch, but a smile wis definitely creepin across her coupon.

  “Awfie sorry!” exclaimed Mr Mingin as he crossed the stage again in the ither direction. “I’m telt the cludgie’s this wey …!”

  17

  Cowped Bouffant

  “And that’s hoo I feel there should be a curfew on aw people unner thirty.” Mither wis in fu flow noo, and she smiled as she received a tottie bit o applause for this comment fae the people ower thirty in the audience. “They should aw be in their beds by eicht o’clock at the latest …”

  “Sorry I wis a whilie,” said Mr Mingin as he daunered back on tae the set. “I thocht it wis jist a Nummer Yin, but while I wis staundin there I suddently got the urge tae dae a Nummer Twa.”

  The audience brust intae lauchter, some even clappin in delicht as this serious programme descendit intae a discussion o an auld tink’s cludgie habits. “I mean, I usually dae ma Nummer Twas in the mornins, atween 9:07 and 9:08, but I had an egg piece backstage afore I come on the programme the nicht. I dinnae ken if you made the pieces, Sir Derek?”

  “Naw, I dinnae mak the pieces, Mr Mingin. Noo please can we get back tae the question o curfews for young—”

  “Weel, it wis a braw piece, dinnae get me wrang,” said Mr Mingin. “But egg can sometimes mak me want tae go. And I dinnae ayewis get that lang o a warnin, especially at ma age. Dae ye ever hae that problem, Sir Doris? Or dae you hae the bahookie o a faur younger man?”

  Anither muckle swaw o lauchter crashed ontae the stage. In the foostie crisps room even Annabelle wis lauchin noo.

  “We are here tae discuss the serious topics o the day, Mr Mingin,” continued Sir David. His fizzog wis reider than reid wi anger as his serious poleetical programme, a programme he had presentit for forty heid-numbin years, wis rapidly turnin intae a comedy show starrin an auld tink. The audience wis lappin it up though, and booed Sir David a wee bit as he tried tae steer the programme back tae politics. He shot them a steely glower afore turnin tae the programme’s new star. “And ma name is Sir David. No Sir Derek, or Sir Doris. Sir David. Noo, let’s move on tae the question o hamelessness, Mr Mingin. I hae a statistic here that says there are ower a hunner thoosand hameless folk in the UK the day. Why dae you think sae mony folk are livin on the streets?”

  Mr Mingin cleared his thrapple. “Weel, if I may be sae bold, I wid say that pairt o the problem comes fae the fact we are seen as statistics raither than people.” The audience applaudit and Sir David leaned forrit wi interest. Mibbe Mr Mingin wisnae the cloon he had taen him for.

  “We aw hae different reasons for bein hameless,” continued Mr Mingin. “Ilka hameless buddie has a different story tae tell. Mibbe if folk in the audience the nicht, or oot there watchin at hame, stapped tae hae a blether wi the hameless folk in their toun, they wid realise that.”

  The audience wis applaudin even looder noo, but Mrs Ploom lowped in. “That’s whit I did!” she exclaimed. “I jist stapped tae talk tae this tink yin day and then invitit him tae cam and bide wi ma faimlie. I’ve aye pit ithers afore masel. I suppose that’s ay
ewis been ma doonfaw,” she said, tiltin her heid tae the side and smilin at the audience as if she wis an angel sent doon fae heiven.

  “Weel, yon’s no really true is it, Mrs Ploom?” said Mr Mingin.

  There wis silence. Mither gowked at Mr Mingin in horror. The audience shiftit excitedly in their seats. Da, Annabelle and Chloe aw leaned forrit closer tae the television. Even Sir David’s moustache twitched ablow his neb in anticipation.

  “I dinnae ken whit ye mean, ma verra close pal and eh, eh, awfie guid freend …” floondered Mrs Ploom.

  “I think ye dae,” said Mr Mingin. “The truth o it is, it wisnae you that invitit me in, wis it?”

  Sir David’s een lichted up. “Then wha did invite ye tae stey wi the Ploom faimlie, Mr Mingin?” he spiered, yince mair back in chairge.

  “Mrs Ploom’s dochter, Chloe. She’s ainly twal year auld but she’s an absolutely mervellous lassie. Yin o the sweetest, kindest folk I hae ever met.”

  These words fell on Chloe like a muckle great AYE. Then awbody in the foostie crisps room looked ower at her and she turnt aw reid wi embarrassment. She hid her face in her hauns. Da clapped her back proodly. Annabelle pretendit no tae be interestit, and stuck anither foostie crisp in her gub.

  “She should really cam oot here and tak a bow,” annoonced Mr Mingin.

  “Naw, naw, naw,” snashed Mither.

  “Naw, Mrs Ploom,” said Sir David. “I think we’d aw like tae meet this byordinar wee lassie.”

  The audience applaudit his suggestion. But Chloe felt glued tae her seat. She didnae even like staundin up in front o her cless at the schuil. There wis nae wey she wantit tae be on television in front o millions o folk!

  Whit wid she say? Whit wid she dae? She didnae ken ony tricks. This wis gonnae be the maist embarrassin moment o her life, even warse than when she boaked up her macaroni cheese aw ower Miss Spratt in the language lab. But the applause wis gettin looder and looder, and eventually Da taen her haun and gently poued her tae her feet.

  “Are ye feelin a bittie nervous?” whuspered Da.

  Chloe noddit.

  “Weel, ye shouldnae be. Ye’re a fantastic lassie. Ye should be prood o whit ye’ve done. Noo come on. Enjoy yer moment in the spotlicht!”

  Haun in haun they raced doon the corridor towards the set. Jist oot o sicht o the cameras Da let go o her haun, and gied her a supportive smile as she stepped oot intae the licht. The audience applaudit loodly. Mr Mingin beamed ower at her, and she tried tae beam back. Mither wis the ainly person that wisnae clappin, sae Chloe’s een were drawn tae her. Chloe tried tae meet her gaze, but Mither turnt her heid shairply the ither wey. This made Chloe even mair unsure o hersel, and she tried tae dae a curtsy but didnae really ken hoo tae dae it, and then ran aff the stage, back intae the safety o the foostie crisps room.

  “Whit a braw bairn,” said Sir David. He turnt tae Mither. “Noo I hae tae spier ye this, Mrs Ploom. Why did ye lee? Wis it jist tae further yer ain poleetical ambitions?”

  The ither guests fae rival poleetical pairties looked at Mrs Ploom and shook their heids. As if they wid ever dream o daein onythin sae sleekit! Mither sterted tae swite. Her hair lacquer began tae melt and her mak-up ran slowly doon her fizzog. Da, Chloe and Annabelle sat and watched her floonderin, no able tae help.

  “Weel, as if onybody wid want that auld tink in their hoose,” she shouted finally. “Look at him! Yous lot watchin this at hame cannae smell him, but tak it fae me, he is bowfin. He reeks o clart and swite and oxters and pond and dug. I wish that this muckle mingin minger wid jist ming aff oot o ma hame forever!”

  There wis shoacked silence for a meenit. Then the boos sterted, gettin looder and looder. Mither looked at the audience in a panic. At that moment her bouffant cowped in on itsel.

  18

  Rabbit Droappins

  “WE WANT MINGIN! WE WANT MINGIN!”

  Chloe keeked through a slap in the curtains. There wis a muckle crood o people ootside their hoose. News reporters, camera crews, and hunners and hunners o local folk wavin bits o cairdboard embleezoned wi slogans.

  Mr Mingin’s appearance on television the nicht afore had obviously had a muckle effect on folk. Owernicht he’d gane fae bein an unkent mingin tink tae a warld famous mingin tink.

  Chloe pit on her dressin goun and raced doon tae the shed.

  “Is it time for Lily tae meet the flesh-scrannin zombie dominies?” spiered Mr Mingin as she come in.

  “Naw, naw, naw, Mr Mingin! Can ye no hear the croods ootside?!”

  “I’m sorry, I cannae hear properly,” he said. “Here, I foond these rabbit droappins in the gairden. They mak braw plugs for yer lugs.” He popped oot twa wee broon pellets as Chloe looked on wi an unco mixter-maxter o scunner and admiration at his ingenuity. For those o ye wha micht find yersel oot in the wild and in need o plugs for yer lugs, jist follae this easy step-by-step guide.

  Find a freendly rabbit.

  Hing on patiently tae it deposits some o its droappins for ye.

  Insert yin in ilka lug. Mair muckle lugs will require mair muckle droappins and possibly even a mair muckle rabbit.

  Enjoy a braw nicht’s sleep speyled ainly by the honk o rabbit keech.

  The Duchess sniffed at the droappins in the vain hope they micht be a couple o Maltesers or at the verra warst some o Raj’s hatit coffee Revels, but quickly turnt up her neb when she realised they werenae sweeties but keech – and gaed back tae her makshift basket.

  “Yon’s better,” said Mr Mingin. “Ye ken, I had an awfie unco dream last nicht, Miss Chloe. I wis on television discussin aw the important issues o the day! Yer mither wis there and aw! It wis a hoot!”

  “That wisnae a dream, Mr Mingin. That really happent.”

  “Och, naw,” said the tink. “Mibbe it wisnae sae funny efter aw.”

  “It wis a hoot, Mr Mingin. You were the star o the show. And noo there’s hunners o folk camped ootside the hoose.”

  “Whit in the name o the wee man dae they want, bairn?”

  “You!” said Chloe. “They want tae interview ye I think. And some folk want you tae be the Prime Meenister!”

  The crood wis gettin looder and looder noo. “WE WANT MINGIN! WE WANT MINGIN! WE WANT MINGIN!”

  “Och help ma kilt, aye I can hear them. They want me for Prime Meenister, ye say? Ha ha! I’ll hae tae mind tae appear on television mair aften! Mibbe they’ll mak me king nixt tae!”

  “Ye’d better get up, Mr Mingin. Noo!”

  “Aye, coorse, Miss Chloe. Richt, I want tae look smairt for aw ma fans.”

  He footered aroond the shed sniffin at his claes and pouin a scunnered face. If even he thinks they’re mingin, thocht Chloe, they must be howlin.

  “I could pit some claes on a quick waash and dry for ye,” she offered hopin he’d agreed tae it.

  “Naw, thank you, ma dear. I dinnae think waashin machines are hygienic. I’ll jist get the Duchess tae chaw some o the clattiest stains oot.”

  He howked through a bing o his claes and poued oot a pair o spectacularly clart-cakit broon troosers. Whether they had been broon when they sterted their life wis onybody’s guess. He flung them tae the Duchess, wha sterted her joab as a reluctant dry cleaner and stertit chawin awa at the stains.

  Chloe cleared her thrapple. “Um … Mr Mingin. Ye said on the TV programme hoo ilka hameless buddie has a different story tae tell. Weel, can ye tell me yer ain story? I mean, hoo did ye end up on the streets?”

  “Why dae ye think, ma dear?”

  “I dinnae ken. I’ve got millions o theories. Mibbe ye were abandoned in a widd as a bairnie and raised by a pack o wolves?”

  “Naw!” he keckled.

  “Or I reckon ye were a warld-famous rock star that faked yer ain deeth because ye couldnae haunnle aw the adulation.”

  “I wish I wis.”

  “Awricht then, ye were a tap scientist that inventit the maist pouerfu bomb in the warld and then, realisin it could herm folk, ye run awa fae the airmy.”

  “W
eel, those are aw gey imaginative guesses,” he said. “But I am sorry, nane o them are richt. Ye’re no even close, I’m afraid.”

  “I didnae think sae.”

  “I will tell ye when the time is richt, Chloe.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. Noo please gie me a couple o meenits, ma dear. I hae tae get ready tae meet ma public!”

  19

  Superminger

  “I AM NO APOLOGISIN TAE HIM!”

  “YE HUV TAE!”

  Mr Mingin sat at the heid o the kitchen table readin aw aboot himsel in the newspapers as Chloe stood at the stove fryin some sassidges for him. Her parents were fechtin in the nixt room. It wisnae a conversation that their guest wis meant tae hear, but they were that angry their voices were becomin looder and looder.

  “BUT HE IS HONKIN!”

  “I KEN HE’S HONKIN BUT YE DIDNAE NEED TAE SAY IT ON NATIONAL TELEVISION.”

  Chloe smiled ower at Mr Mingin. He looked sae engrossed in aw the heidlines, ‘Superminger!’, ‘Clingin Superstar Chores the Show!’, ‘Hameless Man Saves Haunless Election’, that he appeart no tae be listenin. Or mibbe he’d pit his rabbit keech lug-plugs back in.

  “OBVIOUSLY NO!” shouted Mither. “LAST NICHT I HAD ANITHER CAW FAE THE PRIME MEENISTER TELLIN ME I HAE GIEIN THE PAIRTY A RICHT SHOWIN UP AND HE WANTS ME TAE WITHDRAW AS A CANDIDATE!”

  “GUID!”

  “WHIT DAE YE MEAN ‘GUID’?”

  “THE HAILL THING HAS TURNT YOU INTAE A MOANSTER!” shouted Da.

  “WHIT?! I AM NO A MOANSTER!”

  “AYE, YE ARE! MOANSTER! MOANSTER! MOANSTER!”

  “HOO DAUR YE?!” skraiked Mither.

  “GET OOT AND APOLOGISE TAE HIM!”

  “NUT!”

  “APOLOGISE!”

  For a moment aw ye could hear wis the soond o sassidge fat and lard in the fryin pan. Then, slowly, the door opened and Mither creepit like creesh intae the room. Her bouffant still wisnae itsel. She hesitatit for a moment. Her husband appeart in the doorwey and gied her a crabbit look. She did a wee theatrical coaff.