Other types of birds were joining the party too.
‘Look! Seagulls!’ I exclaimed, as I strolled alongside the bath.
‘Maybe that means we’re getting closer to dubby-Dublin!’ cheered Loopy Lou, bounding along in his clown shoes.
‘Or that every bird in the country has heard about the free Readybix,’ added Crunchie.
On the motorbike, Declan was getting distracted by the feathered fracas. ‘What the hell are ye doin’ back there? It’s not a flippin’ bird bath I’m carrying!’
Martin yelled back to him, ‘Give it everything ya got, Declan! It’s Birdmageddon back here!’
‘Hold on, here we go . . .’ said Padraic, who was holding a rock he’d snatched from the road. ‘Don’t fail me now . . . arm!’
He flung the rock desperately towards their aerial aggressors and – Whack! – he struck Declan square on the head.
‘What ya do that for?!’ Martin yelped.
‘I was trying to hit two birds with one stone.’
The blow knocked Declan forward, and the motorbike swerved violently across the road. They narrowly avoided a telephone pole before veering into a roadside ditch.
Splosh!
The boys groaned in a daze, and Trevor clutched his leg where he’d received a small bruise. ‘Well, at least now we know why they’re called a “murder” of crows,’ he muttered, as he pulled himself gingerly out of the tub.
The crash had scared off the birds for the moment, but the attack had left Team Trepdem with a new problem.
‘Me bike!’ Declan spluttered, as he shook his head clear.
They hauled the motorbike out of the dirty ditch and Declan pushed his foot repeatedly down on the starter pedal.
‘She won’t start,’ he grumbled.
‘Is the key in it?’ asked Padraic unhelpfully.
‘Yes, ya numpty, of course the key is in it. The engine is wrecked. Why wouldn’t the key be in it?’ barked Declan.
‘I was just making conversation, to be honest. I feel like we don’t have many conversations.’
Martin glanced at his watch, looking crestfallen. ‘Well, lads, we’ve had a good run. But there’s only half an hour left, and we’ve still got a long way to go. We’ll never make it there on time now, but I think we’ve all learned some wise lessons for the future from this experience.’
‘Like what?’ Trevor spurted. ‘When again in life will we need to know what not to put in a mobile bath to avoid an attack by birds?’
The boys slumped against the side of the tub – tired, defeated and dripping in milk.
‘Our day will come, boys,’ said Padraic cheerfully.
‘Maybe it won’t. How can you be sure we won’t always just be a bunch of losers?’ replied Trevor.
‘Padraic’s right,’ said Martin. ‘Every dog has his day. That’s what my mam always says.’
Suddenly Declan sat up. He had a determined look in his eye, and a plan on his mind. He hopped to his feet, stuck his fingers between his lips, and blew a long, strange, piercing whistle that washed over the countryside like a wave.
‘Me ears!’ complained Trevor. ‘Quit it, Mannion!’
‘Every dog has his day!’ Declan exclaimed. ‘And this dog’s day is today!’
He pulled out some rope from under the seat of his bike and grinned at them. ‘We’ve got rope! Do we still have hope?’
‘We’re hopeless at hopelessness!’ replied Martin defiantly.
‘Then let’s get this Grub-Tub to Dub!’
Moments later, the sound of dogs approaching filled the air – a sound they remembered very clearly from being chased around the Mannion home. Through the fields, the boys caught sight of an army of greyhounds galloping towards them.
Team Trepdem was back in action!
Soon, they were lashing the dogs to the front of the motorbike like skinny reindeer, and in no time they were road-ready. The boys bounded back into the bath, and Declan mounted his motorbike.
‘Mush! My beautiful hounds, mush!!!’ he called, imploring the dogs to move. And move they did. With incredible swiftness. In completely opposite directions!
‘Hold! My stupid hounds, hold!!!’
The team looked worried.
‘I guess they’re used to chasing something, not carrying something,’ observed Padraic.
‘Good idea, O’Dwyer!’ Declan agreed, putting his fingers to his lips for another weird whistle.
‘Was it?’ Padraic asked. ‘Yeah, it was, I suppose. I’m just the kind of lad who’s never far from a great idea.’
In no time, Declan’s horde of hares was racing towards them. The boys tied them to the front of the bike with longer ropes than they’d used on the greyhounds.
‘Mush, me beautiful hares, mush!’ yelled Declan. And finally they were off!
Martin, Padraic and Trevor clung to their chariot, followed by birds, being hauled by the bike, that was pulled by the dogs, who were chasing the hares, who were running because they . . . just love the wind in their hair. It was a carrot-and-horse scenario*. But at immense speed. And there was a mobile flavour bath involved.
They hung on for dear life as they raced towards Dublin. They screeched around corners with their tyres squealing and sparks flying as the bath grazed lamp posts and side-swiped post boxes. A couple of Taste Tanks got knocked off, but there was no time to stop.
‘Four minutes left!’ called Trevor, as they clattered through the city, causing cars to skid and swerve to avoid them. Dubliners stopped and stared at the sight, and Martin waved at them merrily.
‘We’re from the Countryside!’ he yelled proudly.
They swerved around another corner, nearly capsizing once more – but finally the Convention Centre came into view.
‘One minute to twelve!’ called Trevor.
With a mighty bash, they mounted the kerb, and young scientists leaped left and right as they burst through the main doors of the Convention Centre, led by hares, greyhounds, followed by birds, and covered in milk – just as the clock struck noon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JUDGEMENT HOUR
‘We made it!’ cried Martin, punching the air, splashing milk at the crowd who had gathered around them.
‘Greetings, fellow inventors!’ called Padraic. ‘We are Team Trepdem! Hear us roar!’
Padraic was the only one who roared this time, but several greyhounds starting howling too.
Security men arrived, looking befuddled, and informed them that pets were not permitted. They also suggested that the boys find some trousers.
The team hopped out, still hardly able to believe they’d got their invention to Dublin on time. But when they saw the state of the Tub Grub 2000, their happiness quickly faded.
It was a sorry sight indeed. The bath had taken quite a beating on the road. It was caked with dirt, dinged and dented, and completely splattered with bird poop.
‘Oh balls . . .’ I murmured, as one of the Taste Tanks tottered to the ground. Martin looked crestfallen, and I put a hand over his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, buddy. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time to fix her up.’
But just then, an announcement came over the loudspeakers. ‘Judging will now commence! Please have your inventions ready for inspection!’
The crowd dispersed as everyone ran back to their booths.
Martin was worried. ‘How are we ever going to get this cleaned up in time for—’
But Declan was already arriving with a janitor’s trolley full of cleaning supplies. He plucked a hammer and screwdriver from his bike and then unhitched the hares – ‘Hup now. G’wan! Home with ye!!’ – giving them a ten-second head start before untying the dogs who charged after them.
Martin located their booth, and the boys wheeled the bath over to it before getting down to work. They were so busy scrubbing and de-denting that they didn’t even notice who was right next door to them.
‘Well, if it isn’t the Muckers,’ came a mocking chuckle.
Martin looked
up to see Vronny standing over him in her sunglasses. Beside her, the spiky-haired Max grinned out from his upturned collars.
‘Well, if it isn’t Lord and Lady Clean Boots,’ replied Martin, rising to his feet.
‘Easy, Martin,’ whispered Padraic nervously.
‘Hey, Hugh! Look what we found!’ called Max.
‘What is it, Maxo?’
Their teacher, Hugh, joined them with a swish of his perfumed hair. ‘Ah, the boggers from Boyle! What are you doing out of Stench Land? Otherwise known as the Country.’
Max and Vronny sniggered, and Hugh fist-bumped them.
‘What does it look like we’re doing?’ asked Martin.
‘It looks like you’re wiping bird poop off a weird-looking bath in your underpants,’ observed Vronny.
‘That’s exactly what we’re doing!’ retorted Martin. ‘But this isn’t just a weird-looking bath.’
‘It’s also a weird-smelling bath,’ added Max.
‘It’s a ground-breaking invention that is about to transform Planet Earth as we know it!’ bragged Martin.
Hugh gave a snort. ‘Well it’s definitely transforming the carpet.’
He pointed to some strawberry jam that was leaking out of a Taste Tank.
‘That’s meant to be leaking!’ insisted Martin.
‘We should probably clean it up though, we don’t want a stain,’ murmured Padraic, and tossed a cloth to Martin.
‘Still think you’re gonna beat us?’ scoffed Vronny.
Martin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, we’re gonna wipe the floor with you. Right after I wipe the floor with this!’ he added, holding up the cloth.
Hugh gave another mocking chuckle. ‘Look, kid, have you even seen my invention? I mean – their invention?’
He pointed to the booth next door where a gleaming silver robot stood to attention. It looked like a Garda – an Irish policeman – and was very impressive, although a bit scary too, holding a night stick* at its side.
‘Power up, Garda Bot 10,000!’ ordered Hugh.
The robot came to life at his command. It turned its head and spoke in an electronic voice. ‘Hello, Master Hugh. Hello, civilians. Grand day, isn’t it?’
The boys were gobsmacked. ‘It is a grand day,’ murmured Padraic. ‘How did it know that?’
‘It knows everything,’ bragged Hugh. ‘It can give directions, stop crimes, and even detect lies!’
‘Holy moly . . .’ whispered Martin. ‘It’s incredible.’
‘Truth detected!’ confirmed the robot smugly.
‘You country bumpkins are way out of your depth,’ sneered Hugh, ‘so maybe you should just run back to your barns and hide under . . . whatever’s in a barn.’
He turned and swaggered off with Max and Vronny.
Martin tried to hide it, but he was clearly quite intimidated by their impressive robot.
‘How can we beat that?’ he murmured to himself.
‘Do you think it’s too late to turn the bath into a robot bath?’ I asked.
‘All we’d need is some loopy-loopy-lightning!’ suggested Lou.
Crunchie nodded. ‘Or another electric fence!’
‘Lads, here come the judges,’ grunted Declan. ‘I just tried to bribe them with a few cigars, but no dice*. It’s up to you, Martin. Time to dance.’
‘You think I should dance?’
‘Just . . . make them think it’s brilliant. Dazzle them. And get that gold.’
Martin had absolutely no clue what he was going to say, but thankfully his trusty IF was right by his side.
‘Don’t worry, buddy – we’ve got this,’ I assured him. ‘Just don’t hold back. When in doubt, go all out.’
The judges arrived, followed by a crowd of onlookers.
‘Ah hello, Team Trepdem!’ called a tall lady in the front with curly hair and bright, sparkling eyes. ‘I’m Mrs Maggie Magoonty, founder of the Invention Convention, and these are my fellow judges,’ she said, gesturing to some scientists beside her. ‘We’ve been looking forward to this one. Your application sounded so exciting! Science will not know what hit it – right?’
‘Eh. Right!’ replied Martin uncertainly.
‘Well then – let’s see what hits it.’
Martin stepped to one side, revealing the bath behind him. ‘Behold! The thing that hits it!’
There was a pause. Not a pause of excitement and wonder, as Martin had hoped, but more like a pause of total bewilderment.
‘What, eh . . . is it?’ asked Mrs Magoonty blankly.
‘Flip that question right back at her,’ I advised.
‘What . . . isn’t it?’ Martin asked her.
‘A good invention!’ shouted Max.
‘Truth detected!’ agreed the robot.
Hugh and Vronny laughed loudly, but Martin did his best to ignore them.
‘Mrs Magoonty, let me answer your question with a question. How many times have you found yourself in the bath and cried out, “I’d give anything right now for a flapjack”?’
‘Every Tuesday,’ muttered Padraic.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever done that,’ she answered.
‘Well, no more!’ shouted Martin. ‘Because with this invention, Suds Time . . .’ he said, holding up one hand, ‘and Snack Time,’ he said, holding up his other hand, ‘are now one.’ He linked his hands together dramatically. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Tub Grub—’
‘20,000!’ I whispered.
‘The Tub Grub 20,000!’ cried Martin.
‘I thought it was 2000,’ murmured Padraic.
‘I just changed the name.’
‘I love it. It’s, like, ten times better!’
One of the scientists, a serious man with a moustache, frowned. ‘So . . . this is a food delivery system . . . for a bath?’
‘Now you’re getting it, my friend,’ replied Martin, who was strolling around now, growing in confidence, seeming to forget that he was wearing nothing but milk-covered underpants. ‘But it’s also so much more,’ he went on. ‘It’s an all-you-can-eat bath buffet. It’s a stadium snack stall. It’s church chow. It’s a party pool. It’s where nibbling meets paddling. It’s where you can take a dip inside some dip!’
His team-mates whooped at this, and there was a round of applause from the crowd. But the judges seemed less convinced.
‘Sorry, I’m confused,’ said Mrs Magoonty. ‘Isn’t the purpose of a bath to get clean?’
‘Isn’t the purpose of a bath to feel good?’ countered Martin.
‘And you think that bathing in food would make you feel good?’
‘Have you ever tried it?’
‘I can’t say I have.’
‘Well now’s your chance,’ offered Martin, with a grin.
Mrs Magoonty smiled, and glanced at the other judges, but none seemed keen to hop into the bath.
‘Maybe one of you could give us a demonstration,’ she suggested.
‘No problemo!’ replied Martin, and turned to his pal. ‘Padraic?’
Without a moment’s hesitation, Padraic leaped into the tub, which was now clean after they’d scooped out all the Readybix. He lay down leisurely, and closed his eyes.
‘Banoffi pie please, Martin!’ he requested.
‘We don’t have banoffi pie,’ whispered Martin.
‘How about cheesecake?’
‘Cheesecake fell off about fifty miles back,’ muttered Trevor.
‘Pancake syrup, did you say?’ asked Martin loudly.
‘Oh, eh, that might be a little hard to wash off,’ worried Padraic.
But Martin had already turned on the tap. It oozed all over Padraic’s belly.
‘Oooohhh, lovely! That’s the stuff. I’m hungry and need a wash, so I’m saving so much time here!’
‘That’s right, Padraic. And feel free to enjoy our accessories too.’ Martin held them up, showing them to the crowd. ‘A marshmallow sponge. Soup on a rope. And a rubber duck that tastes like duck!’
He handed this to the mous
tachioed scientist who gave it a lick. ‘Wow, it really does taste like duck!’
The crowd cheered again.
‘Yeah! Give them the gold!’ came a shout from behind the judges that sounded suspiciously like Declan Mannion.
Mrs Magoonty was applauding too. ‘Well, it’s certainly original, I’ll give you that,’ she told them. ‘And every inventor worth their salt must be a true original. Well done, Team Trepdem. You didn’t disappoint.’
She and the other judges wrote down numbers on their score-sheets and moved off. ‘Right, who’s next? Team Whimmion’s?’
The robot sprang to life. ‘Y’all ready for dis?’
The gleaming Garda Bot started dancing to loud music, and the crowd followed the judges over to it, all craning to see, leaving Martin and his team alone again.
They looked at each other.
‘Well – I guess that’s that,’ said Martin.
I winked at him proudly. ‘Nice work, buddy.’
‘Well done, Martin-meister, ya Moone-atic,’ congratulated Padraic from the bath, gleaming with syrup.
‘You too, P-Bucket,’ replied Martin, with a grin. ‘And you, T-Bird,’ he said to Trevor. ‘You too, Dectopolis.’
‘Never call me that again,’ warned Declan.
‘Understood.’
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Trevor.
Martin shrugged. ‘Now we wait.’
Padraic reclined in the bath and turned the syrup tap back on. ‘Might as well get comfy,’ he said, as he wallowed happily in the goo.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WINNERS
The team wheeled the bath, with Padraic inside it, to the far end of the hall, and were now standing among all the contestants, waiting for the judges to take to the stage. Tension was mounting, and the room was quiet, which was unfortunate because Padraic had swallowed too much syrup and was in the grips of a powerful sugar rush.
‘I’m the Candyman!’ he sang loudly.
‘Hush!’ hissed Martin.
‘The Candyman Man!’
‘Stop eating the syrup, Padraic!’ whispered Martin. ‘You’re getting the sugar crazies*!’
‘Yuppitty dee, Marty Magoo!’ chirped Padraic, with a slippery salute.
The Notion Potion Page 12