How to Train Your Parents

by Pete Johnson

Second candle: ‘Well, I was thinking of going out.’

  WEDNESDAY APRIL 24TH

  First thing this morning I waited outside the school gates for the parents’ nark. As soon as Theo saw me he shook his head and cried, ‘I’m so very sorry.’ He claimed he had to tell as they kept on and on at him. ‘And I don’t have any secrets from my parents.’

  ‘How disgusting,’ I snapped.

  ‘I just find it really hard to lie to them when they’ve been so good to me,’ he confessed. ‘They also said I’ve got to give you back all the money . . . well, here it is.’

  I took the thirty pounds. I hadn’t spent the other thirty pounds either, so I could return it all to my parents. And I did, tonight. Big gesture.

  I said to the relics, ‘I don’t deserve this,’ then looked upwards for my halo, which was surely circling around me at this moment. My parents were dead impressed too.

  And as the atmosphere was nowhere near as arctic as I’d feared I said, very lightly, ‘Been looking at the map, Mum, checking to see exactly where the Robson Theatre is, as we don’t want to be late on Monday, do we?’

  Mum blinked at me in total astonishment for a moment. Then she said quietly, ‘We couldn’t even consider taking you out of school now.’

  ‘But it’s only for one day,’ I argued.

  ‘No, it’s out of the question.’

  I turned to Dad but he was nodding in agreement with her. ‘That audition,’ I cried, ‘could be my breakthrough, my big chance.’

  ‘Showbusiness is lonely and tough,’ pronounced Dad, as if he were some kind of expert. (He’d been in a band for about a month, that’s all.) ‘You could face four hundred rejections before you get anywhere.’

  ‘Look, if I don’t get anywhere on Monday, that’ll be the end of it. But you’ve got to let me try this one time. Please, please,’ I cried, my voice wobbling out of control.

  They did hesitate for a couple of seconds before Mum said, ‘I’m sorry, Louis, but we really can’t allow you to waste your time on that. Especially now, when you need to concentrate all your efforts on your school work.’

  Then Dad chipped in, ‘I know it’s the boring thing parents say. But you’ll thank us for doing this one day.’

  ‘I won’t, you know,’ I replied.

  Then I went upstairs and straight away rang Maddy on my mobile. She was totally crushed. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she kept saying. Then she said, ‘I’m sure they’ll change their minds when they’ve calmed down.’ But I really doubt that.

  So that’s it. My big chance of stardom dashed. Now I’ll just spend the next few years slogging away like mad for exams I won’t pass so I can get a rubbish job, work half a century at that rubbish job, rest for a couple of years and then snuff it. And that’s it. My life.

  Just what’s the point of it? Too depressed to even tell you a joke tonight. Sorry.

  THURSDAY APRIL 25TH

  The most exciting event of today was when I dug two holes in my desk with my compass. That’s the only way I’ll leave my mark on this school.

  In geography I wrote a letter to Todd. Told him I was returning Joy in the Morning and I’d really liked it. I also mentioned the audition and how my parents have sabotaged my whole career.

  This evening Maddy rang to see how I was and to check I was still coming round to her house tomorrow. I told her I doubted if I’d be my usual brilliant company. But she said not to worry, she’d be brilliant enough for both of us. I’m kind of looking forward to seeing her tomorrow. She intrigues me. And it’ll be great to be out of this cauldron of delight for a few hours.

  12.15 a.m.

  I’m back, because I’ve reached a momentous decision. Here it is. I’m going to the TV audition after all. I’ve been lying in bed planning it all out. I’ll leave the house as usual on Monday, but instead of walking to school, I’ll whizz to the railway station (it’s only a bit further than the hell-hole). Then I will dive into the station loo, change out of my school uniform and into my audition clothes (which I will have tucked at the bottom of my school bag). Next, I shall hop on a train to London, get the tube to Covent Garden, locate the Robson Theatre and . . . do the audition, make the judges laugh hysterically and dance with joy.

  There are just three obstacles to this plan:

  1) I’ve got no money for a train ticket. At the moment I’ve exactly three pounds and eight pence.

  Solution: Borrow some from Maddy.

  2) The school will notice I’m not there.

  Solution: Forge a note from my parents.

  3) I’m supposed to go to the audition with a parent and I’m lacking one of those.

  Solution: See if I can pal up with a parent in the queue, maybe get them to adopt me! Or see if I can think of a reason to explain my parent’s absence.

  But never mind the obstacles. I’m going to that audition. And I wanted you, dear diary, to be the first to know.

  How to Train Your Parents

  FRIDAY APRIL 26TH

  This afternoon I got ready to go round to Maddy’s house. Mum said she thought I should wear a tie. I explained that I was going out to tea – not a job interview.

  I was just walking up Maddy’s drive when the front door opened and two very attractive blonde-haired damsels tumbled out. One of them called out to me, ‘Are you Maddy’s mystery boy?’

  ‘Could be,’ I grinned.

  ‘Talks about you all the time, you know,’ she went on. Then they kind of hovered around me. (They even smelt nice.) We did the exchanging of names bit. These were Maddy’s twin sisters, Vicky and Zoe.

  As I was staring at them (did I mention they were very attractive?) I said, ‘You both look kind of familiar,’ because they did.

  ‘Not trying to chat us up, are you, Louis?’ teased Zoe, obviously the cheeky, lively one.

  I hoped I wasn’t blushing. ‘Oh no, but I’m sure I know you from somewhere.’

  At this point there came a loud cough from the doorway and for the first time I spotted Maddy hanging about there. I waved to her, then turned back to the twins. ‘Come on, we mustn’t hold up young love,’ grinned Zoe. And right then I knew where I’d seen them before.

  I called after them, ‘Chewing gum.’

  ‘And the same to you,’ laughed Zoe.

  ‘No, that’s where I’ve seen you: you’ve both been on TV advertising chewing gum.’

  They just giggled, linked arms and swayed off down the road together. But Maddy said solemnly, ‘Yes, that’s right, they’ve been in an advert on the telly.’

  ‘But that’s brilliant,’ I exclaimed. ‘I must have seen that advert so many times. So they’re actresses then?’

  ‘No, not really actresses,’ said Maddy. ‘They’ve just done modelling and that advert – and a few other things.’

  ‘How old are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘But they look years older.’

  ‘And they’ve both got boyfriends,’ said Maddy. That was a little dig at me. But I knew those girls were way out of my league. I was a bit irritated with Maddy for being so snidey. I didn’t think she was like that. She was a bit cross with me too. In fact the atmosphere was distinctly chilly until I mentioned my plan to sneak away to the audition.

  ‘Your scheme shows real dedication,’ she said. ‘You deserve to become really famous.’ We chatted about the obstacles to my plan. As soon as I mentioned money Maddy was reaching into her purse. I told her to jot down exactly what I owed her but I don’t think she did.

  And then there was the absence note for school. Maddy suggested doing it on her computer. So we piled upstairs then made a list of possible reasons for me being away.

  1) Something wrong with my teeth. (‘Too vague,’ said Maddy.)

  2) Got a weak heart so I need to take to my bed from time to time.

  3) Left the oven on and the house has burnt down. (Me being silly.)

  4) Having a new brain fitted. (Me being silly again.)

  5) Been sick in the night.


  In the end we opted for number five. Maddy said you can’t go wrong with that one. Here’s the letter we composed:

  Dear Mr Wormold,

  I regret to inform you that my son, Louis, has been sick in the night, several times. We’re keeping him at home for further observation.

  Thanking you in advance for your time and consideration.

  (All Maddy’s work, that last sentence. Isn’t it great?)

  Then I did a good copy of Mum’s loopy signature and the letter was all ready for posting tomorrow – until Maddy said, ‘Won’t it look a bit odd posting a letter on Saturday saying you’ve been ill on Sunday?’

  ‘Not if we add, “PS I’m a part-time psychic”,’ I quipped.

  But Maddy had a point there. She said she’d deliver the letter herself on Monday. Her school was only about a ten-minute walk from mine. She’d just leave home a bit earlier. So that was all settled.

  Meanwhile, you might be wondering where Maddy’s parents were all this time. Well, this was the truly incredible thing. Her mum – who was just like an older version of Zoe and Vicky – said, ‘Hello, Louis, make yourself at home,’ to me when I arrived. And that was all.

  I wasn’t forced to endure a tour round the house. Neither did she ask me lots of silly questions. And when she brought the food in she smiled and was friendly. But she didn’t hang about, except once, and then Maddy just had to say, ‘Thanks, Mum,’ in a slow, firm voice, and she was off, gone.

  As for her dad, well he gave me a hail and a wave and that was it. We never really spoke at all. Marvellous! Somehow, Maddy’s parents just seemed to know that they weren’t part of my visit.

  ‘I’m dead impressed by your parents,’ I said to Maddy. ‘They’re so much better behaved than mine.’ Then I asked her what they were like about homework.

  ‘They leave it entirely up to me,’ said Maddy. ‘They never check up on me either. In fact, provided I stay out of trouble they don’t bother me at all.’

  ‘This is like being in paradise,’ I cried. ‘You’re so lucky.’

  And that’s when Maddy said, dead quietly, ‘Oh, but they had to be trained.’

  ‘Trained?’ At first I thought I’d misheard her.

  But then she went on, ‘Once my parents were exactly like yours.’

  ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘All parents wake up one day and realize they’re old and past it,’ she went on.

  ‘Mine have been past it for years,’ I said.

  ‘But it’s only recently they’ve realized it,’ said Maddy. ‘And that’s their dangerous time. That’s when they say to themselves, I might be all ancient and crumbly but my children aren’t. So they can make my dreams come true for me. They can do all the things I didn’t.’

  ‘And your parents did that?’ I asked.

  Maddy’s voice became really bitter. ‘Oh, they never gave me a minute’s peace.’

  ‘With school work?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Actually, I’m all right at that. But they wanted me to have singing lessons and dancing lessons and be in adverts, like my sisters. They were always on at me about going to auditions, saying they were just pushing me to give me a chance.’

  ‘Sounds familiar,’ I murmured.

  ‘Oh, it was just awful. But worst of all was the way they looked at me, all hurt and disappointed—’

  ‘I know, exactly,’ I interrupted.

  ‘It’s just not fair, is it?’ she cried indignantly. ‘Let them make their own dreams come true. That’s not our job, is it?’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ I agreed firmly.

  ‘But the thing to remember is, if you take the right action, this is just a phase they go through – and afterwards they’ll leave you completely alone.’

  ‘So come on, tell me,’ I cried excitedly. ‘What is the right action?’

  Maddy hesitated. ‘I was going to keep this secret for a book I’m going to write to raise money for my agency. But as you’re my client, I’ll tell you the four basic rules of parent-training.’

  And she did. The only problem was, she said it quite quickly and I’m not good at taking notes. But these are the main bits.

  Rule one: Act all the time as if your parents aren’t there

  This means never ever looking at your parents unless you really have to. Every hour of the day and night you must give them the silent treatment. When one of your parents says, ‘Don’t ignore me,’ you’re on the road to victory.

  Maddy’s tip:

  This takes quite a bit of practice. So don’t worry if it takes you a while to get the hang of it.

  Rule two: Never tell your parents anything

  Avoid talking to them whenever possible. When forced to converse keep sentences dead short (three words maximum).

  Maddy’s tip:

  It helps if you imagine you’re a spy and your parents are enemy agents trying to make you give away vital information.

  Rule three: Never argue with your parents

  Remember, parents feed off arguments. And they always win them, too. So never let them provoke a reaction from you. (They will try. Be warned.)

  Maddy’s tip:

  When your parents are having a go at you keep your face completely blank: just blink and stare at them. And don’t respond to anything they say.

  Rule four: Unsettle your parents whenever you can

  This is best done by:

  Continual sighing.

  Regular door-slamming (but always accidentally!).

  Looking at your parents with extreme pity and a permanently raised eyebrow.

  Muttering things under your breath.

  Saying things which irritate every parent such as: ‘Don’t bother, OK?’, ‘I don’t care,’ and ‘Whatever.’

  Every so often, throw in what Maddy calls a ‘killer sentence’. For general discomfort Maddy recommends, ‘I didn’t ask to be born into this family, you know,’ and ‘I wish I was in a children’s home and not with you.’

  Also, if your parents ever threaten to punish you, just say very sadly, ‘I’m sorry you feel you have to resort to that.’ Maddy says, this gets them every time.

  Feel as if I’ve discovered truly important advice tonight. Maddy really is a top agent. I shall start training my parents tomorrow – well, today, actually. It’s now 12.45 a.m.!

  SATURDAY APRIL 27TH

  Been secretly working on my comedy act for the audition all day.

  I’ll definitely start my parent-training programme tomorrow.

  SUNDAY APRIL 28TH

  Rang Maddy tonight and did my act to her over the phone. She told me to cut one joke (What makes more noise than one cat up a tree? Two cats up a tree) as she said it was unworthy of me. I have followed her advice.

  She also asked about the parent-training and was pretty surprised when I said I hadn’t started yet. Then, as if reading my mind, she said, ‘Do you think my parent-training is a bit nasty?’

  ‘Just a tad,’ I admitted.

  ‘But, Louis, we’re only setting a few boundaries. And all parents need those. They’ll really be much happier back in their own world. And just think of all the extra leisure time they’ll be able to enjoy.’

  I said I hadn’t thought of it like that and I would definitely start the training soon – but first I had a date with destiny.

  My Date with Destiny

  MONDAY APRIL 29TH

  5.45 a.m. My bedroom

  When a comedian doesn’t get any laughs the technical term is ‘dying on your backside’. Wouldn’t it be ghastly if I did just that today? Can’t get that thought out of my brain.

  9.10 a.m. Railway station

  Arrived at the station about ten minutes ago. I’ve already changed out of my school uniform and into my performing clothes. Now I feel like me! I also bought a ticket without any questions being asked about me travelling alone to London. I put that down to my mature air and the fact that there was a massive queue behind me.

  Maddy rang me a couple of
minutes ago. She has been to the hell-hole and delivered my absence note. She also assured me that I will not die on my backside today. ‘Don’t forget, you’re a certificated comedian,’ she said. Actually, I had forgotten that and was grateful to her for reminding me. I’ve promised to try and ring her at one o’clock today with any news.

  11.25 a.m. Robson Theatre (outside)

  One thing I forgot today – an umbrella. As soon as I reached Covent Garden it started pouring down. I also took a wrong turning (despite Maddy’s brilliant map) but I still arrived at the Robson Theatre half an hour early. And I couldn’t believe the sight which greeted me. A massive queue of children and parents stretching for miles and miles.

  Right at the front was this boy wrapped up in so many layers of clothes he looked as if he was off to the North Pole. A pair of eyes peeped out at me.

  ‘Is everyone here waiting for Tomorrow’s Stars?’ I asked him. He whispered something really faintly. ‘Sorry?’ I asked.

  ‘Actually,’ cut in his mum, ‘do you mind if Sidney doesn’t talk right now. He really needs to save his voice. But yes, everyone is here for Tomorrow’s Stars.’

  Took me about two years to reach the back of the queue. In front of me stood this girl in a black cloak, red baggy trousers and black pointed shoes. She also had a black hat on her head. Two adults stood next to her and all three were nestling under a large umbrella (it was still pelting it down).

  The girl suddenly turned round and looked at me. ‘Oh dear, you are getting wet.’

  ‘Nothing misses you, does it,’ I grinned.

  The girl flashed her pearly whites at me then stretched out a hand. ‘I’m Serena the Sorcerer.’

  ‘Louis the Laugh. How are you doing?’

  We shook hands, then she said, ‘You can stand under our umbrella if you like.’ So I did. I was introduced to her mum and her grandad, who was dressed all in black, from which this silver head protruded like a spotlight (‘My inspiration,’ Serena said). Serena told me that she’d been performing magic tricks at festivals since she was four years old. ‘I’ve had this itch inside me to be famous for as long as I can remember. I want it so much that sometimes I can feel it just bursting out of me.’