by Nigel Smith
Stanley Fletcher’s parents were by far the worst. They arrived massively late, shoved their little boy through the front door, told Dad he had a terrible and dangerous nut allergy, handed him a MASSIVE NEEDLE filled with anti-allergy medicine and then ran out for an afternoon of Stanley-free fun. “If he eats a nut by accident and turns blue, just shove the needle in his rear end and give it a good squeeze,” said Stanley’s dad, backing away down the drive. “So kind, so generous. Hope to see you at a committee meeting soon, bye.”
The committee was the only dampener to Nat’s joy in this moment. If the party went well, the committee might decide to give Dad another chance after all. And no one could deny it – it WAS going well. However, Nat was prepared to make sacrifices to get popular. Besides, she figured, Dad was bound to do something stupid one day. Hopefully before the end of term disco.
Which he actually did a moment later, when he said,
“Darius, come down from Mr Pringle’s extension, I need your help.”
Darius jumped down on to a trampoline, bounced, and landed tidily at Dad’s feet. The Dog came up and licked his sticky hand. “Clever boy,” said Dad, to both of them, and both Darius and the Dog swelled with pride.
Dad looked Darius in the eye; most people didn’t do that. “Darius, I’m putting you in charge. We seem to have collected a lot of little children. I need you to think of party games for them. I haven’t got time to think of any so I’ll leave that to you, OK?”
Dad then started off carrying a tray of dubious-looking hot party bites.
Just then, through the crowds of happy children, Nat noticed a halo of golden hair walking towards her.
“Dad, please don’t show me up ANY MORE THAN USUAL in the next five minutes,” she pleaded.
“Flora, Flora, over here,” shouted Nat, waving to the beautiful golden-haired girl who had just arrived with two tall, good-looking parents.
Flora walked over to Nat and handed her a beautifully wrapped gift.
Behind The Golden One, Nat could see Darius come running, chasing a small crying boy. “I don’t wanna play the flying game,” wailed the little boy.
“Look!” said Nat to Flora, grabbing her shoulders and turning her anywhere away from Darius. “Look at that.”
“It’s a fence,” said Flora calmly.
“Um – yes, it is,” said Nat lamely, “but it’s a very nice one.” Flora laughed. “You’re funny,” she said.
“Geronimo!” shouted Darius from somewhere. “AAAAAARGH!” shouted a little boy, from somewhere near Darius. Nat wasn’t listening. She was in heaven. Flora Marling was at her party.
Flora Marling’s parents were both doctors – her mother was a real one who wore a white coat and looked after patients; her father had become a doctor by writing books about people who write books. As Dad walked past with the tray of salty, sugary, fatty food full of artificial colourings, they both looked at him as if he was a failed science experiment, or a bad novel.
“Are you serving those for the children to eat?” asked Mrs Doctor Marling, slapping Flora’s hand as she reached for one of the mini pizzas.
“Nothing I wouldn’t eat myself,” said Dad, popping one in his mouth to demonstrate. It was still red hot. “Ah – ha – aaaaa,” said Dad, as his tongue melted.
“We used to live round here,” said Doctor Mister Marling. “Before we could afford to move.”
“Ugh – ick – gah,” said Dad, unable to spit the nuclear-hot morsel into the nearest bush, because he was aware of Nat’s forbidding stare. “So – much – pain.”
“Is your father ill?” said Doctor Mrs Marling. “I am a doctor.” Like most doctors, she loved telling people she was a doctor.
“You’ve no idea,” said Nat.
Dad finally swallowed the flaming piece of pizza. “You can’t play football, can you?” he asked Mr Marling. “Only I’ve been let down at the last minute and I promised some of the boys there’d be someone from Manchester United coming. I probably aimed a bit high, I suppose. But you look a lot like their number four.”
“I do not play football,” said Mr Doctor Marling, as if this was something to be proud of. Nat saw Flora roll her eyes up. Nat was getting that familiar clammy feeling … Shut up Dad, she screamed inside. Shut up, shut UP.
“Oh well,” said Dad. “How do you feel about doing a turn as a clown? I’ve got the costume. I was going to do it myself but I haven’t quite finished the sandwiches yet.”
“Is anyone responsible in charge?” asked Mr Doctor Marling.
“Not really,” admitted Nat.
And that was when Dad’s final piece of entertainment arrived, and the unravelling of Nat’s day could begin.
“Who are these creatures?” asked Mrs Doctor Marling, as a group of scantily-clad women high-stepped into the garden. They were all wearing sequins and short skirts and stockings and feathers. But they were not wearing many what you’d call ‘proper clothes’.
“Oooh, get you, Mrs La-de-dah,” said the woman with the most orange skin, most sequins and least clothing. “We’re the dancers. I’m Trixie Forward.” She held out her hand. Mrs Doctor Marling examined it as if she was looking for scabies.
“Of course you are,” she said. “Flora, we’re leaving. Right away.”
“I think they’re pretty,” said Flora. “Can I wear that for my party?”
“No, you cannot,” snapped Mr Doctor Marling.
“Dad …” wailed Nat. “Who are THEY? Do something.”
Dad took Trixie to one side. “Why aren’t you wearing more clothes?” he asked. “You don’t look like street dancers. You should be in trainers and tracksuits. And why have you brought a pole?”
“You booked us,” said Trixie, the leader of the group. “I printed out your booking form off the computer. Computer’s don’t lie.” She pulled a form from her bra.
“Well, REALLY!” sniffed Mrs Doctor Marling. “Outrageous.”
“It’s in black and white,” Trixie explained reasonably. “It says here, ‘Trixie Forward and her podium dance troupe’. I have the booking reference number too. It’s all computerised these days. We’re very modern.”
“I thought podium was something to do with the Olympics,” said Dad. “Something sporty.”
“In THESE costumes?” said Trixie.
“I did it online, and I didn’t have my glasses on,” said Dad, flustered, as Nat kicked him in fury. “And it was really late and I was really tired.”
“Well here’s our booking reference number,” said Trixie, not giving up.
“Well now he’s un-booking you. Clear off,” said Nat, desperately trying to get things back under control.
Trixie dug her high heels in. “You can’t treat us like this. We’ve been given a job, and we’re not leaving until we do it. Professional pride’s at stake. Candii, put the music on. You’re getting our act whether you like it or not.”
“You are not dancing half naked in my garden in front of my little girl!” shouted Dad.
Nat cringed. “I’m not a little girl,” she said, sounding like a little girl.
Dad was just as stubborn as Trixie Forward. “It’s not suitable.”
“Oh, go on, let them,” shouted Roller-rink Steve, who was very glad he’d stayed behind to fix a roller skate.
“Yeah, let them, you big spoilsport,” said Go-kart Kevin, who was very glad he’d stayed behind to fix a go-kart.
“You stay out of it,” shouted Dad.
“No, she’s right,” said Mr Dinkins, leaning over the fence. “Professional pride – you heard her.”
“This is a children’s party,” yelled Dad.
“We’re not doing it for the children, we’re doing it for you,” said Trixie. “And for our dancing to be taken seriously. Candii, darling, music.”
Candii turned on her portable CD player and the music started blaring out. The six girls took up their starting positions. By now a crowd of children was forming.
“I’m not staying here t
o be offended,” shouted Mrs Doctor Marling.
“I suppose not,” said Mr Doctor Marling. “Although we could stay, to see just how offended we are.”
But his wife was already pushing him out of the garden. “Flora, come here now,” she snapped, dragging her sighing daughter behind her.
And with that, Flora Marling was gone as if borne away by a sweet breeze, and Trixie Forward’s Podium Dancers started their rather more spicy routine.
Dad rushed around the garden, rounding up children as quickly as he could. “Everyone inside the bouncy castle!” he shouted. “No, don’t look round. It’s a new game. Anyone turning round is out. Hurry, hurry.”
From here, things went downhill. Fast. At 2pm, Dad got a call from Mum saying she had been caught a tiny bit speeding and would be a teeny bit late as she just might possibly have had a massive row with a policeman. She was now down the station helping them with their enquiries.
“I thought you were relaxed after your massage,” Nat heard Dad say. Mum shouted at him so loudly that she thought his mobile was going to melt.
And to her horror Nat suddenly realised – her party was becoming yet another Dad Disaster.
AT LOOKED AROUND HER IN DESPAIR, AND EVERYWHERE she looked she saw utter mayhem.
Kids were bouncing each other on and off the castle, using the trampolines to launch themselves over the next-door neighbours’ garden fences with happy yells. Mr Dinkins and Mr Pringle were missing, presumed hiding in their bedrooms.
Bigger and braver children were driving the little go-karts off the track in what could only be called an ‘off-road adventure’, destroying the garden and running over some of the smaller children, who couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.
Long human chains were fast forming on the roller rink. This meant the adventurous child at the back of the line gained more speed than the average unmanned spacecraft. One or two ended up flying off and crashing into the hedge.
Nat noticed that Ali Kadabra seemed to be swigging from a bottle of something that looked suspiciously like gin, and was crying into his mobile phone.
Bad News Nan had stopped helping and was snoring on a deckchair, surrounded by heaps of crumbs. Someone had painted her face bright bottle green and Nat had a horrible feeling it was the paint from inside the shed that Dad used to paint the outside of the shed.
The cookery demonstration was going particularly badly because the kids didn’t want a lookalike Mrs Fudge, they wanted a real one. A few of the more lively Year Sevens had started throwing bits of cake dough at her while she swore at them in Polish.
“Have you seen Darius and the little kids?” Nat asked Dad nervously.
“They’re the least of our worries,” said Dad (wrongly, as it turned out). “They’re all upstairs. He’s doing something called the tangle game. You see I was right,” said Dad, with a touch of pride. “Kids like Darius do ever so well if you give them a bit of responsibility. It makes them grow up.”
You didn’t, thought Nat, looking around at the madness.
“Oh dear, that’s not Stanley Fletcher eating one of the Eastern European hazelnut cupcakes, is it?” said Dad nervously, as Stanley started to choke and turn blue.
Nat began to tear her hair out, as Dad dangled little Stanley Fletcher upside down, while trying to flick bits of cupcake out of his mouth.
“Is that all of it?” demanded Dad, shaking the poor boy rigorously. “Are you sure?” Stanley nodded, spitting bits of nutty cake on to Dad’s shoes. Dad stood Stanley upright. “Shall I give you the needle now?”
“Aaargh!” screamed Stanley. “No needles!” and ran into the house. Dad chased after him, but only got as far as the patio when he tripped over the magician’s box of tricks, just as Ali Kadabra was heading for the climax of his show. Two doves flew away into the sky, and a white rabbit hopped out, dashed across the grass and scuttled under the bouncy castle.
“Stop bouncing!” screamed Ali Kadabra to the kids on the castle. “You’re squashing Mr Whiskers!” He grabbed Dad by the shoulders.
“I love that rabbit. He’s all I’ve got now Karen’s left me.” Ali’s lip trembled, his golden turban slipping over his eyes. “If anything happens to him I’m gonna make you disappear permanently.” The magician suddenly hugged Dad tight. “She even took the dog,” he sobbed. “Why did she take the dog?”
“It’s all right,” said Dad, patting him on the back kindly. “It’s all right.”
Ali pulled out a hanky to blow his nose. It was a string of hankies – white, yellow, pink, green. The kids started laughing.
“It’s not funny!” gasped the magician between sobs. “It’s not part of the act.” He sat down on the floor and cried. A car horn in his trousers went off, like a great fart. The kids howled with laughter.
“I’ll kill you all!” screamed the crying conjurer and leapt off after them, tripping over his big shoes. More doves flew out of his hat as he waved it in rage. The children scattered, laughing as they ran.
Bad News Nan woke up as one kid careered into her deckchair. “Ooh, I had a terrible dream about the end of the world,” she muttered, half asleep. She looked around the garden and saw that her dream had come true.
“Dad, this is a DISASTER!” shouted Nat furiously. “Everyone will say this is the worst party ever. DO SOMETHING!”
Dad looked around at the unravelling scene. Kids were clambering over the fences into the next-door neighbours’ gardens. Someone had stolen all the face paints and decorated the fences with rude words and revolting pictures. Someone was crying in the kiddy go-kart track and it sounded like Mr Dinkins. Ali Kadabra was now weeping on Bad News Nan’s crumb-covered bosom. “Never mind,” she said, her face still bright green. “Tell me all about it. Especially the sad bits.”
Year Seven swot Marcus Milligan, whose parents never let him eat sweets, had run amok. Buzzing on a half a dozen mini cheese substitute pizzas and three pints of orange-flavoured, glow-in-the-dark squash, he yelled, “Look at me, I can fly!” and chucked himself off Mr Pringle’s extension, did a triple bounce off three trampolines and hurtled straight into next-door’s leylandii tree, getting stuck six metres in the air.
As Dad ran to help, he noticed flames coming from lookalike Martha Fudge’s outdoor kitchen. “I never said I could cook,” she shouted. “I just look like her. I’m going home.”
Nat ran to put the fire out. Penny Posnitch was already there, calmly throwing earth on the flames. Her face was sooty from the smoke. “You’re needed upstairs,” she said. “Something’s gone wrong with Darius and the tangle game.”
Nat took off like a rocket, not even realising how relieved she was that at least one person was still talking to her.
Upstairs, the little kids were in a horrible, horrible mess. They were squashed up together in one big wriggling heap. This was the tangle game. The idea was to see how many kids could get into one big tangle. The only rule was that they had to hold hands at all times. Darius had helped them get properly tangled by using garden twine and superglue. He’d been hoping for a tangle game world record, but had got bored after a while and wandered off. There were now a dozen little children stuck fast and sobbing.
Nat started to untangle them when she looked out of the landing window and noticed one of her classmates walking off down the front drive with Mr Pringle’s flat-screen telly. “What are you doing with that?” she shouted through the open window.
“I won it,” said the boy. “Darius did bingo and I won. He said this was first prize.”
“Well, it’s not. And you can put that back too,” she yelled, as another boy walked past with a toaster.
“Second prize,” said the boy.
“Darius Bagley!” shouted Nat angrily, her words lost as the stuck children started wailing again.
“He’s busy,” shouted a voice from the kitchen. “He’s seeing how many baked beans he can get up his nose.” A chant started up — “One more bean, one more bean!”
Something blew up ou
tside and Nat reckoned it could have been any number of things. She hoped it was Dad. This mess was ALL HIS FAULT. She wondered if she could change schools. Or country.
A cheer rose up from the kitchen. Darius came up the stairs, dripping in beans and tomato sauce. He looked like he had an outbreak of the plague. He held up the empty tin in triumph.
Nat walked over to him, furious. He pulled a stupid ‘I’m sorry’ face. She tried to be angry with him but couldn’t. He looked too funny. He smiled and beans slid down his nose. He caught them with his tongue and ate them. Then he burped a massive beany burp. Nat laughed. She heard a car door slam outside.
“Oh no,” she said. “Parents are coming back. They’re gonna go mental.”
“Who cares?” said Darius as they ran outside across the smouldering wrecks of the garden. “Everyone says this was the best party ever.”
Nat’s mouth fell open. She looked round. Every mad, whooping, sugar-crazed, manic, bonkers kid did look totally, utterly, deliriously … happy.
And by the look on the parents’ faces, Nat thought she might get the best birthday present OF ALL TIME. Surely Dad would get chucked off the committee now? Even HE couldn’t get away with this. Could he?
OWEVER, JUST A FEW DAYS LATER …
“How did the committee meeting go, Dad?” said Nat, lying smugly on the sofa with Mum, scoffing prawn crackers.
She’d had a brilliant couple of days at school, mainly because all the parents had forbidden their kids to play with ‘the terrible Bumhole girl’. Which meant of course, for the first time EVER, she was actually very nearly cool. She knew it wouldn’t last, but neither did Christmas; it was still great.
And now Dad was off the committee. So he wouldn’t be coming into school any more, or running stupid trips, and he DEFINITELY wouldn’t be doing a disco!
She had waited up all evening to hear Dad’s fate on the POGS. Mum, pretending to read a magazine, chuckled quietly. Without looking up she said, “So? Did they chuck you off?”
“There was a vote TRYING to chuck me off, yes,” said Dad. “Something about me being a danger or a menace or something. I can’t remember the exact words. But I know you’ll both be delighted to hear that in the end the vote was overturned.”