Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy

by John Michael

  “It sure is! It should be great!”

  The Quockingpoll Flats Founding Festival was the biggest event this side of three counties, with rides, competitions and games. The festival was named after Ezekiel Zebadiah Quockingpoll who was the founding father of our town − well, almost − he was actually the second founding father. The first founding father was some anonymous explorer who fell into the main river and was never seen again − nobody knew who he was, or where he came from. There was some suspicion that he might have been Dutch or French as he had left behind a pair of wooden clogs and half a wheel of camembert cheese. Some years later some lumberjacks found these items in his bag, alongside a compass, some maps, a fur hat, and a life-size carved chicken made out of soapstone. There was a heated debate whether to call the waterway ‘Anonymous River’ or ‘Chicken River.’ In the end the townsfolk came to a compromise and called it ‘Anonymous Chicken River.’

  It was an impoverished farmer, Ezekiel Quockingpoll, however, who arrived after the Anonymous Chicken explorer and gave our town its name. And thank goodness for that! Imagine telling people that you came from Anonymous Chicken Flats. Apparently, Ezekiel got lost on his way to the markets where he was taking his harvest of turnips to sell. As he was setting up camp he got attacked by a pack of brabbensacks − which, for the uninitiated, are a sort of cross between a warthog and a prairie dog. Ezekiel soon ran out of ammunition and had to fight them off with his turnips and his bare hands. Luckily, he managed to hold off through the night and when sunrise arrived he could see the extent of the carnage − there were brabbensack carcases and turnips strewn across the entire meadow.

  This episode became forever immortalised in the Quockingpoll annals of history as the Great Turnip War of 1818. Not to let a good opportunity go to waste, he created his famous ‘brabbensack and turnip casserole’ which became the town’s claim to fame for a good decade. He later added to his initial recipe and developed a selection of delectable delights using his own blend of secret herbs and spices, including but not limited to, brabbensack stuffed with dormice, brabbensack and toad pie, and everyone’s favourite, brabbensack custard tart.

  People from miles around would visit Quockingpoll Flats to sample Ezekiel’s culinary delights and it made him the richest man this side of the Anonymous Chicken River. Things were going quite well but then an outbreak of bubonic plague* amongst the brabbensacks diminished their stock and infected half of the town’s human inhabitants. In the end Ezekiel Quockingpoll’s chain of brabbensack restaurants (called The Brabbensack Grill Shack) went belly up and he had to turn back to turnip farming. So this was your classic ‘rags to riches to rags’ story.

  “I just hope that they have brabbensack custard tart,” said Barney who, as usual, was thinking of his stomach.

  “They better have... or there’ll be a riot,” I replied, thinking of Barney in particular.

  Of course, after the bubonic plague, when brabbensack stock was in short supply, there had indeed been riots. The ‘Bring us Back our Brabbensack’ riot of 1834 saw townsfolk marching in the streets with placards and kicking in doors, smashing windows, overturning horse carts and fouling the wells. Some unscrupulous butchers, trying to make a quick buck, started to substitute brabbensack with sackenbrab, which was the brabbensack’s smaller cousin and looked like a cross between a duck and a ferret. Unfortunately, sackenbrab tasted like a mix of chopped liver and pickled herring and, for this reason, was called the poor man’s brabbensack. At one stage there was so much sackenbrab which had flooded the market that this problem gave rise to the second great riot in Quockingpoll Flats, called the ‘No More Drab Sackenbrab’ riot of 1836.

  Finally, a county law was put into place which prohibited the use of sackenbrab:

  Nay person without prop'r certification shalt has’t on his living any meat or offal from the sæckenbrab beest, intended for the consumption of man, or any container enwheeling any meat or meat product, n’r shalt any such meat or offal be keptéd, storéd or offeréd for market. Any person who hath contravenest regulation 915-83 shalt be subject to prosecution and shalt be verily liable on summary conviction to a punishment not exceeding 10 lashes and 7 farthings.

  Strangely enough, by this stage some of the townsfolk had acquired a taste for sackenbrab and when the meat was banned, found it hard to go cold turkey (or the equivalent saying in Quockingpoll Flats, ‘to go cold sackenbrab’). This episode eventuated in another famous riot in Quockingpoll's history − the “Gotta get me some Sackenbrab’ riot of 1837.

  Incidentally, this meat substitution fiasco gave rise to another common saying in Quockingpoll Flats, ‘That’s just not brabbensack.’ The phrase was often used when referring to a statement or action that was false, unfair or incorrect. For example, last week Dad had a meltdown while he was in the bathroom. “Who left just one square of paper on the toilet roll? That’s just not brabbensack!” And then there was the time when Mum ordered Chinese takeaway. “I asked for Sweet and Sour Pork and we get Raw Squid Salad instead! That’s just not brabbensack!”

  Of course, when it came to brabbensack, and I’m talking about authentic brabbensack here, Barney was something of a connoisseur. He knew his rumpside from his topside and his tenderloin from his sirloin and I could tell, as he was staring out the bus window, that he was deep in thought about food.

  “So... looking forward to all that fingerlicking goodness Barney?”

  “Well, I think that I might have a few snacks,” laughed Barney, “and then play a few games.

  I knew that by a few snacks he meant a wheelbarrow of food and a few games meant Barney stealing the limelight at the hammer high strike.

  “That sounds like a good plan... and I know you’re just gonna blitz that hammer game.”

  “Aw I dunno,” answered Barney bashfully.

  The hammer high strike was a unique game which originated in the alpine region of Quockingpoll Flats. It all began in the mid-1800s with the Bavarian settlers who would resolve their territorial disputes by yodelling. They would climb to the top of the highest spruce trees and let fly with their yodels so that the sound would carry across the mountains. At any one time there would be ten to twenty yodellers yodelling away in the forest, trying to outlast each other as a demonstration of strength, masculinity and endurance.

  The womenfolk, however, soon got sick and tired of such posturing and while their menfolk were yodelling all the day long, they were stuck with ploughing the soil, irrigating the fields, harvesting the grain, picking the fruit and vegetables, milking the cows, collecting the eggs and shearing the sheep. So the wives invented a ‘strength tester’ game which was much more practical, simple and effective and got their menfolk back on the farms where they belonged. The challengers used an oversized wooden mallet and the aim of the game was to hit the base with enough force so that the puck would fly up through a tube and force the pressurised air through a series of organ pipes which would result in a yodelling sound. The greater the strength of the challenger the longer and louder the yodel.

  Barney was a natural at the game and he’d always make an excuse to wind up near the stand and then he would act surprised. “Oh my goodness! Look! It’s the hammer high strike, can we have a go Howie?”

  I would play along with the charade, even though I was terrible at the game and even primary school kids would laugh at my feeble attempts. But once Barney had a turn, the yodelling would last for a good minute and they would stare at him in admiration. It was his uncanny strength which set Barney apart, that and his knowledge of sports trivia. Barney was odd in that way; he disliked any form of exercise but he could recite all types of facts and statistics about sports. His dad was a sports journalist for the Quockingpoll Flats Gazette and always spoke about statistics, percentages and records and over the years the numbers must have rubbed off on Barney. Oh, I forgot about klonkers... Barney also loved playing klonkers!

  “Well... we better make sure that we get to the festival early... you know how busy it get
s,” declared Barney.

  “You’re not wrong there... busier than a fistful of fleas on a pack of cats!”

  The bus screeched to a halt and we pushed the upcoming Quockingpoll Flats Festival out of our minds and came crashing back to reality... we both knew that ‘speech time’ was awaiting like some black cloud on the horizon.

  We gulped out loud and got off the bus.

  First period was, as you could have guessed, Science.

  Chapter four

  sardines

  Our Science teacher, Mr Klopsberg, was sitting behind his desk and was looking even more glum than usual. Rumour had it that he had once worked for a big German pharmaceutical company but a chemical explosion had hindered his ability to blink or smell.

  We marched into the classroom in single file like emotionless drones. Barney was in front of me and let out a deep sigh. “I would rather do anything than give a speech, even dissect smelly ol’ fish!”

  I was about to agree with him when I had a stomach-convulsing flashback.

  It was a few months back, late one Monday afternoon smack-bang in the middle of the hottest summer in a decade.

  We had just entered our classroom when Mr Klopsberg informed us of the day’s activities. “Today vee vill open up zee fish.” Our collective spirit was immediately deflated; it was going to be another messy episode where we would practice our dissection skills on some slimy creature.

  Unfortunately, the refrigerator in the science lab had decided to give up the ghost during the weekend and when Mr Klopsberg opened the fridge door, we were all hit with a smell fouler than the stench of Satan’s armpits.

  Some students started to tear up, others started to dry retch. Although Mr Klopsberg had no sense of smell he could immediately see that the fish were passed their use-by-date. The normally glistening grey sardines had turned a darker shade of putrid. Being the tightwad that he was, Mr Klopsberg didn’t want to see a good science experiment go to waste.

  “It vill all be fine,” he proclaimed in order to assure us.

  He then handed out a wooden peg to each student to put over our noses in order to neutralise the smell. It was, at best, wishful thinking as the pegs kept slipping off and for the kids with a larger schnoz, the pegs didn’t even fit. They were the first to succumb to the over-bearing stench, covering their faces with their hands and gasping for breath. The fish were so bloated that they exploded as soon as they came in contact with the scalpel. At the end of the process there were fish-guts being squirted in every direction and students keeling over and gagging and others running out of the room screaming. The classroom had to be aired out for a good week before it could be used again.

  So, all in all, I had to disagree with Barney’s assessment − speeches were bad, but smelly rotting fish carcasses were much worse.

  Sardines or no sardines, Mr Klopsberg was a no-nonsense kind of teacher. He was a man of few words but, if you got on his nerves, he would let you know exactly what he was thinking. On a general level, if your work was good, Mr Klopsberg would respond with a concise “vell done” and if your work wasn’t up to scratch, you would get some abrupt criticism combined with a long lingering stare from those unblinking eyes.

  The students quickly sat behind their desks and waited in quiet dread. The teacher got out of his chair and stood in front of the class. He looked at the rows of gloomy faces and gazed back detached and emotionless − for some reason, this was a common look which overcame all of our teachers from time to time. It was an expression which seemed to say, ‘When I was in high school, I had such big plans for my life but look at me now − I’m back in high school!’

  Mr Klopsberg had a thin hollowed face with a neatly trimmed goatee below and a meticulously applied comb-over on top. He carefully adjusted his steel rimmed glasses which rested on his thin nose and cupped his hands as if he was about to deliver a sermon.

  “Students! I vant you all to pay attention,” instructed Mr Klopsberg in his clipped German accent.

  He was dressed in his white lab coat which always looked brand spanking new. Come to think of it, I had never seen him in any other attire... even during class excursions he would wear the same clothes. His lab coat was always pristine white − almost dazzling in its immaculate brightness. For a moment I thought that I should ask him about his secret as Mum was always on my back about the stains on my clothes and how she could never get them out.

  There had been many unfortunate incidents in our science classroom which were the cause of Mum’s laundry nightmares. I have already mentioned the sardine misadventure, Mr Klopsberg copped his fair share of the blood, guts and scales but, the next day, his same lab coat with the torn pocket − not a spot! My clothes, on the other hand, had to be burned as my mother refused to touch them. There was also the one time when Susie Skitter accidently mixed hydrogen peroxide, potassium iodide and dishwashing liquid and kaboom! Green slime everywhere but, the next day, Mr Klopsberg’s lab coat was, as you’ve guessed, as white as the driven snow. My favourite yellow shirt and light blue pants, however, still have green streaks to this day even though they’ve been washed at least thirty times. Perhaps in reality he was some evil genius who had discovered a way to clone his white lab coat and had an entire wardrobe of them − hundreds and hundreds of duplicates of the same coat! Hmm... that would certainly explain a lot.

  “Today, as you know, vee vill start with zee speeches!” instructed Mr Klopsberg.

  At the back of the class Lazy Lenny immediately put his hand up. He had acquired his nickname because of his dislike of any classwork what-so-ever, but he also had a lazy eye, so the nickname was appropriate on a couple of levels. Furthermore, Lenny was as predictable as he was lazy and everybody in the class knew that he was putting up his hand in order to get to the sick bay as he hadn’t done the speech. The other thing about Lenny was that he was quite mean spirited and ticked all the boxes necessary to be one of the worst bullies at the school:

  He had a nasty snarl

  He loved to punch people

  He liked to spread spiteful rumours

  He had unflattering nicknames for other students

  He loved to pull the wings off flies

  He had bad breath

  He could fart at will

  As you can see, Lenny wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted to invite home for dinner.

  Mr Klopsberg was attempting to ignore Lenny, but he then started to make irritating grunting noises.

  “Vot is it this time Mr Lenotti?”

  “Um... ah... you see... um...” stuttered Lenny.

  “Vell? Has your tongue been got by zee cat?”

  The class giggled in unison.

  “Ah sir... I’m not feeling that well and –”

  “And you vant to go to zee sick bay?” interrupted Mr Klopsberg. “Yes, I know Lenny, you try zee same excuse every time and the answer is nein!”

  Lenny muttered something under his breath. Big mistake! Mr Klopsberg wasn’t a big fan of mutterers. Actually, he had a strict ‘no muttering’ rule. Come to think if it, Mr Klopsberg also had a whole bevy of other class rules: ‘no cavorting,’ ‘no warbling,’ ‘no dallying,’ ‘no tooting,’ and especially ‘no tardiness.’ All in all, he was quite a nit-picky teacher and was very set in his ways.

  “Lenny... you know I vill not tolerate muttering in zee classroom... as punishment you can have zee honour of going first with your speech.”

  There was a shared sigh of relief in the class. Nobody wanted to go first for these types of activities. If you were terrible, the stench of failure would dangle around your neck like a hangman’s noose around a decomposing corpse. Even worse, if you were great, you would set an impossible standard for everyone else. It was a no-win situation.

  Lenny’s eyes darted to and fro, his feeble brain trying to find some way out of this pickle but, with Mr Klopsberg’s steady stare on him, Lenny realised that there was no way out.

  He sluggishly trudged down the aisle, his bulky weight making the f
loorboards creak. He finally made it to the front of the room with no speech, no palmcards, and no clue. He was looking rather irritated and tried to give the teacher the hairy eyeball but, if it was a staring competition* Lenny was after, big mistake. As already mentioned, Mr Klopsberg never blinked and this in itself was a sign that Lenny was not the sharpest tool in the shed.

  He stood there like a lobotomised goldfish; his mouth started to make gaping movements but no sound was coming out.

  Of course, after doing this for a few minutes, it started to get a tad monotonous.

  “Hurry up Mr Lenotti... vee have not all day!” snapped Mr Klopsberg.

  Lenny was skating on thin ice. He had already tried the teacher’s patience and, on top of everything else, he had broken the ‘no muttering’ rule and now was very close to breaking the ‘no dallying’ rule as well.

  Lenny stirred from his daze. “Yes sir.” He then went on to clear his throat for a good minute.

  “Lenny!” exclaimed Mr Klopsberg. “Stop vasting our time!”

  “Okay... once upon a time... ah... I mean ladies and gentlemen... ah... I mean teacher and students... ahem... today let me talk about... wait! What am I talkin’ about today? Um... um...”

  Lenny started to scratch his head... some dandruff drifted down to the floor but we all pretended not to notice. At this point in time he was having bigger issues than a dry flaky scalp.

  Mr Klopsberg finally interjected. “You are supposed to be talking about zee gravity Lenny! Grav-ee-tee!”

  “Ah... that’s right... gravity. What can I say about gravity? Well, for one thing gravity really sucks!”

  If this was supposed to be Lenny’s humorous introduction, it fell flat and the only sound heard was that of a cricket chirping in the background.

  “Come on Mr Lenotti... continue!” demanded Mr Klopsberg.

  “Yes... well... imagine a world without gravity − now that’s what I’m talking about. We could just fly around anywhere we wanted to and not need no cars, trains or planes. So... down with gravity! No more gravity would mean that –”