Barry Loser: Worst school trip EVER Read online

  ‘Wee?’ said Bunky.

  ‘How about if we were all feeling a bit dodgy from the bus journey?’ said Sharonella, looking down the aisle at Fay Snoggles, who was sitting at the front next to Miss Spivak because she always gets travel sick.

  Nancy itched her glasses, which was weird.

  ‘Not bad, Shazza,’ she said. ‘Not bad at all . . .’

  And then Nancy’s eyes lit up like the brain behind them had just had an amazekeel idea.

  ‘What is it, Nancy?’ I said, as the bus did a blowoff and shuddered to a stop outside Hokum TV Studios.

  ‘Calm down now, kiddywinkles!’ cried Miss Spivak once we’d all been marched into Hokum TV Studios.

  ‘What’s your amazekeel idea, Nance?’ I whisper-shouted into Nancy’s ear.

  ‘Shhh! I’ll tell you later,’ whispered Nancy, as I spotted a man with a huge beard and tattoos all the way up his arms walking towards Miss Spivak. Both his earlobes had ring-holes in them big enough to poke a grown-up finger through.

  ‘Atticus!’ screamed Miss Spivak, giving the bearded baddy a big cuddle. ‘Everyone, this is Atticus – he organised the trip for us today.’

  I leaned over to Bunky. ‘Atticus?’ I whispered. ‘What kind of a name is that?’ Then I remembered that Bunky’s name is Nigel Zuckerberg, mine is Barry Loser and Nancy’s is Nancy Verkenwerken, so it’s not like we could talk.

  ‘Ooh so this is your new fancy man is it, Miss?’ giggled Shazza. ‘Very nice. Bit hairy. Like the tats. Not sure about the earlobe-holes though, you can see straight through him!’

  Miss Spivak’s cheeks turned red like a traffic light and Sharonella stopped talking. Maybe she was waiting for them to go green so she could start nattering again.

  ‘How about we head off to the exhibition?’ said Atticus, leading us to the lifts, which we all got into, and he pressed a button that took us down one floor.

  The doors opened and we stepped out into a dark room with lit-up glass cabinets on either side. Atticus turned round and grinned.

  ‘Welcome to the History of Television Exhibition!’ he boomed, and we all did a groan.

  It was only ninety-nine seconds later and I was already boreder than a wild boar sniffing an ironing-board-sized cheeseboard displaying a selection of extremely bored-looking cardboard cut-out cheeses.

  ‘On your right you will see a fine example of one of the first remote controls ever invented,’ said Atticus, pointing at a wooden rectangle with a grey button on the front of it. It had a wire poking out of its bum which wound its way to the back of a black-and-white TV the size of a large washing machine.

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Nancy, lifting her glasses up and leaning in to get a better look.

  My knees started to wobble with yawnosity. ‘I wish I had a remote control that changed this boring old exhibition into a non-boring one,’ I said, waiting to hear everyone laugh at my hilarikeel joke.

  I stretched my arm out and tapped Nancy on the shoulder, thinking how keel it’d be if I had a remote control shoulder-tapper to save me the hassle.

  ‘Psst, Nancy!’ I whispered. ‘About that idea of yours . . .’

  ‘And over here is our Future Ratboy display,’ said Atticus.

  You know how I said my knees were beginning to wobble? Well now they snapped in half. I collapsed to the floor and peered up, seeing a whole glass cabinet filled with Future Ratboy stuff.

  ‘B-by the power of keelness . . .’ I stuttered, dragging my body across the zigzaggedy carpet towards the cabinet.

  Atticus’s mouth was opening and closing as if words were coming out of it, but nothing was going down my ears. All I could do was stare at the display.

  A fat little mannequin wearing a faded old Future Ratboy costume was standing tiltedly in the middle of the cabinet. Next to it, hanging on a dusty see-through plastic wire, was a scuffed-up cuddly Not Bird with one eye.

  Not Bird, in case you didn’t know, is Future Ratboy’s sidekick. All he ever does is shout ‘NOT!’ after everything Ratboy says.

  Signed photos of all the actors from the TV show were sellotaped onto the back wall of the display, including one of a bald, podgy man with a big bushy moustache.

  Underneath the photo was a yellow strip of paper with ‘Rock Blondsky’ printed on it.

  Bunky pressed his nose up to the glass and scrunched his face up like he needed to do a blowoff. ‘Erm, excuse me Mr Atticus,’ he said, ‘but who in the name of unkeelness is Rock Blondsky?’

  I stumbled to my feet and brushed myself down. Not with a brush though, with my hands.

  Atticus’s mouth started to open, but it only got as wide as one of his earlobe-holes.

  ‘Thank you Atticus,’ I interrupted. ‘I think I can take it from here.’

  ‘Rock Blondsky,’ I said, pointing at the photo of him, ‘was none other than the first ever Future Ratboy actor.’

  ‘B-but there’s only ever been one Future Ratboy actor,’ stuttered Bunky. ‘And that’s Michael J Socks!’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I said. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have forgotten to renew your membership of the Future Ratboy Fan Club, Nigel.’

  I thought of my stack of Future Ratboy Fan Club magazines at home next to my bed and gave myself an upside-down, back-to-front salute for memorising every page of each one of them off by heart.

  Bunky bowed his head in shame.

  Atticus looked at Miss Spivak, who shrugged her shoulders. I don’t think he was exackerly loving me taking over his tour, not that I cared.

  ‘How come I’ve never seen this Rock Blondsky fella in any Future Ratboy episodes?’ asked Darren, pulling a Cherry Fronkle out of his rucksack and cracking it open.

  ‘They don’t show his episodes any more,’ I said.

  ‘But why?’ asked Bunky, and I leaned forward and lowered the volume of my voice until it was just a whisper.

  ‘Two words,’ I said. ‘The Curse of Ratboy!’

  ‘That’s four words,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Not if you don’t count “of ”,’ I said. ‘And who in the name of unkeelness counts “of ”?’

  ‘It’s three words if you don’t count“of ”,’ said Nancy, but I just ignored her because what I had to say was far too important for that sort of nonsense.

  ‘W-what IS this curse you speak of, Barry?’ stuttered Bunky, looking scared.

  The light from the display cabinet was casting his shadow against the wall beside him, and the silhouette of his nose looked absokeely ginormerloserous.

  ‘It’s what happened to Rock Blondsky after he stopped playing Future Ratboy,’ I said all seriously.

  I glanced over at Atticus, who was fiddling with his earlobe-hole, which I think might be what he does when he’s annoyed someone knows more about something than him.

  ‘Why DID he stop playing Future Ratboy?’ asked Shazza.

  ‘He got too old,’ I said, pointing at the photo of him inside the glass cabinet. ‘Note the moustache,’ I smiled, sounding like the detective in my mum’s favourite TV show, Detective Manksniff.

  ‘Moustache . . . moustache . . . moustache . . .’ echoed my voice inside my head. Something about that word was making a lightbulb flicker in my brain.

  Darren fiddled with the ring pull on his Cherry Fronkle then looked up, his piggy little eyes all wide. ‘So what happened to him after that then, Bazza?’ he burped.

  ‘Nobody wanted to hire him for any other TV shows,’ I said. ‘He was too well known as Future Ratboy – every time he auditioned for a part, all anyone could see was a half-rat, half-boy, half-TV.’

  Gordon zoomed his eyes in on the photo of Rock Blondsky. ‘He looks more like a half-sofa in that picture,’ he chuckled.

  ‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘Once the curse struck, he started spending all his money on cheeseburgers – he couldn’t be bothered to do anything except sit around at home watching repeats of his show.’

  Nancy, who looked like she’d heard enough about Rock Blondsky, rolled her eyes. ‘I thought you said they didn’t show his episodes any more?’ she said.

  ‘Well remembered, Miss Verkenwerken,’ I said, giving her a mini-salute. ‘And they don’t. After a few years, people stopped watching the re-runs. Everyone wanted new episodes.’

  ‘So is that when Michael J Socks took over?’ asked Bunky.

  ‘Exactikeels!’ I said. ‘They came up with an all-new version of the show and Rock Blondsky was comperleeterly forgotten about. Nobody’s seen him for years. Some say he roams the set of Future Ratboy, dressed up in an alien costume . . .’

  ‘Anyhoos,’ said Atticus, clapping his hands together and pointing to the next glass cabinet. ‘Do you think we should move on?’

  I looked at Atticus’s hairy beard, then at Rock Blondsky’s moustache, and the lightbulb in my brain turned from a flicker to a glow. ‘Yes, good idea Atticus,’ I grinned.

  ‘Nancy!’ I whispered, as Atticus led us to a display cabinet filled with loads of different-shaped TV aerials.

  ‘You simperly HAVE to tell me your escape plan this exact billisecond!’

  Nancy sighed. ‘Two words,’ she said. ‘Food poisoning.’

  ‘That’s not two words,’ I said, immedikeely realising it was:

  ‘What d’you mean, “food poisoning”?’ I whisperered.

  ‘Just pretend you’ve all got food poisoning,’ said Nancy. ‘That way you can go off to the toilets together.’

  ‘Who’s gonna believe we’ve ALL got food poisoning?’ snuffled Darren as we shuffled on to another boring old display cabinet.

  Nancy scrunched her face up, trying to listen to what Atticus was saying.

  ‘I don’t know, pretend the whole lot of you went round Bunky’s for dinner last night and ate something disgusting,’ she whispered out of the corner of he
r mouth.

  ‘I like it!’ I said. ‘Bunky, what did you have for din-dins last night?’

  Bunky did his thinking-back-to-what-he-had-for-dinner-last-night face. ‘Hot dogs!’ he grinned.

  ‘OK everyone, follow my lead,’ I said, dropping back down onto my knees and getting ready to do some seriously amazekeel acting.

  ‘Urgh, I feel SICK!’ I cried in my extra-loud voice. ‘Bunky, I think it must be food poisoning from those hot dogs your mum served us when me and Nancy came round your house for dinner last night.’

  I winked at Bunky and Nancy, and Nancy trod on my little finger. ‘Oi,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t include me in your stupid little plan – I want to stay here and see the exhibition!’

  Darren patted his forehead and burped, doing a fake faint onto the zigzaggedy carpet.

  ‘Help me, I think I’m gonna poo myself,’ he cried. ‘Curse Mrs Zuckerberg’s hot dogs – I wish I hadn’t accepted that invitation to dinner round yours last night, Bunky!’

  I twizzled my neck from where I was lying and peered across the carpet at Darren’s sweaty head. ‘Who said you could join in, Darrenofski?’ I whisper-whispered. ‘This plan is for me, Bunky and Nancy only!’

  ‘Bleurgh, I feel a bit dodgy too!’ gurgled Sharonella, sinking to her knees. ‘I knew those frankfurters didn’t look right. I think my bun was mouldy. And what was with the sauce – is ketchup sposed to be green?’

  I tapped Bunky’s shoe. ‘Are you gonna get down here or what?’ I whisper-shouted. ‘I don’t wanna sneak off with just these two losers!’

  Bunky’s knees started to wobble, and he collapsed onto the carpet next to me. ‘Mamma, what have you done to us all?’ he warbled.

  Miss Spivak, who was standing behind Atticus, peered through his earlobe-holes at us all, lying like pieces of popcorn on a cinema carpet. ‘What’s wrong with you lot?’ she asked.

  ‘It was Bunky’s mum’s hot dogs,’ I murmured, wondering if she’d been listening at all. ‘Me, Bunky and Nancy ate seventeen trillion of them each last night and I think they might’ve been a bit off. Can we go to the toilets please?’

  The Spivloser raised an eyebrow, looking like she was deciding whether to believe me or not. ‘Go on then,’ she sighed, and me and Bunky staggered off, Darren and Sharonella following behind.

  ‘Nancy, are you coming too?’ I said.

  Miss Spivak looked at Nancy and nodded. ‘I think that might be a good idea, Nancy,’ she said, giving her a little nudge.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Loser!’ shouted Nancy, as we zoomed back up to the ground floor inside the lift. The doors opened and we all stepped out into the foyer.

  ‘No problemo,’ I smiled, peering around for a sign that pointed the way to the Future Ratboy set. ‘Now, are you ready to hear what’s been going on inside my ginormous brain?’

  I spotted a door with a red lit-up sign saying ‘ON AIR’ above it and started walking towards it. Inside my head, the lightbulb was beginning to melt my ginormous child-genius brain.

  ‘Remember when I was explaining about Rock Blondsky’s moustache?’ I asked, and they all nodded.

  I pulled my magazine out of my rucksack and flipped to page twenty-one. ‘It’s happening to him too!’ I said, pointing at Michael J Socks’s mini moustache.

  ‘But what’s that got to do with anything?’ said Shazza, looking all disappointed.

  ‘It means Michael J Socks is getting too old to play Future Ratboy,’ I smiled. ‘Just like Rock Blondsky!’

  We were still walking towards that door, by the way. It was taking way longer than I’d expected.

  ‘I don’t see the problem if Michael J Socks is growing a little ’tache,’ snuffled Darren. ‘He’s pretending to be a RAT for crying out keel. Rats’ve got hair all over their bodies!’

  ‘Ah ha, but he’s pretending to be a rat-BOY, isn’t he?’ I said. ‘Next thing you know his voice’ll go deep. He can’t play Future Ratboy with your mum’s voice booming out of his mouth!’

  ‘Eh?’ said Darren, not exackerly getting my joke, which was this: Mrs Darrenofski’s voice is really deep.

  Shazza sniggled. ‘Ha ha, your mum’s voice IS well deep, Dazza!’

  ‘No it’s not!’ said Darren, but you could tell he knew it was.

  ‘Forget about Darren’s mum’s really deep voice,’ I said, finally getting to the door. ‘What I’m about to tell you is way more important . . .’

  ‘You have GOT to be kidding me!’ cackled Shazza, once I’d explained what I was thinking, which was this:

  Michael J Socks was going to stop being the Future Ratboy actor soon because he was too old. Which meant somebody had to take over from him. And that somebody could be me.

  ‘You don’t actukeely think that could happen, do you Barry?’ asked Bunky, holding in a sniggle.

  ‘What’s so blooming funny about it?’ I cried, noticing something out of the corner of my eyeball.

  A tall, thin security guard wearing sunglasses was standing on the other side of the foyer, staring across at us.

  ‘So let me get this straight, Loser,’ burped Darren. ‘You reckon you’re gonna be the next Future Ratboy?’

  ‘I never said I was definitely going to take over,’ I said. ‘But they’ve got to replace Michael J Socks with SOMEBODY, haven’t they? And I don’t see why it shouldn’t be me.’

  ‘But what about the Curse of Ratboy?’ asked Bunky. ‘Aren’t you scared?’

  ‘That stupid curse doesn’t bother me, Not Bird!’ I boomed, doing my best Future Ratboy voice.

  ‘Blimey Bazza, you’d better work on your Ratboy voice if you wanna get that part,’ chuckled Sharonella.

  Bunky took a deep breath. ‘Nice try though, Loser!’ he boomed in HIS Future Ratboy voice.

  ‘Wowzoids, that was like Future Ratboy was actukeely here in the room with us!’ said Shazza, clapping her hands. I looked up and saw the security guard’s long legs striding towards us.

  Darren smiled at me in an unsmiley way. ‘Maybe you should audition to be Not Bird, Barry!’ he cackled.

  ‘Oh please,’ I said. ‘Everyone knows Bunky’s MY sidekick. It just wouldn’t work the other way round.’

  Shazza shook her head. ‘I dunno Bazzy,’ she said. ‘I’ve always thought of you as Bunky’s sidekick to be honest.’

  ‘Yeah well Shaz,’ I said, trying to think of something really clever and funny to say back to her as I pushed the door open and stepped through, ‘you’re stupid.’

  The door slammed behind us and I glanced around. We were standing in what looked like some kind of back alley. Except instead of proper walls, it had wooden boards with bricks painted on them.

  ‘I-is this the Future Ratboy set?’ gasped Bunky.

  ‘Follow me, gang,’ I said, running to the end of the fake road and turning left, zooming down a zigzaggedy maze of pretend passageways at super-loser speed.

  ‘Wait for us!’ cried Darren, the whole lot of them following behind me like I was their leader, which I am.

  ‘There, that should’ve shaken off the security guard,’ I smiled, skidding to a stop at the top of another fake street.

  Nancy looked around. ‘Erm, don’t you think Miss Spivak is going to be wondering where we are?’

  Sharonella pulled her rucksack straps tight and peered up at a fake wooden skyscraper disappearing off into the tangle of wires and spotlights hanging from the ceiling above. ‘Don’t worry about old Spivvy,’ she smiled. ‘She’s far too busy peering into lover boy’s earlobe-holes to worry about us.’