Barry Loser and the trouble with Pets Page 2

  Worst week ever

  The whole rest of the week was just like Monday morning, except dotted around in different bits of school.

  Like lunch on Tuesday in the canteen when Bunky & Fay and Nancy & Anton and the Shazzonofskis all sat together on a six man table (even though none of them are men).

  ‘Come dine with us, Barold,’ said Gordon, who was sitting next to Stuart. So I squidged in with them, feeling like even more of a loser than my surname.

  And in the boys’ changing rooms on Wednesday when we were getting ready for P.E. and Bunky, Darren and Anton spent the whole time shouting over the wall to Nancy, Sharonella and Fay.

  ‘Can you keep the noise down please,’ I grumbled, sounding like an old granny. ‘I’m trying to get changed.’

  ‘Keep your pants on, Loser!’ snarfled Darren, blowing Sharonella a kiss which rebounded off the wall and fell into one of his stinking shoes.

  Then on Thursday at break time when I headed over to the corner of the playground to peer through the fence into the back garden of the old lady me and Bunky spy on while she talks to her plants.

  ‘What in the name of unkeelness is SHE doing here?’ I gasped, spotting Fay Snoggles’s bum next to my best friend’s. Both of them were bent in half, looking through the fence and sniggling.

  Fay turned round and grinned her annoying grin. ‘Hi Barry,’ she said. ‘Afraid there’s only room for two.’

  ‘Yeah I know,’ I said, walking off. ‘Me and Bunky.’

  And don’t even get me started about Friday, when we were walking home from school and I pointed out a ginormous dog poo on the pavement right in front of Bunky’s foot.

  The Friday poo story

  ‘Hey Bunky, why don’t you tread in that great big stinking old pile of dog poo!’ I giggled.

  Me and Bunky are always telling each other to tread in dog poos like that on our walks home - it’s part of what makes us so hilarikeel.

  Bunky zig-zagged round the poo and was just about to do a sniggle about what I’d said when Fay walk-leaned against him. ‘Yuck, I hate treading in dog poos,’ she said. ‘They stink.’

  Bunky nodded all seriously. ‘Yeah, they are pretty disgusting,’ he agreed, and because of the way I was staring at him in disbelief while gasping at the same time, I almost trod in the dog poo myself.

  ‘Oh yeah, because I was really being serious about Bunky treading in it,’ I said, hearing a squelching noise behind me. I twizzled round and spotted Anton’s foot, squidged right in the middle of the poo I was just talking about.

  ‘Well that’s blinking brilliant isn’t it,’ said Anton in his non-robot voice. He hobbled over to the kerb and scraped his shoe against it. ‘Just my flipping luck.’

  Nancy chuckled, the way she used to when I trod in dog poos back in the good old days. ‘You’re funny, Mr Mildew,’ she smiled, which is what she’d started calling him.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs V,’ he said. ‘But that’s not going to stop my blooming trainer from smelling of poo, is it.’

  We carried on walking and I noticed a gooseberry bush sticking its branches through a fence, trying to grab passers-by.

  I picked one of its prickly green fruits. ‘A gooseberry for a gooseBarry,’ I mumbled to myself, because ‘gooseberries’ are what people call other people who haven’t been paired up with someone else.

  A lamp post was standing next to me and I spotted a sign stuck to it, telling people not to let their dogs do poos on the pavement.

  I thought back to the sausage dog sign I’d seen with my mum a couple of weeks before and clicked my fingers. ‘Of keelse,’ I whispered to myself. ‘That’s the answer to my gooseBarryness - pairing up with a real-life dog!’

  And I plopped the gooseberry into my mouth then immedikeely spat it out again because it was really, really sour.

  Sausage dog o’clock

  After that I ran home at seven trillion billimetres per hour, blowing off with excitement the whole way there.

  ‘Honey, I’m ho-ome!’ I cried as I strolled into the kitchen, which is what my mum’s favourite TV star, Detective Manksniff, says when he walks into his house.

  ‘Ooh-ooh, Barry,’ chuckled my mum. She was bent in half, reaching into the oven with a pair of tongs. ‘Did you have a nice day?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said, peering into the oven. And that’s when I almost weed and pooed myself right there on the spot.

  ‘By the power of sausage dogs!’ I gasped, spotting six sizzling sausages inside the oven.

  ‘Sausages in the oven?’ I grinned, thinking how my mum must’ve been down Bruce the butcher’s again - that or she was cooking me week-old sausages for dinner. ‘It must be a sign!’

  My mum closed her eyes and breathed in very slowly through her nostrils.

  Which in case you weren’t listening earlier, is what she does when she knows I’m about to start badgering.

  ‘Seeing sausages in an oven is not a sign your mum’s going to buy you a sausage dog, Barry,’ she said.

  I took a deep breath and got ready to do the biggest badger in the history of badgerisation.

  ‘But I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, REALLY want a sausage dog!’ I said.

  The idea of a dog

  I waited a couple of milliseconds and was just about to open my mouth to ask if I could have a sausage dog again when my mum opened HER mouth, which is about twice the size of mine, so hers won.

  ‘You know what, Barry?’ she said, pulling a can of Feeko’s baked beans out of a cupboard. ‘I think you just like the idea of having a sausage dog.’

  ‘The idea?’ I said, a thought bubble bubbling up above my head with a sausage dog inside it. ‘Since when can you pat an idea on the head?’

  My mum thought for a second, and I stared up at her giant hairdo, trying to see if I could spot what she was thinking inside it.

  ‘Do you remember when you wanted that action figure of the monster thingy out of Future Ratboy?’ asked my mum.

  ‘Gozo?’ I said, which is the name of the giant vending machine monster Mr X builds in my favourite ever Future Ratboy episode, ‘Future Ratboy and the Quest for the Missing Thingy’.

  I rewound my brain to last year, when I’d badgered my mum to buy me the Gozo action figure for about seven weeks until she’d given in from tiredness and got me it from Roy’s Toys on Mogden High Street.

  My mum nodded while peeling the lid off the baked beans. ‘And where’s Gozo now?’ she asked.

  ‘Erm . . .’ I said, glancing around. ‘I think I saw his arm in the toy bucket next to the bath?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said my mum. ‘You played with him for about two days, then you were on to the next thing you wanted.’

  ‘A dog isn’t a toy, Barry,’ she carried on, sounding like one of the stickers my granny’s boyfriend, Mr Hodgepodge, sticks in the back window of his scratched-up old car.

  ‘You can’t just play with it for a few days then forget about it.’

  I stared up at mum and realised something terrible - she’d started badgering me not to badger her!

  Battle of the badgerers

  ‘Oh I get it,’ I said, sounding like my mum’s favourite TV star, Detective Manksniff, when he’s up against one of the baddies in his TV show. ‘So you wanna play it like that, do you?’

  ‘Nothing you can say will make me buy you a sausage dog, Barry,’ said my mum, pulling a tray of chips out of the grill bit of the oven.

  ‘
Brillikeels,’ I mumbled to myself. ‘My friends have all paired off with each other and my mum won’t even buy her gooseberryish son a dog to make up for it.’

  My mum paused. ‘Everything alright with Bunky and Nancy?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t seen them around much this week.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, not wanting to talk about it. Even though I had just mumbled about it.

  ‘You know you can tell me if something’s upsetting you, don’t you Snookyflumps,’ said my mum, giving me a peck on the cheek.

  That’s the annoying thing about mums - they can always tell when something’s wrong.

  ‘Everything. Is. FINE!’ I said, wiping her kiss off my cheek and coming up with my next amazekeel badger.

  Best badger ever

  ‘Alright then,’ I said. ‘Not only will I pick up all my brand new sausage dog’s poos, I’ll take it for a walkypoos two times a day too.’

  ‘But you hate going for walks!’ said my mum. ‘All you ever do is moan the whole time.’

  ‘I LOVE going for walks,’ I lied. I hate going for walks.

  My brain rewound to the bit seventeen milliseconds earlier where she’d said she wanted to get the dinner cooked.

  ‘Also,’ I said, ‘I will cook my brand new sausage dog all its food. AND bath it once a week, AND tuck it up in its little basket every nightypoos!’

  ‘What about if it starts barking in the middle of the night?’ said my mum, scattering the chips on to two plates - a keel Future Ratboy one for me and a rubbish old kiddywinkle-ish plastic one for Desmond.

  ‘Not a problemo,’ I smiled. ‘I love getting up in the middle of the night. And I simply ADORE the sound of barking!’

  My mum rolled her eyes. Then she rolled two sausages on to my plate and one on to Des’s. ‘Desmond, dinner’s ready!’ she shouted, and Des trundled into the kitchen, a trail of dribble zig-zagging behind him like snail slime.

  My mum picked him up and slotted him into his baby chair.

  ‘You do know that dogs stink, don’t you, Barry?’ she said, starting up the badgering again.

  I think she might’ve been beginning to quite enjoy it actukeely.

  I pointed at Des. ‘He stinks too,’ I said. ‘But I still love the little Loser.’

  Des blew a raspberry in my face, and I wondered if I did actukeely love him, or if it was just something I said because you’re supposed to.

  ‘And don’t forget,’ said my mum, sounding like even more of a badgerer than me, ‘you won’t be able to go everywhere with your pals if you’ve got a dog.’

  She plonked the plates of sausages, chips and beans down in front of me and Des and waddled over to the sink to start washing up.

  I stuffed a sausage into my face hole. ‘What are you even badgering on about?’ I said, bits of sausage raspberrying into Desmond’s face.

  ‘Well what if Bunky and Nancy were going to the movies or something?’ said my mum, scrubbing baked bean juice off a saucepan. ‘You can’t take a sausage dog into a cinema, you know.’

  I scooped a baked bean on to the end of a chip, making the whole thing look like a giant match.

  ‘Yeah well, I don’t think they’ll be inviting old Barry Loser along now they’ve got Anton and Fay to go with,’ I said, throwing the squidgy match into my mouth and it exploded, blowing my whole entire head off.

  Granny & Hodge

  That last bit didn’t really happen, by the way. What did happen was, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘What’d you just say, Barry?’ asked my mum, who was still washing up.

  ‘Huh?’ I said, stuffing sausage number two into my mouth and getting up to answer the door.

  Usually my mum’d tell me not to leave the table, but this time I think she was more worried about her little Snookyflumps being okay.

  ‘That thing about Nancy and Bunky not inviting you to the cinema,’ she said as I headed down the hall.

  ‘Nothing,’ I called back, spotting two very familikeels outlines through the wobbly glass in the front door.

  ‘Granny Harumpadunk!’ I cried, opening the door and peering up her wrinkly old nostrils.

  ‘Ooh hello my little Loser!’ she warbled, giving me a stinky cuddle.

  Standing next to her was her boyfriend, Mr Hodgepodge, who I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before but used to be my teacher eight million years ago.

  ‘Afternoon, Loser,’ he said, like we were still at school.

  My mum appeared in the hallway, a tea towel hanging over her shoulder. ‘Hello Mum, hello Hodge,’ she said all tiredly. ‘Ready for the big trip?’

  My granny and Mr Hodgepodge were off on another one of their boring old cruises the next day, which was probably why they’d popped round to say hello.

  ‘Ooh yes, we’re just popping round to say goodbye,’ said Granny.

  Desmond Loser the Second trundled round the corner, holding a sausage. ‘Hav you got me anyfing?’ he gurgled, which is his way of saying hello to Granny Harumpadunk.

  ‘Desmond, don’t be so rude!’ said my mum.

  Granny Harumpadunk bent over and reached her creaky arm out, pinching Des’s cheek.

  She straightened back up all slowly then blinked, her nose drooping.

  ‘Blow me down with a pair of knickers, I’ve just remembered something,’ she cooed. ‘I forgot to get the kiddywinkles a going away gift!’

  My mum, who was still wearing her washing-up gloves, scratched her nose and it squeaked.

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Mum,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to buy them something just because you’re going away.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know about that,’ I said, swallowing the last bit of my sausage.

  Badgering grannies

  If there’s one thing I know, it’s this: grannies are the easiest things to badger in the whole wide world amen.

  All you have to do is tell them what you want, wait a couple of days and it turns up - usually wrapped inside a wrinkly old hand.

  ‘Mum won’t buy me a sausage dog,’ I said straight out, just like that. And I peered up at Granny Harumpadunk.

  She looked down at her grandson, who was me, and somewhere inside her fluffy grey brain, a button with ‘BUY BARRY A SAUSAGE DOG’ written on it was pressed.

  Now, I knew Granny Harumpadunk wasn’t going to buy me a real-life sausage dog - she was only going away on a stupid little cruise, after all.

  But I could probably squeeze a toy one out of her.

  ‘It’s really annoying, because I’ve always wanted a sausage dog,’ I carried on. ‘Of keelse, I don’t expect a real-life sausage dog or anything like that. But a cuddly one - that’d be nice. Or plastic if they haven’t got any of those.’

  ‘Stop badgering your poor old gran, Barry,’ said my mum, but Granny Harumpadunk just ignored her. She was already working out where she could buy me a sausage dog toy.

  ‘I’ve seen them for sale in Roy’s Toys,’ I said. ‘It’s located at 123 Mogden High Street, opening hours 9 till 6 every day except Sundays, which is 11 till 4.’

  This was true - I’d spotted a cuddly sausage dog in Roy’s Toys a few days earlier when I’d been window shopping.

  ‘You could just make it there before he shuts if you leave now,’ I said. ‘Not that I’m hurrying you or anything.’

  My mum yoinked me back by the collar, like I was HER sausage dog.

  ‘Alright, that’s more than enough out of you. Have a lovely trip, Mum,’ she said, pecking Granny on the cheek.

  Granny Harumpadunk wiped my mum’s kiss off her cheek and smiled down at me. ‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Half an hour later

  I was just sitting down on the sofa for my evening episode of Future Ratboy when a car did a fart outside the living room window.

  ‘They’re back!’ I cried, leaping off the sofa and flying to the front door.

  ‘I cannot believe you’ve conned your poor old gran into buying you a cuddly sausage dog,’ barked my mum, who wa
s trudging up the stairs, carrying a clean pile of my yellow hoodies.