favourite hobby of all was a guessing game of his own invention, where he would attempt to deduce what types of metal various objects were made of.
“Mother, I do believe that said toaster has been manufactured from the metal steel,” declared the boy one morning, as he sat in the kitchen with his long-suffering mother. Ernest’s clothes were like a uniform. He always wore the same grey lace-up shoes, grey trousers and grey shirt buttoned right up to the collar.
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In contrast to Earnest Ernest, his mother was a jolly soul. A large lively lady who wore brightly-coloured clothes with loud flowery patterns. However, her face was increasingly lined with worry about the fact that her son had never laughed or even smiled.
Dutifully she picked up the toaster, and studied the engraving on its underside.
“Correct AGAIN, Ernest!”
she muttered with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
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“Now, Mother, let us move on to said toilet-roll holder. I do believe it has been manufactured from the metal aluminium.”
“Correct again, Ernest! What a splendid game this is. I never tire of it,” she lied. Then Mother plucked up the courage to ask a question. “Ernest, I was wondering if you might want to go and do something FUN today.”
“FUN?” Ernest exclaimed. “Mother, what is this ‘FUN’ that you speak of?” “Well, you know… amusement.”
“Amusement?”
“Yes. FUN could be anything, like… going to the zoo. Watching the orang-utans playing together can be very amusing,” replied the woman.
“I hardly think so, Mother,” stated the boy coldly. “Said orang-utans are merely apes that are orange. What on earth is ‘amusing’ about that?”
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His mother sighed and tried again. “Then we could go to the fairground. It’s always funny looking at yourself in a hall of mirrors.”
“Mother, why on earth would that be…” Ernest could barely bring himself to say the word, “…FUNNY?”
“Well…” It wasn’t easy to describe such a thing to someone with absolutely no sense of humour. “Well, you look in one mirror and you are tall and thin!”
The boy was unmoved. “Pray continue, Mother…”
“And then you… erm…”
Ernest stared at his mother, his lip curling in disdain.
“…you look in the next mirror and, would you believe it, you are short and fat! Ha ha ha!”
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Her laughter came to an abrupt halt as Ernest frowned at her with contempt.
“Mother, I am neither tall and thin, nor short and fat. Why cannot the hall of mirrors just be normal mirrors, coated, of course, with the metal aluminium?”
“Because, Ernest, then the funny mirrors wouldn’t be FUNNY!” The woman was exasperated now. “Look, son, please let’s just forget the zoo and the fairground because there is something even better.”
“Really?”
“YES! I found out this morning there is a CIRCUS in town!”
Ernest’s nose wrinkled with scorn, but his mother pressed on regardless.
“We could go and see the clowns. They never fail to make the entire audience hoot with laughter!”
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“These ‘clowns’ of which you speak are amusing, are they, Mother?”
“Oh yes, Ernest! Hilarious!” replied the lady in a flash. It seemed she might have hooked the boy at last; now she just had to reel him in. “They drive into the circus tent in a little clown car and, before they can even get out of the car, the doors fall off!
Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Ernest was lost in thought. “Mother, what metal is said car made of?”
Mother shook her head. “I don’t know, son. That’s not really the point.”
“Is it the metal steel?”
“I don’t know. And then the clowns get out of the car and they all have these big buckets of water and—”
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“Mother, what metals are said buckets made of?” “I don’t know!” “Zinc?”
“Ernest, please, for goodness’ sake! It’s not important what stupid metal the buckets are made of!”
Ernest shot his mother a stare that could kill an elephant. “There is nothing stupid about metal, Mother. Ever since I was two years old, I have been studying it,” Ernest continued in his monotonous monotone. “I find its properties fascinating. Did you know, for example, that the chemical symbol for silver is Ag from the Latin word for silver – argentum?”
“Yes, yes, yes, I am sure that is fascinating, but—”
“Correct, Mother, it is fascinating. So it is a resounding no to said offers of visits to said zoo, said fairground or said circus. Now, if you will excuse me, I
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must get back to my collection of cheese graters.”
With that he marched out of the kitchen and upstairs to his bedroom.
The walls of Ernest’s room were painted grey. The bed was grey, the duvet was grey, the curtains were grey. Sometimes it was hard to spot Ernest in there since his clothes were all grey too.*
*Grey was Ernest’s favourite colour because it was the colour of most metals. Except gold, which is gold; and silver, which is silver. Which is a bit like grey. Ernest regarded all colours that were not grey to be “far too colourful”.
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Up in his bedroom, Ernest spent the remainder of the day studying his cheese graters.
Mother was ordered to leave his dinner outside his bedroom on a tray. It was a plate of cold peas. That was all Ernest ever ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Bowls or plates of the most boring vegetable in the world.
The next morning Ernest’s mother woke more sick with worry than ever before. Her son was twelve years old. Soon he would be a teenager. She was desperate for him to experience all those things children should before it was too late. Joy. Laughter. Fun. Friends.
As she took yet another bag of frozen peas out of the freezer for Ernest’s pea-based breakfast, she realised that DRASTIC ACTION WAS NEEDED IF SHE WAS EVER TO SEE HER BOY SMILE.
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So Mother did some research and in a newspaper found the following advertisement:
PROFESSOR DROLLING
THE WORLD’S LEADING EXPERT ON SENSE-OF-HUMOUR DISORDERS
Over the years Professor Drolling has treated an UNSMILING ROYAL, a fantastically BORING TENNIS PLAYER and a whole series of PRIME MINISTERS who all took themselves FAR TOO SERIOUSLY. If you have a friend or family member who never smiles
CALL THE PROFESSOR TODAY WITHOUT DELAY ON 0207-946-0000.
Ernest’s mother made an appointment for the very next day.
Professor Drolling’s study was situated on the hundredth floor of a hospital. Medical certificates adorned the walls, there was a glass case full of awards and the professor even had a vast oil painting of himself hung behind his desk. This was a man at the absolute TIP-TOP of his profession.
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As Ernest sat outside in the waiting area, flicking through a copy of Spoon Monthly, Mother told the man everything. She told him about her son’s pencil-sharpenings collection, the diet of cold peas and the scrapbooks of photographs of traffic lights that had now reached 558 volumes. Then she told him how Ernest had never, ever laughed or even smiled.
“In all my years in the medical profession, this is by far the most serious case of NO-SENSE-OF-HUMOUR DISORDER I have ever heard of!” exclaimed Professor Drolling excitedly. “If I can make your son Ernest smile, I will go down in history as one of the greatest scientists of all time!”
Mother was not convinced he could do it, despite all
his expertise. “But how on earth are you going to manage it, Professor? I have tried absolutely everything.”
With a theatrical flourish the professor yanked back a long curtain.
“Let me introduce you to my latest invention…
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…THE Tickle Monster 3000!”
It was a GIANT ROBOT!
Instead of arms, the robot had a number of long metal tentacles.
EARNEST ERNEST
“Oh my!” gasped Ernest’s mother.
“Oh my, indeed!” agreed the professor. “My Tickle Monster 3000 will tickle your boy into helpless gales of laughter in no time. Bring him in, right this instant!”
Mother opened the door of the study. “Ernest, can you come in now, please?”
“But Mother, I am just reading a fascinating article about the different types of metal used in spoons of all shapes and sizes,” he replied without looking up from his magazine.
“I said NOW!” she replied angrily.
Reluctantly the boy put Spoon Monthly down and marched into the professor’s study.
“A great pleasure to meet you, young Ernest,” said Professor Drolling warmly.
The boy simply stood and stared at the man, the usual sour look on his face as if he had swallowed a wasp.
“I know you may think not, but this robot of mine is finally going to make you laugh!” announced the professor.
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“What metal is said robot made of?” enquired the boy.
“I beg your pardon?” replied the professor, rather taken aback by the irrelevance of the question.
“What metal is said robot made of? I am guessing…” Ernest scrutinised the machine, “…TIN!”
“He does this a lot,” muttered Ernest’s mother. The professor sighed and checked the back of his robot.
“You are right! It is tin.
Well, now we all know that fascinating piece of information I am going to turn the Tickle Monster 3000 on in three, two, one…”
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With that he flicked a switch on the side and the machine flickered into life. Lights came on and it started to beep.
BEEP! BLEEP! BLOOP!
Next, two of the robot’s tentacles stretched out towards the boy.
Ernest tried to run but the grabbers at the end of the tentacles held him still.
“I don’t like it!” he complained.
“I promise you, Ernest, it won’t hurt,” said the professor. He pressed more buttons and two other robot tentacles reached out and started tickling the boy.
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The tentacles tickled Ernest in all those places where you are most ticklesome.
First under the chin,
moving on to the feet
and finishing off with the most dreaded place of all, the armpit.
The professor and the boy’s mother studied Ernest’s face for even the flicker of a smile.
Nothing.
Not even the slightest suggestion of one.
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“This is most peculiar. Most peculiar indeed. Let me turn up the power!” declared the professor.
On the robot’s chest was a dial that read ‘TICKLE POWER’. As the professor turned it, the arrow went from number THREE to number NINE.
Beyond that was TEN, and beyond that a patch of red labelled ‘DANGER LEVEL’.
The tentacles were now moving with much greater haste than before. What’s more, they were darting all over the boy’s body, finding new places to tickle.
His knees. His tummy. Even his ears.
All felt the full force of Professor Drolling’s invention.
Again he and the boy’s mother studied Ernest’s face.
Again, nothing.
“Mother, can we go home now so I can play with my collection of IRON FILINGS?”
But before the lady could answer the professor shouted, “NO!”
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He shouted so loudly that it made Mother jump.
“Ooh!” she cried.
Then, with a whip of his wrist, the professor spun the dial on his robot to ‘DANGER LEVEL’.
“Are you sure this is safe?” said Ernest’s mother, a look of panic shooting across her face.
“I don’t know,” replied the professor,
“but I will get this blasted boy
of yours to LAUGH, if it is the last thing I do!”
The Tickle Monster 3000 was now shaking and rattling wildly. More tentacles were shooting out of its chest, and they began tickling the most unlikely places on Ernest’s body.
His elbows. His nose. Even his eyebrows. Still nothing.
“Mother! This is tiresome in the extreme!” complained Ernest.
Professor Drolling’s face contorted with fury.
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“Tickle Monster 3000!” he shouted.
“YOU ARE MY LIFE’S WORK! MY GREATEST INVENTION! BUT YOU HAVE FAILED ME!”
With that he took off his shoe and began banging the robot on the head with it.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
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The robot beeped and hissed.
BLEEP! BLOOP! HISS!
Although it was a machine, it actually sounded angry. It stopped tickling Ernest, and slowly turned to face its master. Then its tentacles stretched out to tickle the professor instead. In no time, they were all over the man’s body.
Behind his ears.
His bottom.
The undersides of his feet.
“Ha ha! NO! NO!” cried Professor Drolling.
“I hate being… Ha ha ha ha! TICKLED!” The man’s body was shaking with laughter.
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
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However, this wasn’t joyful laughter. It was agonised laughter. Being tickled like this was torture. Especially with the Tickle Monster 3000 on FULL!
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha! HELP! HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP!”
Mother had to do something. And fast.
In desperation, she made a lunge for the dial on the robot’s chest. But the Tickle Monster 3000 turned its tentacles on her too. Soon Ernest’s mother was flat on the floor, her arms and legs flapping, like a beetle stuck on its back.
“Ha ha ha ha ha!” she wailed.
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Meanwhile the robot’s movements were becoming increasingly jerky and unpredictable. It was making even more beeping and buzzing noises.
BLEEP! BLOOP! BING! BING! BING!
EARNEST ERNEST
Soon sparks were flying out of its eyes; smoke was billowing from its head.
The robot’s tickling tentacles were now moving so fast they were becoming a blur.
“NO! HA HA! NO!” cried Professor Drolling as tentacles tickled every conceivable part of his body.
“I THINK I AM GOING TO WET MYSELF!”
Trying desperately to escape from his own creation, he wrestled the robot, biting its tentacles. But the machine had him pinned against the wall.
“Ha ha ha ha! NO! NO! NO! A BIT OF WEE HAS COME OUT! Ha ha ha ha ha! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANY MORE!”
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The World’s Worst Children Page 9
