by Chris O’Dowd
‘I think it means . . .’ the equally perplexed little man replied, ‘I think it means we’ve been smelly all year?’
The children’s confusion was matched only by their parents’ delight. On finding that Christmas lunch was back on, mams and dads all over town called out in collective merriment -
‘Thank you, Francie Feeley!’
‘Damn you, Francie Feeley!’ was the response by only one greedy grinch.
Bridget Cross was standing alone in the middle of her bursting butcher shop. But to her shock, her store wasn’t brimming with desperate customers, but rather with dozens and dozens of plump, overpriced turkeys.
As her furious gaze fell from her overflowing shop window to her dirty doormat, she spotted a present of her own.
When she picked up the stinky sea meat, she noticed a hand-scribbled note had been attached - Even though the day’s terrible turn of events had left her seething, Bridget couldn’t help but grin at Martin’s correct use of Irish.
‘Chirpy flippin amadán,’ she smiled to herself, as she punched a tubby turkey in frustration.
*NOLLAIG SHONA DHUIT - Irish for Merry Christmas to you. The Irish word for Christmas is Nollaig. Which is why in Ireland, Father Christmas is called Noel. Dr Noel Christmas.
*
Meanwhile in the Moone house, the amadán in question was just awakening from his well-earned slumber. His nocturnal dispatches had left the little fella pretty zonked. This was definitely the first time he’d had to be woken up on a Christmas morning. Usually by 5 a.m. he’d be ripping through wrapping and chucking down chocolate, but it was 10.37 before Martin’s parents finally stood cheerily over his bed.
‘Merry Christmas, sleepyhead!’ Debra proclaimed, as she handed him a beribboned gift with a wry smile.
‘Holy moly, buddy!’ I said, only just waking up myself. ‘Is it Christmas?! Did I sleep through it? Is that your present? What is it? Am I asking too many questions?’
‘As you know. . .’ Liam began cautiously, ‘the Moone family money mountain isn’t very tall this year, Martin.’
‘It’s more like a moolah molehill,’ Debra muttered under her breath.
‘But we knew what you were after, so . . . I did everything in my power to deliver it.’
‘Thanks, Daddy-o,’ Martin said excitedly.
Without further ado, Martin ripped into the present like a ThunderCat, leaving Debra to gather up the strewn wrapping paper.
(She would always do this with the intention of keeping it for next year. It would then sit in a box for a few weeks before being thrown on the fire during a cold snap in March.)
As he pulled back the wrapping paper we could see the bottom half of the box. It read: ‘me boy’! We shared an elated glance of anticipation.
‘Now, I’m no librarian, buddy,’ I started excitedly, ‘but I’m pretty sure those are the last five letters of GAME BOY!!!’
‘I know!’ he squeaked.
‘You know what, Martin?’ Liam asked, but their little man was too engrossed to listen.
‘I think they’ve done it!’ I yelped. ‘They’ve only gone and flippin’ done it like a pair of legends!!!!’
As he ripped asunder the remaining wrapping, we began to realize that our excitement was somewhat premature. The packaging had a cereal-box quality, the lettering looked hand-drawn, and as the last of the paper fell to the floor, we saw that written on it were the words ‘SAME BOY’.
‘It’s not quite the Game Boy ya wanted, pal, but . . . it’s kinda the same, no?’
It turned out that Liam had tried to make a Game Boy himself in his workshop! He’d brought in a couple of lads to help him of course. They’d taken parts from unused radios, discarded buttons from a table lamp and the digital display from a broken microwave. All to create this Frankenstein’s monster of handheld computing.
‘Yeah, Dad, totally the same,’ he lied, rather sweetly. ‘Thanks a million.’
Liam nodded happily and headed off to look for some Christmas brandy. Martin looked at his ‘Same Boy’ and tried the power switch. It buzzed to life, gave him a small but not unpleasant little shock, and turned itself off again. ‘Ya know, they say it’s the thought that counts’, I said wisely, ‘but when your dad had this idea, he really should have counted his thoughts’.
Martin shook his head and had another go on his new electrocution machine.
‘Listen, Martin’, asked Debra, still collecting useless paper, ‘I have to ask, how did you do it?’
‘Well, Mam, I just turned it on, and it shocked the flip outta me!’
‘What? No, Martin, I mean the tree in the garden. How did you get it?’
We shared a baffled look, hopped up and headed for the garden.
As we passed through the sitting room, we found Fidelma, Trisha and Sinead with ghostly white faces. They were all wearing the face cream Martin had got them for Christmas.
‘Eh, this stuff is actually . . . kinda cool. So, like, thanks,’ Trisha muttered.
‘No bother, ladies. I know how much you girls love your faces.’
He thought it best not to mention the actual contents of ‘Francie Feeley’s Fabulous Face Cream’ and continued his journey to the garden.
Debra wasn’t joking - there was a massive Christmas tree right slap bang behind the Moone house. It seemed to have grown there overnight.
I had a thought. ‘Buddy, do ya think maybe those magic beans that we bought off Declan Mannion finally sprouted?’
But then Martin suddenly remembered something and checked his pocket. It was empty. ‘The fir cone!’ he exclaimed. ‘It must have fallen out of my pocket when we came in last night!’
‘Hippy Christmash, Martin!’
We looked over to see Bruce the Spruce waving from the end of the garden.
‘Thanks, Bruce!’ called Martin. ‘You too!’
The huge tree then climbed awkwardly into the field next door.
‘Climbing a tree isn’t half as much fun as watching a tree climb,’ I noted.
‘Good old Bruce,’ Martin said. ‘I knew he’d come through in the end.’
‘Who’d come through?’ Liam asked, appearing from the back door.
‘Oh. Ya know . . .’ Martin stumbled, ‘you. With the whole Same Boy thing.’
Liam nodded in agreement, clearly happy with his handiwork.
‘Well, I am a whizz with machines,’ he smugly announced.
‘So we got a last-minute tree, our festive fish in the post - how can this day get any better?’ Debra marvelled.
‘I know the answer to that!’ Martin chirped.
Then the doorbell rang. Liam and Debra shared a confused look. They clearly weren’t expecting visitors.
‘I invited thirty Brazilians over for Christmas lunch.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
PLENTY OF ROOM AT THE INN
As the swarm of South Americans spilt through the door, Martin was taken aback by his parents’ reaction. He’d expected some harsh looks or words or even slaps to be thrown in his direction. But no, they just hurried about the kitchen, readying every pot and pan in the house for their new guests.
‘Are ye not going to . . . shout at me or something?’ Martin asked honestly.
‘What? Why would we do that?’ Debra replied, scrubbing a grimy pot.
‘Well, for inviting all these strangers over for lunch?’
‘Isn’t it Christmas Day, Martin?’
‘Yeah . . . ?’ Martin shrugged.
Liam shared a look with Debra and pointed into the sitting room.
‘Ya see that candle in the window? Why do you think that’s there?’
‘To replace the lamp you destroyed to assemble my Lame Boy?’
‘Same Boy,’ Liam corrected him.
‘Sorry, yes, my Same Boy.’
‘No, Martin, that candle means, at Christmas, our house is open to anyone who needs a home. That’s what Christmas is about. Everything else is just advertising.’
Martin didn’t really
understand what that meant, but he was happy they were happy. And he was delighted the Brazilians had joined them for the day. And he was slightly worried the candle in the window might set the curtains on fire. But just then Fabio emerged from the sitting room and approached the Moones with a typical flick of his silky locks.
‘Oh, Fish-Guts,’ Fabio said, gently taking Debra’s hand, ‘this must be your sister.’
‘Hehehahhahahahhehe!’ Debra giggled like a woman half her age. Who had just fallen over. And was embarrassed by people seeing her slip. And was maybe an idiot.
‘What? No! No, haha. No, I’m Martin’s mother actually. Haha.’
‘Who is Martin?’
‘Hahaha. You . . . must be Fab . . . I mean . . . Fabio . . . hahah . . . His sister! . . . Hahaha.’
She laughed like a maniac for quite a while. She giggled for so long, in fact, that Fabio eventually just wandered off and started talking to someone else.
As the day went on, more and more people arrived. Padraic and Trevor stopped in with cakes and leftover crackers. Bill and Brendan swung by, got lost in the hallway and left again. Mr Jackson brought his fancy new Polaroid camera to have pictures taken with the Brazilians. Linda and the ladies from Just Outside Boyle came by to giggle too loudly with Debra. Even Fishsticks showed up.
Sinead chased him around for a while. Then there was scratching and some crying. But I didn’t see which came from which catty creature.
And Christmas lunch was a storming success. It turned out the Brazilians didn’t just know how to gut fish. They could cook like the wind too. It was quite the exotic fishy feat. And not a single Brussels sprout in sight. By the day’s end, half the town was there. The music soared, the port* was poured and the ‘OK Christmas’ was turning into the Best Christmas Ever.
As tropical music played in the chilly Moone back garden, myself and Crunchie Haystacks played imaginary tag around the giant Christmas tree. While we frolicked, Padraic and Martin had a chinwag about the events of the day.
*PORT - a dessert wine from Portugal. I would imagine any drink would be welcome if you were stuck in a dessert like the Kalahari or the Sahara.
‘So, what did you get for Christmas, Martin?’
‘I got. . . Well, it’s . . .’ Martin stuttered, a little embarrassed. ‘My dad made me something.’
‘Cool. My dad still gets my name wrong sometimes,’ Padraic replied.
‘Really? What does he call you?’
‘Peter. I’ve corrected him, of course I have, but after a while I just gave up and now I just answer to Peter.’
‘That’s kind of weird.’
‘It’s completely weird, Martin, but that’s the lot I got.’
‘Well, I suppose you didn’t really need presents, what with your fancy new Game Boy and everything.’
‘What? No, I gave that thing away.’
‘What?!’ Martin barked. ‘To who?!’
‘Oh . . . just a friend.’
‘A friend who’s not me? What were ya thinking, P? Why didn’t you—’
But Martin’s rant was interrupted by some cheering from the house.
‘Declano!’ came a chant from inside. ‘Declano the Volcano!’
Martin and Padraic rushed in to find that Declan Mannion had arrived and was being hugged vigorously by the Brazilians. They seemed delighted to see him for some reason.
‘All right, lads, all right. Don’t crease the denim,’ he insisted, patting down his blue jacket and jeans.
‘What’s going on, Fabio?’ Martin asked, as his foreign friend ruffled Declan’s hair and the boys lifted him on to their shoulders.
‘Declano has our Christmas bonuses, Fish- Guts!’
‘That’s right, lads,’ Declan agreed, as he handed each man a packed envelope. ‘Don’t spend it all at once. Unless you’re buying a house or a car or whatever.’
‘You got the money from Francie?’ Martin asked, surprised.
‘Yeah, I’ve just come from the prison now. He’s happy as Larry* up there. When I left him, he was putting the finishing touches to a mural he’d painted on his cell wall of himself fighting an octopus. It was pretty good. Nice shadow detail. The man has a talent.’
‘Well, Fish-Guts. You know what that means. . .’said Fabio.
‘Francie’s going to become a painter?’ Martin shrugged.
‘No, buddy,’ I whispered. T think it means they’re going home.’
‘What? You can’t go back to Brazil. Everyone wants you here now.’
Fabio put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and smiled warmly.
‘Everyone except our families.’
Martin nodded. After today, he understood how important being with family was. It was going to be hard to go back to a life without his new friends, but who knew what surprises tomorrow’s yection would bring. Well, I did, but I wanted it to be a surprise, so I kept quiet.
*HAPPY AS LARRY - this expression refers to Larry Stapleton. He was well known as a happy person. Nothing else is known about him.
‘Thank you. Thank you for everything, Fish-Guts.’
‘Martin,’ Padraic corrected him with a whisper, leaning in.
‘And thank you, Martin,’ Fabio said to Padraic, not understanding him.
‘And thank you again, Declan, for lending us Mr Feeley’s yacht.’
Declan shrugged. ‘No problemo, Fabio.’
‘C’mon, guys, we’ve got a lot of rowing to do.’
As the Brazilians filed out, excited about getting back to their village, they each stopped to salute their fish-gutting comrade. Martin saluted them in turn. Which eventually made his elbow quite sleepy. There were loads of them.
Finally it was Fabio’s turn. He stood at the Moone front door facing Martin. But he didn’t salute. He just gave a little wink, a swish of his hair, and he was gone.
In the background, Debra giggled again.
Liam entered and shook his head at his suddenly teenage wife.
‘There’s a man on the phone. Says he’s looking for someone called Peter?’
‘That’s me,’ Padraic grumbled as he headed off home.
‘Well, buddy,’ I said, trying to lift Martin’s spirits, ‘Looks like it’s just you and me again.’
‘Yeah, Sean. That’ll do. That’ll do just fine.’
‘Oh!’ I said, spotting one more wrapped gift sitting by the front door. T think someone forgot to open that.’
It had his name on it. Well, actually it said ‘Fish-Guts’. Martin rushed over and started pulling away the paper eagerly.
A wave of Christmas spirit washed over the boy as he revealed the beautiful fish-shaped guitar. Fabio had left him his most prized possession.
Martin held the guitar close to his chest. It meant a lot that Fabio had given him something so precious. But secretly we both knew he’d always be a little too lazy to learn how to play it. We shared a smile.
‘What a lovely ornament,’ we said together.
THE END
ABOUT
CHRIS O’DOWD
Chris O’Dowd is an award-winning actor and writer from the barmy town of Boyle in Ireland. Chris did some good acting in Bridesmaids, The IT Crowd, Gulliver’s Travels and Of Mice and Men. We won’t mention the films where he did bad acting. He has a dog called Potato and a cat who shouts at him for no reason. He studied at University College Dublin and the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. He graduated from neither. Chris created Moone Boy to get revenge on his sisters for putting make-up on him as a child. He cowrote the Sky TV series and this book with his good friend Nick Murphy, who is a lot older than Chris.
ABOUT
NICK V. MURPHY
Nick V. Murphy is a writer from Kilkenny, Ireland. (The V. in his name stands for Very.) He went to Trinity College Dublin to study English and History, but spent most of his time doing theatre and running away from girls. This was where he bumped into Chris O’Dowd, who was out looking for pizza. After college, Nick focused on writing, which was the laziest c
areer he could think of, as it could even be done while wearing pyjamas. He wrote a few things for TV, then a movie called Hideaways, before co-writing a short film with Chris called Capturing Santa. The pyjama-wearing pair developed this into the comedy series Moone Boy, which recently won an International Emmy for Best Comedy.
Other books by Chris O’Dowd and Nick V. Murphy
Moone Boy: The Blunder Years
First published 2015 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2015 by Macmillan Children’s Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-7099-7
Text copyright © Chris O’Dowd and Nick V. Murphy 2015
Illustrations copyright © Walter Giampaglia/Cartoon Saloon 2015
With thanks to Sky, Baby Cow Productions and Sprout Pictures
The right of Chris O’Dowd and Nick V. Murphy to be identified as the authors and Walter Giampaglia/Cartoon Saloon as the illustrators of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases
