Snot Chocolate

by Morris Gleitzman

  About the Book

  VERY YUMMY STORIES

  Stop your mum picking her nose, read the secret diary of a dog, catch a bus and then let it go, discover how one slice of toast can make you the most popular person in school, start wearing a crown and give up eating pig-nostril gruel, use a wrecking ball to defeat a bully, show your big sister the very scary secret in your wardrobe, unleash the awesome power of chips, live in a house that gets wiped clean more often than a bottom.

  King Ned

  Troll

  The FDC

  Wipe Out

  Cumquat May

  The Tortoise And The Hair

  Chips That Pass In The Night

  Secret Diary Of A Dog

  Snot Chocolate

  For Gracie

  Ned opened his eyes and frowned.

  Something was wrong.

  It was daylight and he was still in bed.

  How was that possible? Uncle Vern didn’t allow sleeping in. The hovel was too small. Uncle Vern and Ned always got up at dawn in case the pigs needed a lie down.

  Something else doesn’t feel right, thought Ned.

  I’m warm.

  Deliciously warm.

  Ned saw why. A blanket was draped over him. Uncle Vern’s blanket. Ned recognised the sheepskin with the sheep’s head still attached.

  Which was very strange, because Uncle Vern didn’t believe in young people being warm.

  ‘Not good for ye,’ Uncle Vern often told Ned. ‘That be what caused the terrible infant mortality in the twelfth century, children bein’ too warm. Either that or too hungry, I can’t remember zackly.’

  Ned didn’t care if being snug was dangerous.

  He was enjoying it.

  Anyway, he thought, this isn’t the twelfth century, it’s the thirteenth, so I’ll probably survive.

  Ned had never felt warm in bed before. It was lovely. He snuggled deeper under the blanket. The bed felt extra soft, as if somebody had stuffed extra straw and rags and fluffy dead mice into the mattress while he slept.

  ‘Good mornin’, sire.’

  Ned jumped guiltily.

  He’d assumed Uncle Vern had gone out to get some stoats for breakfast. But this was definitely Uncle Vern’s voice.

  Ned peered around. The hovel wasn’t much bigger than a plague cart so it was strange that he could hear Uncle Vern but not see him.

  Puzzled, Ned sat up.

  And stared in surprise.

  Uncle Vern was splayed out on the ground next to the bed, bottom in the air, chin in the dirt, staring up at him fearfully.

  ‘I await your command, sire,’ said Uncle Vern.

  If Uncle Vern had been a different sort of person, given to light-hearted japes rather than scraping mould off damp trees for a living, Ned might have thought this was a merry jest.

  But Uncle Vern didn’t do merry jests.

  What was going on?

  ‘Uncle Vern,’ said Ned, concerned. ‘You shouldn’t lie on the damp ground like that. You’ll get skin rot.’

  ‘No I won’t,’ said Uncle Vern, still looking at Ned fearfully.

  ‘Millipedes might crawl up your nose,’ said Ned, desperately trying to think of something to snap Uncle Vern out of it.

  Uncle Vern shook his head. Ned wasn’t sure if he was disagreeing or trying to dislodge millipedes that had already crawled in.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ said Ned.

  Uncle Vern was a stern and rather bossy uncle who spent a lot of time calling Ned a fool. Sprawling on the ground and twitching in terror just wasn’t like him.

  ‘I’m doin’ this so as you won’t be killin’ me,’ stammered Uncle Vern. ‘Your Highness.’

  Ned stared at him, very concerned.

  Your Highness?

  Poor Uncle Vern must have accidentally swallowed some tree mould while he was feeding it to the pigs and it must have given him a tragic affliction of the brain.

  Slowly, so as not to scare Uncle Vern, Ned climbed out of bed.

  Uncle Vern slithered further away.

  ‘Uncle Vern,’ said Ned gently. ‘You only call people Your Highness when they’re the king. I’m not the king.’

  ‘Yes you are,’ said Uncle Vern.

  Ned wondered what to do.

  They couldn’t afford a doctor, and he wasn’t sure if acorn tea could cure a brain affliction this bad. Perhaps if he used some of the really strong acorns, the ones that had been eaten by pigs and come out the other end . . .

  He bent down to help Uncle Vern up.

  Uncle Vern whimpered and tried to slither even further away. Which wasn’t easy in a tiny hovel cluttered up with two beds and two stools.

  Ned decided to humour Uncle Vern. He couldn’t think what else to do.

  ‘Sit yourself on a stool,’ he said nervously. ‘That’s a command.’

  Ned suspected that commands weren’t usually issued in a wobbly voice, but Uncle Vern didn’t seem to notice. He scrambled to his feet. Then hesitated. Ned guessed he must be terrified about sitting down when royalty was still standing.

  Ned gave a regal nod.

  Uncle Vern sat on a stool, still looking terrified.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Ned. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Kings don’t kill people.’

  ‘Yes they do,’ said Uncle Vern. ‘The last king, God rest his soul, used to kill people all the time. That’s why he was called King Rufus The People Killer.’

  Ned hadn’t known that. Plus it sounded like the king was dead, which he hadn’t known either. Even after living with Uncle Vern for two years, Ned was still getting used to how much time news took to reach people living in remote bogs with pigs who had bowel problems.

  Except, Ned reminded himself, Uncle Vern isn’t thinking straight, so probably none of this is true. The king probably isn’t dead at all. He’s probably in his castle right now, handing out wise advice and food parcels to his subjects.

  ‘The king didn’t have any sons,’ said Uncle Vern. ‘So they’ve been looking for the next in line to the throne. They came round here in the middle of the night while you were asleep and said it was you.’

  Ned sighed sadly.

  Uncle Vern was in the grip of a terrible malady.

  A sudden one. Like when Mum and Dad got the plague. One minute they were perfectly healthy, the next you were at their funeral.

  Ned didn’t want to think about that.

  He also didn’t want to think about what lay ahead for Uncle Vern if he couldn’t be cured. Times were tough these days for brain-addled lunatics. They usually got drowned in duckponds, or locked in a cage and exhibited at fairs, or sometimes both.

  Ned patted Uncle Vern on the arm and while Uncle Vern hid under a stool, he hurried out of the hovel desperately hoping there were some strong acorns in the pig pen.

  Extremely strong.

  He stopped at the doorstep, which wasn’t so much a doorstep as a congealed heap of all the cold pig fat Uncle Vern had scraped out of the frying pan over the years.

  Ned felt dizzy. He knew that dizziness could happen to people who didn’t get enough fresh vegetables. Specially when they were short of sleep because of cold beds and noisy pigs who slurped tree mould all night. But Ned was pretty sure his dizziness was from something else.

  The something that was in front of him.

  Ned gaped.

  Standing in the mud outside the hovel were six horses. Black ones. With silver plumes on their heads.

  Behind them was a coach so golden and purple and gleaming that even a boy who’d never been to school knew instantly it was royal. Even before the two courtiers standing stiffly to attention bowed to him, opened the coach door, bowed to him again and murmured, ‘Your Majesty’.

  Ned had never been mistaken fo
r a king before and it was making him feel a bit brain-addled himself. Which was why the coach journey was almost over before he realised his mistake.

  Poop, thought Ned. Uncle Vern’s right, I am a fool.

  The only reason Ned had let the coach whisk him away, the only reason he hadn’t explained to the courtiers that he was just the humble nephew of a mould farmer, was so he could get to the king and beg His Majesty to send a doctor with lots of strong acorns and leeches to cure Uncle Vern’s brain.

  Except, Ned now realised, Uncle Vern’s brain didn’t need curing. Because, unlike Ned, Uncle Vern wasn’t brain-addled at all. This royal coach with its velvet cushions and silk curtains and delicate snacks on silver platters proved that.

  The only brain-addled person, thought Ned, is whoever thinks I’m the king.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Ned to the courtiers.

  He wanted to explain his mistake and ask them to turn the coach round and take him home before he got into trouble for impersonating a monarch.

  But the courtiers fell to their knees and held out the platters again.

  Ned took one more quail drumstick and a couple more hummingbird nuggets, just to be polite. Plus, after two years of pig-nostril gruel, they were very delicious.

  He ate them quickly so he could say what he had to say.

  But by the time he’d finished chewing, the coach was clattering over a very large drawbridge and the courtiers were opening the curtains so Ned could see the majestic gleaming radiance of the royal castle.

  Inside the castle walls, thousands of people stared at Ned. Well, hundreds, but when you lived in a hamlet with seven other peasants and eleven pigs, and the only time you had visitors was when the pigs had worms, even hundreds seemed scary.

  Specially when they were all so well dressed. And kneeling down. And touching the muddy ground with their foreheads as you stepped out of the coach.

  Well, not stepped.

  Were carried.

  ‘Your Majesty.’

  The words rumbled around the huge castle courtyard in a mighty reverential whisper. Followed by a roar.

  ‘The King Is Dead,’ roared the crowd. ‘Long Live The King.’

  Oh, thought Ned. Uncle Vern was right about that too. I’d better get this whole misunderstanding cleared up.

  Ned peered around the courtyard, trying to see who was in charge.

  Whoever it was, he hoped they’d be wise and kind. The sort of viscount or bishop or admiral who understood that mistakes were sometimes made. And that a boy who made one or two of them shouldn’t necessarily have his entrails boiled in oil.

  ‘Sire.’

  The two courtiers reverently placed Ned onto a red and gold carpet. But it wasn’t the courtiers who had spoken.

  Ned looked up.

  Standing over him, bowing slightly, was the tallest man Ned had ever seen. He was very thin, but he must have been at least five foot six or even seven.

  Amazing, thought Ned. People who don’t live in bogs grow really tall. He could scrape the mould off a low branch without using a ladder.

  ‘Welcome, Your Majesty,’ said the man, and there was something about his haughty voice and dark pointy beard and the silver thread woven through his sumptuous clothes and the fur around the edge of his cloak and the jewels on the hilt of his sword and the way people lay down in the mud so he could walk on them without getting his boots dirty that made Ned think he might be the person in charge.

  ‘On behalf of your worshipful subjects,’ said the man, ‘my humble greetings. I am your Lord Chamberlain, at Your Majesty’s service.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Ned.

  His voice came out squeaky, partly because of all the people listening, and partly because the Lord Chamberlain’s eyes were making him feel nervous.

  They were dark and darting and didn’t look worshipful, humble or friendly.

  ‘Actually,’ stammered Ned, ‘there’s been a bit of a mistake.’

  He was finding it hard to get words out, so he gestured towards the two courtiers from the coach. This would give the Lord Chamberlain an idea about the general nature of the mistake.

  The Lord Chamberlain’s eyes narrowed, which made them even scarier.

  ‘A mistake?’ he said.

  Ned nodded.

  ‘Please accept my apologies,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  Before Ned could say anything else, the Lord Chamberlain’s sword flashed and the heads of the two courtiers plopped onto the ground, followed by the thud of their bodies.

  Ned felt sick.

  He decided to leave the topic of mistakes for a while, until he wasn’t feeling so faint.

  ‘What else does Your Majesty desire?’ said the Lord Chamberlain.

  ‘Can I sit down for a moment, please?’ said Ned.

  The royal throne was huge and uncomfortable. Ned’s feet didn’t even touch the ground, and jewels were poking him in several personal places.

  He sipped the water he’d asked for.

  The gold goblet was almost too heavy to lift, but at least the water didn’t taste as though pigs had been washing in it.

  Ned sighed.

  He wanted to go home.

  True, at home the water wasn’t this clean and you had to drink it from the same mug as Uncle Vern. Verily, at home you didn’t get to wear soft velvet robes like this, or real fur underwear. But at home you could be yourself and you were safe from murderous blades. Except when Uncle Vern was trimming pork giblets with a cleaver, but that wasn’t often.

  ‘Feeling better, Your Highness?’

  Ned jumped.

  The Lord Chamberlain had seated himself very close to Ned on a silver throne almost as big as the royal one.

  Ned wasn’t sure what to say.

  A large number of other people were very close too. Courtiers mostly, anxiously hovering around with things a king might need, such as more gold goblets, whole roast oxen, maps of countries to invade, and great mounds of the exotic brightly coloured things Ned had heard about, called fruit.

  The Lord Chamberlain stood up and clapped his hands.

  The vast throne room emptied in a few seconds.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘My duty is to be your royal advisor, and my advice is that we should have a little chat.’

  ‘Alright,’ said Ned nervously.

  ‘You are probably wondering, Your Most Royal Highness,’ said the Lord Chamberlain, ‘why you are the king.’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Ned.

  ‘It’s simple,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘Your great-great-great-great grandmother was a distant member of the royal family.’

  Ned blinked with surprise.

  ‘Well,’ continued the Lord Chamberlain, ‘she wasn’t exactly a family member, but she used to remove worms from the royal hunting dogs and those dogs were so grateful they treated her just like family. Peed on her hovel, dug up her garden, they truly loved her. Which we calculate makes you one million four hundred and sixty-three thousand two hundred and ninety-seventh in line to the throne.’

  Ned struggled to take this in. Before he could ask the obvious question, the Lord Chamberlain answered it.

  ‘The other one million four hundred and sixty-three thousand two hundred and ninety-six weren’t available,’ he said. ‘Plagues, wars, overseas holidays, you can’t imagine how relieved we were to find you.’

  Ned could imagine, but it wasn’t as simple as that.

  ‘What if I don’t want to be king?’ he said quietly. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘You most certainly do have a choice. You can choose to be the king, the most powerful person in the land whose every need, desire and whim is instantly satisfied and whose every law, command and proclamation is instantly obeyed. Or you can choose not to be the king, which means you’re trespassing in the royal palace, an offence punishable by instant –’

  The Lord Chamberlain drew his sword.

  ‘
I’ll be the king,’ said Ned.

  ‘Wise choice, Your Highness,’ said the Lord Chamberlain, putting his sword away.

  Ned sagged miserably.

  His head hurt. At first he thought it was the diamonds in his crown digging into his skull. But he realised it couldn’t be that. The crown was too big so the royal housemaids had lined it with a couple of socks.

  The Lord Chamberlain handed Ned a scroll of parchment covered in scrawly marks.

  Ned wished he’d learned to read, but Uncle Vern had always said it was a waste of time given that pigs couldn’t write.

  ‘Our Constitution requires only two things of you, Your Highness,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘One is that you behave like a king at all times, a special person of wealth, power and very white wrist ruffles so your loyal subjects can feel a glow of pride just thinking about you. The other is that you never leave the royal castle. We don’t want you going outside like the last king and picking up some snotty peasant sniffle that turns fatal so we have to go through this whole tedious business all over again.’

  Ned sagged even more.

  Now he knew how the pigs at home felt, pampered with all the tree mould they could eat and all the lie-downs they fancied.

  But utterly trapped.

  The Lord Chamberlain was watching Ned closely again.

  ‘As your royal advisor, Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘I advise you to make a start.’

  Ned realised what the Lord Chamberlain meant.

  Start behaving like a king.

  Ned couldn’t think of a single law, command or proclamation. He tried to summon up a need, desire or whim. Apart from going home, nothing.

  The Lord Chamberlain’s hand was resting on the hilt of his sword.

  Ned suddenly remembered the anxious hovering courtiers and all the things they’d been offering him.

  ‘Bring me a bandana,’ he said in the most regal voice he could manage.

  The Lord Chamberlain gave him a look.

  ‘Your Highness wants a colourful scarf-like piece of fabric tied rakishly around his head? May I suggest that what Your Majesty wants is a banana.’

  Ned sighed. It seemed he couldn’t even get that right.

  He wasn’t a king, he was a fool.

  Ned snuggled into the huge, soft, warm royal bed.