The World's Awesomest Air-Barf

by Steve Hartley

  ‘Your lips are stuck in kissing position,’ she said.

  No! thought Danny. Help!

  But there was no one to help. Sally leaned forward and planted her lips firmly on Danny’s.

  ‘Awwwwww,’ cooed the crowd.

  Urrrrrrgh! thought Danny.

  He looked past Sally into the crowded square and spotted his sister Natalie laughing at him. Even worse, his mum had finally fixed the video camera and was filming the kiss.

  He could hear Natalie singing, ‘Danny and Sally, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.’

  The kiss went on . . .

  Urrrrrrrrrrgh!

  and on . . .

  Urrrrrrrrrrrrgh!

  and on . . .

  Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!

  and on . . .

  Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!

  Danny sent up his own silent prayer. Help!

  And his prayer was answered.

  He heard leaves rustling and a branch creaking, and there was Matthew, beside them in the tree.

  ‘Now that’s enough of that!’ ordered Matthew. He tried to drag Sally away, but she clung on tight.

  ‘Sally,’ he shouted. ‘There’s a massive spider on your back!’

  Danny saw Sally’s eyes widen in horror. She pulled away quickly.

  ‘Arrrrrrrrrrgh!’ she screamed. ‘Get it off! Get it off!’

  Matthew pretended to brush something off her. He blew out his cheeks and shook his head. ‘Wow, that was huge,’ he gasped. He wiggled his fingers. ‘It had really hairy legs! There must be loads more of them around here.’

  Sally screamed. In seconds she was out of the tree and standing in the square next to her mother.

  Matthew grinned. ‘I think Silly Butterworm has just broken the world record for the Fastest Climbing Out of a Tree to Escape an Invisible Spider, don’t you?’

  Danny looked at Matthew and raised his eyebrows, which was the only part of him he could move. Thanks, Matt, he thought. You saved me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dan,’ said Matthew.

  Danny twitched his eyebrows once. So am I, Matt, he thought.

  Matthew understood and nodded. ‘We will never, ever fall out, ever again.’

  Danny raised his eyebrows twice: No.

  ‘Do you see what happens when I’m not around to look out for you?’

  Danny twitched his eyebrows once: Yeah.

  The two boys perched side by side in the tree, and looked down on the people celebrating in the town square. After a while, Matthew sighed.

  ‘Have you realized that when your dad gets the job as manager of Real Marisco, you’ll have to live here and I’ll have to go back to England?’ he said.

  Danny frowned: What?

  Matthew stared at Danny sadly.

  ‘We’ll probably never see each other again,’ he said quietly. ‘Ever.’

  Danny’s eyebrows nearly twitched off his face: Noooooooooooooo!

  Danny Baker – Record Breaker

  Hotel La Langosta

  Marisco

  Spain

  Dear Mr Bibby,

  I dressed up as El Periquito and collected 14,975 caterpillars. I didn’t know it at the time, but as I passed the buckets down to Father Ignatius, Matthew was counting the caterpillars in each one, so that I could write to you with my score. I also stayed in the tree whistling for ten hours and twenty-three minutes. When I’d finished, I had cramp in my whole body. I couldn’t move for fifty-three hours and sixteen minutes. Surely one of these must be a record?

  Best wishes

  Danny

  Dear Danny

  Fantastic! You saved Marisco from disaster, and claimed not just one, but two El Periquito world records. You beat the previous caterpillar–collecting record by more than thirteen thousand, and whistled in the tree for nearly ten hours longer than anyone had ever done before. I’m sure your records will remain for a very long time, possibly for ever. Congratulations!

  Unfortunately, however, the long attack of cramp you suffered is not a record.

  In 1966, Harriet Snood of Tolpuddle attempted to break the world record for dancing ‘The Twist’. After sixty–nine hours and seventeen minutes,her whole body locked like stone. Doctors have been unable to thaw out Harriet’s frozen muscles even to this day. She is still stuck in twisting position! With every minute that passes, she adds to her record, which as I write is 15,696 days, 3 hours and 6 minutes. Harriet now has a successful career as a ‘Living Sculpture’.

  Finally, Danny, you didn’t tell me about the kiss!

  Your mum sent me the video she made of you and Sally Butterworth kissing in the tree. I’m delighted to tell you that you and Sally have set a new world record, and I have included two extra certificates, one for you and one for Sally. Would you please pass it on to her?

  Congratulations on breaking three world records at once, Danny!

  Best wishes

  Eric Bibby

  Keeper of the Records

  Danny and his dad kicked a ball around the beach. The sun shimmered orange, like a huge satsuma, above the calm blue sea. Danny dribbled the ball towards his dad, and nutmegged him. Dad toppled on to the sand with a groan. Danny came over and sat down next to him.

  ‘Have you and Matthew made friends again?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Yeah, ’course we have,’ replied Danny.

  ‘Good. What about Sally Butterworth?’

  ‘She’s going home today.’

  Dad nudged Danny with his elbow and winked.

  ‘Was she a good girlfriend?’ he asked.

  Danny blushed prawn-pink, and looked away.

  ‘She was a good footballer,’ he answered.

  Dad laughed and ruffled Danny’s hair. He nodded at the view. ‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you like it here in Marisco?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s Ace.’

  ‘Would you like to live here for good?’

  Danny pushed his feet into the sand and hugged his knees. ‘Could Matt come and live here too?’

  ‘No, of course not. His mum and dad couldn’t just pack up and move out here because we have.’

  Dad put his arm around Danny’s shoulders.

  ‘Honestly, where would you rather live, here or in England?’

  Danny took a deep breath. ‘In England!’ he blurted out. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’d be OK living here, honest, but I’d have to spend every day wearing factor 5 million suncream, and I’d miss the rain at home, and I’d miss my school football team, and . . . I’d miss Matt. He’s my best mate.’

  Dad frowned and looked thoughtful. ‘Yeah, I thought you’d say that.’ A grin spread slowly across his face. ‘Good thing I turned down the Manager’s job here at Real Marisco then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Walchester United want me to be their goalkeeping coach. It’s my Dream Job, Danny. I start as soon as we get back.’

  Danny jumped up. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Totally.’

  Danny punched the air, put his head back and yelled, ‘IN . . . THE . . . NET!’

  When they got back to the hotel, Sally Butterworth was waiting in reception for the bus to go back to the airport. Matthew was there too, to make sure she didn’t miss it.

  ‘Bye, Danny,’ said Sally as the bus pulled up.

  ‘Er . . . bye, Sally.’ Danny stood well back, in case she had any goodbye kissing in mind.

  ‘Did you know, Father Ignatius, of the Church of the Holy Budgerigar, has said that from now on “El Periquito” must be kissed by a beautiful young girl before he comes down from the tree? Why don’t we come back next year and try to break our own record?’

  Danny and Matthew looked at each other.

  ‘Not Ace!’ cried Danny.

  ‘Not cool!’ agreed Matthew.

  Sally got on board the bus and waved sadly through the back window as it pulled away.

  Danny’s mum walked up to them.

  ‘Have you two boys packed yet?’ she asked. ‘We’ll
be leaving after lunch.’

  Danny grinned at Matthew. ‘Come on, Matt – cola and paella for lunch,’ he said. ‘I’ve got sick-bags to fill!’

  The Pongy Potion

  Dear Danny

  Thank you for your postcard. I had no idea that the Painless Pig-tail Curler was invented in Puddlethorpe.

  I know you and Matthew will have lots of fun on your grandparents’ farm, but I wouldn’t try any cowpat records if I were you. There are Professional Cowpatters all over the world who compete in tournaments, either individually or in teams, battling to be the best at cowpat balancing, cowpat rolling, cowpat tossing, cowpat spinning and cowpat polo. Tournament–standard cowpats are produced from carefully bred Culworth Curly–horn cows, which are fed a special diet to give the pats a regular consistency. They are baked in clay ovens for one hour and thirteen minutes exactly, at a temperature of 1900 centigrade (Gas Mark 5), and then cut to the regulation 35 cm–diameter size. All record attempts are strictly controlled by the WPCA (World Professional Cowpatting Association).

  However, don’t let that stop you having fun with cowpats!

  Best wishes

  Eric Bibby

  Keeper of the Records

  PS Is your grandad the same Norbert ‘Nobby’ Baker who broke the world record for Blindfold One–foot Keepy–uppies in 1968?

  Danny and Matthew sat at the big kitchen table, eating lunch. On the plates in front of them, Grandma Florrie’s home-made baked beans dripped and dribbled over the toast. Grandma was proud of her beans, and gave them to the boys at every meal whether they wanted them or not. ‘They’ll put hairs on your chest,’ she told them. Every night, they stood in front of the bathroom mirror and checked, but so far nothing had happened.

  Grandma sat in a battered old armchair in her bright floral apron and green wellington boots, and got on with her knitting. She was making pink bootees for Mum’s new baby.

  Danny frowned. ‘How do you know the baby’s going to be a girl?’ he asked.

  ‘I can feel it in my waters,’ she replied mysteriously.

  Grandad Nobby sat at the table with the boys, reading Mr Bibby’s letter. The grubby old flat cap that he always wore was pushed back on his head. Danny couldn’t remember seeing Grandad without his cap - he suspected he even slept in it.

  ‘Aye, Danny, that’s me,’ confirmed Grandad Nobby. ‘You’re not the only one in the family who likes to break records, you know.’

  ‘It must be jenny-ticks,’ commented Matthew.

  Grandad walked over to a cupboard and rummaged around inside.

  Danny and Matthew took their chance while Grandma and Grandad weren’t looking, and quickly scraped most of their beans into a bowl they had hidden under the table.

  ‘Ah, here it is,’ muttered Grandad after a few seconds, and handed Danny a picture frame.

  Beneath the glass, he saw a familiar-looking certificate.

  ‘Ace!’ said Danny.

  ‘Cool,’ agreed Matthew. ‘But if you were so good at football, Mr B, why did you give it up and become a farmer?’

  ‘Tell Matt your story, Grandad,’ urged Danny. ‘Tell him about the Rotting Chowhabunga.’

  Grandad’s brow furrowed as though he was remembering something painful. ‘I didn’t want to give up football, Matt,’ he said. ‘I was forced to give it up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Injury,’ he replied, and held his left knee.

  ‘Was it a bad tackle?’ guessed Matthew. ‘Did another player go over the top of the ball? Did you land badly going for a header?’

  Grandad Nobby was silent for a moment. He shook his head slowly.

  ‘I trod on a seed-pod,’ he said eventually.

  Matthew stared at him blankly.

  ‘I was on a tour of Brazil with Walchester United. I’d heard that the Rotting Chowhabunga plant was about to flower in the jungle. It’s supposed to have the Stinkiest Flower in the world, and local people say that anyone who gets too close to its horrible stench is instantly turned to stone!’

  Matthew’s jaw dropped. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Of course not!’ chuckled Grandad. ‘It’s just a myth! People can’t be petrified by a pong!’ He ruffled Matthew’s hair. ‘Anyway, the Rotting Chowhabunga only blooms in the wild and the petals last for just one day, so I hurried out into the jungle to see it. But when I got to the spot, I was too late: the flower had died. As I turned away, I slipped on a seed-pod that had fallen on the ground, and twisted my knee so badly I never played football again.’

  He rubbed his leg once more.

  ‘A seed from the pod got stuck in my sock. I found it when I got home a week later, so I planted the seed in some soil and it grew. Ever since, I’ve been determined to be the first person to get the Rotting Chowhabunga to bloom in a pot. That plant ended my football career, and I’m not going to let it beat me again!’

  Matthew glanced nervously around the room. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s in a pot, out near the vegetable patch,’ answered Grandma. ‘If your Grandad ever wins the battle, and it’s even half as stinky as he says it’ll be, then I don’t want that thing anywhere near my house.’

  ‘How long have you been trying to make it flower?’ asked Matthew.

  ‘Thirty-nine years,’ replied Grandad. ‘I use soil from my compost heap, and feed it with the gunge from my barrel of liquid cowpats. The plant grows beautifully, but I can’t find that one special ingredient that will make it flower.’ He shook his head thoughtfully. ‘I will one day though, you see if I don’t.’

  Suddenly, Danny had an idea. He glanced over at Matthew and winked.

  Grandad sighed. ‘I don’t have much luck with my veggies either. It’s the Puddlethorpe Annual Country Fair in a few days, and I never win first prize. Every year, Ernie Slack manages to beat me into second place. I don’t know how he does it.’

  After lunch, Danny and Matthew carried a bucket of swill across the farmyard to feed Fish, Chips and Peas, Grandma’s three little pigs. Then they went to check on the Pongy Potion, which was brewing in a big metal bucket behind the pigsty. Its contents were cooking slowly in the sun, and for days the boys had been adding all sorts of ingredients to it.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Danny. ‘Do you reckon our Pongy Potion could be the special ingredient Grandad needs to make his Rotting Chowhabunga flower? Let’s add it to the gunge in his cowpat barrel and see what happens.’

  ‘I don’t want it to flower, if it’ll turn us into stone,’ remarked Matthew.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Matt! You heard Grandad – it’s just a myth!’

  Matthew frowned, but said nothing more.

  ‘Urgh!’ cried Danny, covering his face with his arm as they approached the bucket. ‘It’s getting really pongy!’

  He held his nose, took off the lid, and the boys peeked inside. It looked like a giant had been sick in the bucket. It was filled almost to the brim with a thick, lumpy greeny-yellowy soup. Wisps of green steam drifted slowly upwards from the surface.

  Matthew reached into the pocket of his jeans, and unfolded a piece of paper:

  ‘I don’t remember putting that mushroom in there,’ said Danny, tipping in the beans they had saved from lunch.

  ‘We didn’t. That’s grown since yesterday,’ replied Matthew. He wrote ‘1 mushroom’ and ‘1 bowl of Grandma’s home-made baked beans’ at the bottom of his list.

  The Pongy Potion hissed angrily and a small bubble of gas popped on to the surface. Danny plunged a rusty old trowel into the concoction, and turned it over a few times. The Pongy Potion gurgled and more bubbles burst from the brew. The smell smashed into Danny’s face, drilled up his nostrils and exploded through his brain. He reeled backwards, coughing and gasping for breath.

  ‘Quick!’ he spluttered. ‘Put the lid back on, before it gets out!’

  Matthew slammed the lid on to the bucket and they scuttled away to safety.

  ‘Mega-ace!’ cried Danny.

  ‘Mega-cool!’ agreed Matt
hew.

  A Wiggle of Worms

  Crag Top Farm

  Puddlethorpe

  Dear Mr Bibby

  Today I sat in a bath full of worms for four hours and fifty-five minutes. We dug through Grandad’s gigantic steaming compost heap and pulled out every worm we could find. It took us all morning. Matt lost count after 9,183.

  I didn’t mind the worms wriggling around in my ears, but I had to stop when some of them started to crawl up my nose. In fact, they were getting everywhere. It definitely wasn’t Ace.

  Then we had to sneak all the worms out of the bath and back to the compost heap before Grandma realized what we were up to.

  Is my four hours and fifty-five minutes in the worm bath a record?

  Best wishes

  Danny Baker

  PS Grandad Nobby is the same person who broke the Blindfold One-foot Keepy-uppies Record. I’ve seen his certificate. It was signed by Alfred Bibby – is that your dad?

  PPS While I sat in the bath of worms, Matthew tried to do Blindfold Keepy-uppies. He’s only got up to three so far. It’s really hard!

  Dear Danny

  Thanks for letting me know about your brave attempt on the Worm-bath Endurance record. You were exactly seventy-three hours short. The record is held by Wolfgang Walnuss of Germany. He owned a worm farm in the town of Worms, and gave every single worm a name. His favourite was called Heidi.

  Simply sitting in a bath of worms wasn’t enough for Wolfgang. He had a lifelong ambition to swim in worms in Worms.

  On the 15 June 1993, Wolfgang filled a swimming pool with worms and plunged in, but after only half a length, he sank to the bottom of the worm pool. Everyone watching searched desperately in the wriggling, writhing mass, but sadly Wolfgang Walnuss drowned in worms in Worms.