However, he did set a new Worm-swimming world record of 11.5 m, and his certificate is now on display in the Worms Town Museum. No one has ever tried to beat it. As Wolfgang’s life and death show, one worm may be wonderfully wiggly, but dozens can be dangerously deadly.
Best wishes
Eric Bibby
Keeper of the Records
PS Alfred Bibby was my father. He became fascinated with record–breaking quite by chance one morning in 1951, when he discovered the world’s biggest ever earwig (34.4 cm long) hiding in his left wellington boot. I have a photo of him somewhere holding up the whopper! If I can find it, I’ll send you a copy.
That afternoon, the boys hurried across the farmyard with another bowl of Grandma’s baked beans to add to the Pongy Potion.
‘Don’t you think we’ve put enough of those beans in?’ asked Matthew.
‘You can never have too many beans, Matt,’ replied Danny. ‘And if we don’t put them in the potion, we’ll have to eat them.’
Just then they heard a clanking sound coming from behind the pigsty. When they looked, the lid of the bucket was jumping up and down, as though something inside was trying to get out. Two long, greeny-yellow tentacles crept down the side of the bucket.
‘The Pong’s alive!’ yelled Danny.
With a bang, the lid shot a metre into the air and clattered on to the ground at the boys’ feet.
‘It’s escaping!’ cried Matthew.
Danny held his nose, raced to the bucket, and threw in the beans. ‘Come on, Matt, it’s time to chuck the Pong Monster into Grandad’s cowpat barrel before it gets away.’
They grabbed the bucket, and raced across the garden to the vegetable patch. The big wooden barrel stood just inside the gate.
Matthew shoved the lid to one side, and Danny tipped the steaming, bubbling, seething mixture into the thick, browny-black slop. The Pongy Potion floated on the surface for a moment before the cowpat sludge sucked it down hungrily.
Suddenly, huge bubbles began to appear, bursting with loud, sloppy pops. The barrel started to grumble loudly.
‘That sounds like Dad’s stomach after he’s had a chicken vindaloo,’ laughed Danny.
Something knocked on the inside of the wooden tub. Long ropes of sticky slime spat into the air. The grumbling turned to rumbling and the top of the liquid started to bulge upwards.
‘It’s going to blow!’ yelled Danny. ‘It is like Dad’s stomach after a chicken vindaloo! Run!’
The two boys charged towards the farmhouse as the cowpat barrel erupted with a ground-shaking ‘BOOOOOMMM!’.
Danny glanced over his shoulder and saw a plume of browny-greeny-yellowy-black goo rocket into the air. As it climbed higher, it spread out like a fan, casting its smelly contents far and wide, and blotting out the sun.
The shadow of the approaching muck-cloud fell over Danny and Matthew. They nearly made it to the kitchen door, but not quite. They were just a few metres short when the Pong landed.
SPLAT!
The whole garden turned browny-greeny-yellowy-black.
Both boys had been turned into gooey gobs of greasy gloop.
‘Ace!’ said Danny, pulling a slimy old tea bag off his head.
‘Cool!’ agreed Matthew.
Grandma opened the kitchen door.
‘Oh, my days!’ she cried. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Grandad’s cowpat barrel blew up!’ answered Danny.
‘And we stink,’ grinned Matthew.
‘Not for long,’ replied Grandma. ‘Don’t move!’
She marched off around the side of the house, returning with the hosepipe.
‘Keep still,’ she ordered, and blasted the yucky slime off the boys.
Grandad Nobby appeared at the door. ‘How did that get up there?’ he asked, pointing to the sock that dangled drippily from the TV aerial on the roof.
Danny and Matthew glanced at each other.
‘Cats?’ suggested Danny.
‘Bats?’ suggested Matthew.
Grandad took off his old flat cap and scratched his head. He looked around at the mess that covered everything in sight. ‘We’ll have to hope it rains,’ he said.
‘Well then, we’d better do the Puddlethorpe Rain Dance,’ said Grandma, and she and Grandad set off round the garden, jigging and wailing tunelessly. Danny and Matthew joined in, splashing in the shallow pools of dark sludge.
That evening it rained torrents.
‘Never fails,’ smiled Grandad, winking at the boys. ‘This rain’ll wash all that goo down into the ground. It’ll be good for the soil, so no harm done.’
‘There’s harm done to my nose,’ complained Grandma. ‘What a whiff!’
Big
Danny woke early the next morning, got out of bed and opened the bedroom curtains.
He gasped.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
He gasped for a second time.
‘Grandad! Grandma! Matt! Get up! Come and look at this!’
Danny raced downstairs and into the kitchen. He flung open the kitchen door and stared outside. He couldn’t help it: he gasped once more.
The grass in the garden was two metres high. Buttercups, daisies and dandelions, with flowers as big as dinner-plates, stretched up above the tall green blades. Rose-bushes stood like small trees down one side of the garden, their branches bending under the weight of enormous white blooms. Other gigantic plants crushed and crowded together nearby, with towering spikes of red and blue flowers, huge purple bells and rafts of pink blossom.
Grandad, Grandma and Matthew joined Danny at the door.
‘Oh, my giddy aunt!’ exclaimed Grandma. ‘I’m going to need a vase as big as a milk churn for those roses.’
‘What about your vegetables, Mr B?’ asked Matthew.
‘My marrows!’ yelled Grandad. ‘Come on, let’s go and see.’
They all pulled on their wellington boots and set off like jungle explorers, pushing aside the tall leaves, treading cautiously through the high grass that rustled noisily in the breeze.
Danny glimpsed woodlice as large as saucers, and spiders bigger than Grandad’s hand, scurrying away into the shade.
All around them, but out of sight, hundreds of huge insects hummed and buzzed and clicked. Grandma moved an enormous buttercup leaf to one side, revealing a frog the size of a football staring back at them.
Danny laughed. ‘Look at those big bulgy eyes – it looks like our teacher, Mrs Woodcock!’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Matthew. ‘And she’s got frog’s legs too!’
As they emerged from the grass and gazed over the wall of the vegetable patch, Grandad jumped in the air like he’d scored a goal.
‘My Rotting Chowhabunga!’ he cried, pointing at his treasured plant.
It was normally a small spiky clump of bright green waxy leaves. Now it was almost as tall as the boys, and rising from the centre was a thick stalk with a large dark flower-bud on the end.
‘It’s going to flower!’ said Grandad. ‘For the first time ever in a pot! It’s a miracle!’
Danny grinned at Matthew and winked.
‘And my marrows are massive!’ exclaimed Grandad. ‘My carrots are colossal! My lettuces are leviathans! My gooseberries are gargantuan! My parsnips are . . .’ He thought for a moment ‘. . . pretty big!’
Grandad’s grin got wider.
‘If Ernie Slack can beat these beauties, I’ll eat my cap!’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘We’ll pick the best tomorrow morning and enter them for the competition at the Fair. This year, victory will be mine!’
A Spot of Bother in the Vegetable Patch
Dear Danny
Here’s the photo I promised you of the humongous earwig! This creature inspired my father to track down and measure the biggest bugs from all over the world, and he donated many of his specimens to Creepy-Crawly Creek, a Wildlife Park and Home for Rescued Invertebrates at Bugsby Tyke. It’s actually not far from Puddlethorpe, and I think you would lov
e it, because it’s a record-breaking kind of place!
They have ants as thick as your thumb, centipedes as long as your leg and slugs as fat as your fist. They have a Spider City, a Beetle Boulevard and a Cockroach Corner. They also have Gastropod Grove, which contains the largest collection of slugs and snails in the world, all slithering and sliming around in a massive compound. This is officially the Slimiest Place in the World, and has to be worth a visit!
Best wishes
Eric Bibby
Keeper of the Records
PS The little boy with knobbly knees standing next to my father is me! Believe it or not, I do not have the Knobbliest Knees in the world. That record is held by Alfie Smee, of Beaumont-cum-Moze, whose horrible, ugly knees could make grown women faint and small children cry. They were so bad that on 13 May 1932 a Special Law was passed banning Alfie Smee’s knees from ever being shown in public.
It was the morning of the Puddlethorpe Annual Country Fair. Danny and Matthew sat at the kitchen table, flicking through a book called What’s That Bug?. Nine enormous pickle jars, their lids punched with air holes, were lined up in front of them, each one containing a huge crawling insect.
Grandma studied the specimens with interest.
‘My,’ she said, ‘you two have been busy. What are you going to do with these beasties?’
‘We’re trying to find out what they’re called,’ answered Danny. ‘Matt’s going to measure them all and I’m going to write to Mr Bibby at The Great Big Book of World Records to see if any of them are world-beaters.’
Matthew grinned at Danny. ‘Imagine if your sister Natalie found a couple of these under her duvet . . . !’
Grandad put his head round the kitchen door.
‘Hurry up, you two,’ he said. ‘I’m going to need some help with my vegetables. The sooner they’re picked, the sooner we can get to the Fair.’
‘OK, Grandad. We’ll finish doing this later.’ The boys pulled on their wellies and went outside.
The flower-bud on the Rotting Chowhabunga was bigger and darker.
‘I think today’s the day,’ said Grandad excitedly.
‘Will the flower really stink?’ asked Matthew, eyeing the plant warily.
‘So I’ve been told, but I don’t know for sure. I’ve never smelt one.’
Grandad led the way along the narrow path they had cleared through the jungle the day before, towards the gate. The grass, buttercups and dandelions waved high above them in the breeze. As he stepped out, the boys heard him cry out in dismay.
‘Oh no! My prize-winners!’
Danny and Matthew ran to his side and looked over the wall. What they saw made their jaws drop.
The vegetable patch was a seething, writhing mass of gigantic pink worms each at least four metres long and as thick as a goalpost. They looked more like pythons than worms, as they crawled, slithered and slid over the huge plants, sucking and slurping great holes out of them.
‘Gross!’ said Danny.
‘Double-gross!’ added Matthew.
‘Quick!’ shouted Grandad, grabbing a wheelbarrow. ‘We’ve got to get the good vegetables out before those beasts eat them all!’
He trundled his barrow through the gate towards the one remaining untouched marrow. The boys helped him lift it into the barrow, then Danny raced towards the runner beans, while Matthew grabbed a spade and headed for the onions.
‘Only pick the good ones!’ called Grandad, thwacking a monster worm with his flat cap.
Danny had collected an armful of enormous runner beans when he felt the earth shudder and shift under his feet. The head of a giant earthworm burst out of the soil, stretching and quivering towards the beans.
Three worms emerged from the ground nearby and headed for the sprouts. Two more appeared by the peas, while others popped up at various places around the patch and began to creep towards the middle, all heading for Grandad’s marrow.
Grandma Florrie ran up to the gate.
‘Lawks-a-lordy!’ she howled. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Call Creepy-crawly Creek in Bugsby Tyke!’
Danny shouted.‘Tell them we’re surrounded. They’ll know what to do!’
The Worm Wranglers of Creepy -crawly Creek
Danny scanned the vegetable patch. In a far corner by the gate he spied a large stack of sun-dried cowpats that were piled up ready to be taken to the Fair for the cowpat-hurling contest.
‘Come on, Matt, let’s get ’em!’
Danny and Matthew began to skim the hard, flat pooh-projectiles at the wiggling monster worms as they burst from their burrows and lunged at the vegetables. Grandad stood guard by his precious marrow, fending off incoming attackers with his spade and cap.
Despite their efforts, the huge worms kept coming. Just when the boys’ cowpat ammunition supply was starting to run low, a bright red truck skidded to a halt on the other side of the wall, six yellow lights on top of the cab flashing urgently. Emblazoned along the side of the vehicle were the words:
A woman and two men jumped down from the truck. They wore lime-green, wipe-clean, slime-proof zip-tight boiler suits, and carried large yellow buckets in their red-rubber-gloved hands. Hammers, pincers and lassos dangled from their shiny black belts.
‘I’m Babs, Chief Worm Wrangler,’ announced the woman as she rushed through the gate. ‘And this is my team, Bernie and Butch.’ She saw the giant worms slithering all over the vegetable patch. ‘Whoa! This is serious!’ ‘We’re going to need bigger buckets!’ yelled Bernie. ‘We’re going to need wheelie bins!’ barked Butch.
Babs surveyed the scene. ‘Right! Here’s the plan!’ She pointed at Danny and Matthew. ‘You lads keep pelting these monsters with cowpats.’ She pointed at Grandma. ‘Mrs Baker, take Butch to the wheelie bins.’
She turned to the third Worm Wrangler.
‘Bernie, call Base Control. Tell them to get High Containment Unit X1-2000 ready. These are Super Worms we’re dealing with!’
When Butch returned with the wheelie bins, Babs slapped Danny and Matthew on the back. ‘Well done, lads,’ she said. ‘You’ve done a great job. Now it’s time to let the professionals take over.’
Babs and Bernie unhooked their lassos and took up position by the marrow in the barrow, snagging each mammoth worm that appeared above ground. As the ropes tightened, the struggling creatures were dragged out of their burrows, and flung wriggling and writhing into the bins. Butch slammed the lids shut as the worms battered against them, trying to escape.
At last the vegetable patch was clear. Babs turned to Grandad. ‘The situation’s under control now, Mr Baker. You can pick your vegetables and get off to the Fair.’
She strode over to the boys. ‘Thanks for all your help, lads. I’ve never seen worms this big in Yorkshire! The wheelie bins won’t hold them for long – we need to get them into the High Containment Unit X1-2000 asap.’
Babs reached into a pocket of her lime-green, wipe-clean, slime-proof zip-tight boiler suit. ‘Here’s four free tickets for Creepy-crawly Creek,’ she said, handing them to Danny. ‘You can come and see your worms any time.’
She jumped into the truck next to Bernie and Butch, winked at the boys and, with lights flashing, sped off towards Bugsby Tyke.
‘Come on!’ said Grandad, grabbing his vegetables. ‘Let’s get going. I can’t wait to see Ernie Slack’s face when he catches sight of this little lot!’
Ernie Slack
As usual, Grandad’s neighbour Tom Abson had made room in his Low Meadow for the Puddlethorpe Annual County Fair. The field was a hotch potch of animal pens, stalls and sideshow attractions, and at its centre stood the candy-striped canopy of the main marquee, surrounded by a makeshift racetrack.
Danny and Matthew helped Grandad Nobby carry his enormous vegetables into the marquee, where the judging would take place later. Tables ran around the edge, all covered in clean, crisp white cloths. They were crammed with vegetables of all shapes and sizes, arranged either neatly in little piles, or as
large, single specimens. The table carrying Grandad’s massive marrow, beautiful beans and cracking carrots bowed in the middle with their weight.
Grandad placed a small card with his name on in front of them. He beamed with pleasure.
‘You’re going to win for sure, Grandad,’ said Danny.
At that moment Ernie Slack strode towards them, dragging with him the Chief Judge, Mr Willis. Ernie was as long, thin and stringy as one of Grandad’s runner beans, and his long, thin, stringy black moustache curled at each end like a pig’s tail.
‘You must disqualify Nobby Baker this instant!’ he demanded. ‘Those vegetables aren’t normal – he’s cheating!’
Judge Willis raised an eyebrow. ‘They’re certainly extraordinary, Ernie. But I can’t see any reason to disqualify Nobby’
Ernie blustered and fumed, and the ends of his curly moustache twitched with temper, but Danny could see that he knew Judge Willis was right. Ernie Slack stomped away.
Grandad grinned and turned to the boys. ‘The judging’s this afternoon, right after the Puddlethorpe Grand National,’ he said. He handed them five pounds each. ‘You lads go and enjoy yourselves.’
Danny and Matthew thanked Grandad and went out into the bright late-summer sunshine. The hubbub of the crowd mixed with the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cows. The boys bought a hot dog each, listened to the Puddlethorpe Cowbell Ringers, and then tried out the fun and games. Danny managed to Dunk the Vicar, and won a pen shaped like a turnip. Matthew had had so much practice zapping worms that morning that he easily took first prize in the Junior Cowpat-Hurling Competition, and won a gold medallion in the shape of a cowpat.
The World's Awesomest Air-Barf Page 4
