Sally Butterworth, however, was burp-free and strode past Danny and Matthew without a second glance or a single, ‘Hiya!’
‘It was worth missing out on the Mexican Jelly-wave record just to shut Salty Buttybum up,’ commented Matthew.
Danny frowned. ‘It won’t be worth it if she scores past me today,’ he said. ‘Sally’s good. And she’s mad.’
The first game of the tournament pitched Coalclough Sparrows against Bunbury Bantams. Danny didn’t have to save a single shot. He leaned against his post, watching, while his team slaughtered the weakened Bantams. Sally Butterworth was well marked by Matthew and she rarely touched the ball.
Then, with three minutes left and the Sparrows winning eight–nil, Sally broke free. Dodging desperate tackles, she cut through the defence and was through with just Danny to beat. Memories of their last goalmouth clash flooded Danny’s brain. As Sally charged towards him, he repeated, ‘Beach football doesn’t count, beach football doesn’t count, beach football doesn’t count.’
He moved out to narrow the angle as Sally lifted her right foot to shoot. Only this time she dragged the ball to her left and shimmied past him. Danny dived and lunged at her feet, but she was too fast and dodged round him.
It was an open goal. His clean-sheet record was surely gone.
Danny sprawled on the grass, saw Sally look up at the empty net, pull back her left foot, and blast the ball . . . over the bar!
She stood for a moment staring at the open goal, then turned and winked at Danny. ‘I missed,’ she said. ‘Looks like the record’s yours.’
There was a commotion in the stands as Maradona Potts and his father shoved their way through the spectators, down to the touchline.
‘They cheated!’ yelled Potts. ‘She missed on purpose!’
Danny was furious – he didn’t want Sally’s help and would never cheat to break a record. He scooped up a handful of jelly from the sidelines and launched it at his rival. Potts ducked and the missile whizzed over his head and splattered all over Mr Potts instead.
‘You’re useless, Baker!’ snarled Maradona.
His face disappeared in a gooey orange splodge.
‘I’m not,’ crowed Matthew. ‘I’m the Puddlethorpe Junior Cowpat-chucking Champion.’
The other kids on the pitch seized their chance, and Maradona ‘The Cheatboy’ Potts and his bullying dad vanished under a barrage of jelly-bombs. The pair skulked out of the ground to the cheers of everyone there, and the sticky battle began. Soon the Three Hills Stadium resounded with the split and splat of hundreds of jelly-missiles. Danny’s mum and dad joined in gleefully. Word of the hullabaloo spread to the changing rooms, and players from the other six teams in the tournament poured on to the grass to join in the fun.
The referee stood on the centre spot and gave a fierce blast on his whistle. Everyone froze.
‘This game is abandoned!’ he yelled. ‘The tournament is abandoned! This ground is unsafe for football!’ He picked up a handful of jelly and hurled it at Mr Eckersley. ‘But the conditions are perfect for a jelly-fight! Play on!’
The rumpus rumbled on and soon the entire pitch became a springy orange mess. When at last the referee blew his whistle to call a halt to it, Sally squelched over to Danny and Matthew. ‘Pity the game was called off,’ she said. ‘You would’ve broken the record for keeping a clean sheet.’
‘Did you miss on purpose?’ asked Danny.
Sally laughed and winked at him again. ‘Give me a kiss and I’ll tell you.’
‘No way!’ replied Danny, pulling his goalkeeper’s jersey up over his face.
‘Then I’m not telling.’ Sally turned and headed towards the changing rooms.
Danny nodded his head. ‘She did.’
Matthew shook his head. ‘She didn’t.’
‘We’ll never know.’
‘Not unless you kiss her.’
‘Urggghhhhh! Gross!’ cried Danny.
‘Yeah! Mega-giga-gross!’ agreed Matthew.
Dear Mr Bibby
I didn’t manage to get the Mexican Jelly-wave all the way round the Three Hills Stadium. It was going well until the wobble hit Sally Butterworth’s lips. Then all the other jellies went crazy and the whole lot ended up on the touchline.
But it was great ammunition for the massive Pineapple and Parsnip and Peach and Pickled-onion Jelly Fight I started the next day! At the height of the battle, there were 487 people chucking jelly at each other. It was Ace! Every bit of grass turned orange!
We were on the telly, and luckily someone from Creepy Crawly Creek Home for Rescued Invertebrates saw the news report. They were suffering a serious shortage of slime in their giant-worm enclosure and our jelly was just the thing they needed to put it right! They sent a big tanker-lorry, sucked all the jelly into it with a huge vacuum-cleaner pipe, and took it back to Bugsby Tyke in Yorkshire.
We were winning eight-nil when the battle started, but the referee abandoned the game, so I couldn’t break the clean-sheet record after all. But did we break a record with our jelly-fight?
Best wishes
Danny Baker
PS NEWSFLASH!!! Good thing I didn’t post my letter this morning, because tonight I’m hoping I finally got the records for the Most Consecutive Games without Conceding a Goal, when we beat the Dumdown Dewdrops two-nil. Matthew’s done the maths and it’s actually fifty-two games or 3,128 minutes. Have I done it?
Dear Danny
Bad luck with the Mexican Jelly-wave attempt, but double congratulations too!
Congratulations No.1: You and the other 486 jelly-chuckers are record breakers! You beat the previous Mass Jelly-fight in a Sports Stadium world record by 244 people. I wish I’d been there to see that record broken! I’m sending you a separate parcel with all the other certificates. Could you please hand them out to everyone who took part in the record?
Congratulations No. 2: You have played the Most Consecutive Number of Games without Conceding a Goal. This is a truly awesome feat. Your dad must be very proud of you.
Best wishes
Eric Bibby
Keeper of the Records
PS How on earth did Sally Butterworth’s lips get in the way of the wave? Was she trying to eat the jelly when the wobble hit her?
Danny, Matthew and Dad were in the back garden trying to break the Group Keepy-uppy Headers with a Jelly Football world record. Matthew had been tinkering with the mix and he was sure he’d finally got it right: three parts Winkle and Whortleberry, two parts Raspberry and Roast Potato, and one part Cockle and Cumquat. Mum watched from the bench beneath the tree as she mended the lawnmower.
The attempt was going well. The jelly football wibbled, but not too much. It wobbled, but just enough to give it bounce. Dad headed it to Matthew: ‘Twenty-three . . .’ counted Matt and headed it to Danny. ‘Twenty-four . . .’
At that moment, Natalie walked into the garden.
‘Nats!’ called Danny, nodding the quivering ball towards his sister. ‘On your head!’
SPLAT!!!
‘Mum!’ screeched Natalie, as the purple jelly slid down her hair and on to her shoulders. ‘Tell them!’
Mum shook her head and looked thoughtful. ‘I think we need more Winkle.’
Dear Danny
Following your recent jelly exploits, I thought you would be interested to know that ‘Wibberley Wobberly – the Jellies from Mobberley’ are now officially world-beaters! Scientist from The Great Big Book of World Records have checked their jellies with a Wibblewobblemeter, and I can now declare that they are officially the World’s Wibbliest Wobbliest Jellies!
The company has a fascinating history. In 1835, the town of Mobberley in Cheshire was bathed in delicious aromas, as two friends, Wilberforce Wibberley and Waldorf Wobberley, opened a small jelly factory on Pigsfoot Lane. They sold their special, exotic home-made jellies from The Wibberley Wobberley Jelly and Sewing Machine Emporium on the High Street, and a quickly gained a reputation for producing the wobbliest and wobbliest je
llies in England. Unfortunately their sewing machines were considered to make the wobbliest wobbliest clothes in England, so the friends made the excellent decision to forget all about sewing machines and concentrate on jelly-making. I for one am glad they did!
In 1838, the friends opened the Mobberley Medicinal Jellies Baths. People travelled from all over the world to ‘take the jelly wallow’. The company’s vast range of herbal jellies became famous for curing all sorts of conditions, such as Lubbock’s Lumbago, Gumboot Gout and Seriously Spotty Bottom Symdrome.
The company’s big break came in 1840, when Wilberforce Wibberley sent Queen Victoria a box of Bratwurst and Strawberry-flavoured jelly to celebrate her marriage to the German Prince Albert. Her Majesty was very amused, and declared the jelly to be ‘the most wobblesome food I have ever tasted’. The Queen liked the treat so much, that ‘Wibberley Wobberley – the Jellies from Mobberley’ became official suppliers of jelly to the Crown.
The jellies wibbled and wobbled to every part of the British Empire. During the Crimean War, Colonel Fortesque Ponsonby-Fflip, Commander of the 1st (and Last) Ponsonby Peashooter Regiment, said his army ‘marched on their jellies’. It was true! They filled their boots with Wibberley Wobberley Mushy-pea flavour to keep their feet warm!
In May 1854, the 3rd Battalion 379th Regiment of the Lordy Lowland Artillery ran out of cannonballs during the Battle of Umskidazi. Luckily the regimental cook had just made up a batch of extra wobbly Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding jellies, and the gunners used these instead, the Russian army surrendered immediately so that they could eat the yummy sweet.
The year 1923 was the darkest in the company’s history. A mysterious contamination of the jelly vats in the factory caused the jellies to lose their famous wibble. The company’s deadly rivals, ‘Jiggly Juggly – the Jellies from Buggly’, were suspected of foul play, but nothing could be proved. People stopped buying Wibberley Wobberley, and although the jellies eventually got their wibble back, sales never recovered.
However, in 1992, Millie Wibbereley and Molly Wobberley, Wilberforce and Waldorf’s great-great-great-granddaughters, brought the company bask to life. They began to invent uniquely weird and wonderful mixes, and sponsored the first Mobberley Jelly-spring Marathon. They also supported the British Jelly-juggling team that won the world championships five years in a row. Now, with the award of ‘The World’s Wibbliest Wobbliest Jellies’, I am delighted to officially announce that ‘Wibberley Wobberley – the Jellies from Mobberley’ are back on top of the world!
Best wishes
Eric Bibby
Keeper of the Records
To The Keeper of the Records
The Great Big Book of World Records
London
Dear Mr Bibby
Yesterday I attempted the Continuous Musical Armpit-farting record. I managed to play 2,081 verses of ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’ on my left armpit, and had been going for fourteen hours, twenty-seven minutes and eleven seconds, when I squeezed to hard on the 2,081st ‘Eee-I-Eee-I-Oh’ and bruised my fingers.
My sister, Natalie, said that if I’d gone on any longer, she’d have bruised more than my fingers! She was upstairs, trying to listen to her favourite boy band, Boy$!!! (or Yawn$!!! As I call them). Even with the volume turned right up, she could still hear my armpit farts! Could they have been the Loudest Ever?
Best wishes
Danny Baker
PS Matthew made a recording of my armpit music on his dad’s old tape recorder. It filled nearly eight tapes. I’ve sent one of them with this letter.
Dear Danny
I hope your bruised fingers aren’t too painful and don’t affect your goalkeeping.
Your Continuous Musical Armpit-farting performance was truly enchanting, but did not trump that of the self-styled ‘Grand Master of Armpit-farting’ Ronan O’Kidney, of Ballybogey in Northern Ireland. On 19 and 20 August 2001, Ronan played a selection of Irish folk-songs on his left armpit for forty-two hours, fourteen minutes and seven seconds, before repetitive strain injury finally took its toll.
Ronan’s armpit-farts were so loud he drowned out the Ballybogey Boogie-woogie Bugle Boys, who were playing in the village hall two streets away, and forced them to cancel their concert!
Mr O’Kidney has written a concerto for Solo Armpit and Woodwind, but no traditional musicians will perform it with him. He is determined that the world should take armpit-music seriously and in 2007 formed the All-Ireland Armpit Orchestra, the first and only one of its kind. You could form an armpit band at your school and do duets with Matthew!
Good luck with your next record attempt.
Best wishes
Eric Bibby
Keeper of the Records
Danny stood on the wide flat sands of Bladderpool, with his bare feet in a small barrel of donkey do-do, holding a bunch of carrots in each hand. He was not alone. Two long lines of boys and girls also stood in barrels of donkey do-do forming an avenue that led off the sands and along the promenade.
They were all there to perform the Donkey Dung Dance on Bladderpool’s Summer’s End Saturday. All summer long the donkeys had paraded up and down the beach in their specially decorated straw hats, giving rides to happy children. Today was the day everyone thanked them for their hard work, before the animals went off to have a well-earned rest in their winter pasture. Crowds of people cheered and clapped as a brass band, jugglers and acrobats escorted the donkeys between the lines of jiggling kids.
Danny waved the carrots around his head and boogied in the barrel.
‘Come on, Matt,’ he said, pointing to an unoccupied barrel of donkey dung. ‘Get your shoes and socks off, grab some carrots and get dancing!’
‘No thanks, Dan,’ replied Matthew. ‘I’d rather chuck poo than dance in it! Besides, I can see what it’s doing to your feet.’
Danny glanced down and his eyes widened with delight. When the donkey parade had passed by, the boys raced over to where Danny’s mum and sister, Natalie, were waiting.
‘Danny! It looks like you’re wearing brown socks!’ exclaimed Mum. ‘And your toes are like little shiny conkers!’
Natalie’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘I’m not sitting in a car all the way back to Penleydale with those filthy feet!’
‘Will it come off?’ asked Matthew.
‘There’s no way they’ll let you in the pool for Swimming Club tomorrow if it doesn’t,’ smirked Natalie.
Mum examined Danny’s blotchy feet. ‘When I was your age, I did the Donkey Dung Dance. My grandma got my feet clean by soaking them in vinegar and water, then rubbing them with newspaper. If you do it twice a day, the stains should be gone by next weekend.’
‘Aw, Mum!’ moaned Natalie. ‘The house’ll smell like a fish and chip shop!’
‘Ace!’ said Danny.
‘Cool!’ agreed Matthew.
Mum was right. By the following Sunday morning, Danny’s toes were back in the pink. The boys set off to the Sports Centre for their weekly session with the Penleydale Sea Squirts Swimming Club, both carrying bright-blue flippers under their arms.
Natalie walked on ahead of them. She was in the county swimming team, something that she never let her brother forget, because Danny hadn’t even swum a length yet. He had never managed to pass the red line that marked the end of the shallow water and the beginning of the Deep End.
‘I really want to try for my twenty-five metres certificate next week,’ Danny told Matthew.
‘Do you think you can Cross The Line?’
‘Yeah, I have to! I want to have a proper look at The Grid.’
The Grid was a metal filter in the wall at the deep end that sucked the water through and kept it clean. From the surface of the pool, it looked like a huge, gaping mouth, with clumps of hair and old sticking plasters dangling from its teeth.
‘Willy Williams in Year Six told me that his cousin’s best-friend’s older sister swam too close to The Grid and got eaten alive!’ said Danny.
‘I never
heard that one,’ replied Matthew. ‘But I did hear there’s a monster python that lives in the drains behind it! It escaped from Dooley’s Pet Shop fifty years ago and just kept growing. They say it’s probably the biggest in the world by now!’
Danny laughed. ‘That reminds me, I’ve had an idea for a new record attempt. My feet went all wrinkly and crinkly when I was soaking the donkey do-do off last week. How long do you think I’d have to sit in water for that to happen to my whole body?’
‘No way,’ gasped Matthew. ‘You’re not thinking about . . . ?’
‘Oh yes I am,’ confirmed Danny.
He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled-up piece of paper. It was a newspaper clipping with a picture of a strange-looking gadget. He handed it to Matthew. ‘Can you make one of these?’
‘What is it?’
‘A Wrinkleometer.’ Danny pointed to the different parts on the diagram. ‘The small wheel measures the length of the wrinkles, the flat bit that looks like a little ruler checks the depth, and the two pointy things are to count the wrinkles per centimetre.’
The World's Loudest Armpit Fart Page 3
