by R. A. Spratt
The referee then grabbed Boris and Nanny Piggins’ hands, holding them high in the air.
‘We have a winner!’ cried the referee. ‘Boris the Big Bad Bear and Nanny Piggins the World’s Greatest Flying Pig!’
‘Now do I get to do my ballet?’ Boris asked his sister.
‘I’ll explain it to you when we get back to the dressing room,’ said Nanny Piggins, giving her brother’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
‘I was just in a wrestling match?!’ asked Boris.
‘Yes, but don’t worry,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I will punish the Ringmaster thoroughly when I get hold of him.’
‘I’ve never done anything tough before,’ said Boris proudly. ‘Wait til my friends back at the ballet company hear about this. There’ll be no more taking my lunch money now.’
‘Boris, you can’t be happy that the Ringmaster tricked you into becoming a professional wrestler,’ said Samantha.
‘Well, I’ll admit I’d never choose to wrestle,’ agreed Boris, ‘but having just been in a wrestling match without realising it, it wasn’t too bad.’
Just then the Ringmaster burst into the dressing tent. (Well, actually, it is hard to ‘burst’ into a tent because the doors don’t slam about the way they do in a proper building, but he definitely ‘flapped’ into the dressing tent.)
‘Sarah Piggins,’ denounced the Ringmaster, ‘I am very cross with you.’
‘How dare you!’ protested Nanny Piggins. ‘It is my turn to be cross with you. You’re the one who tricked my brother into inadvertently taking up a dangerous extreme sport.’
‘But that’s nothing,’ said the Ringmaster, waving the thought away. ‘That’s the type of thing I do all the time. You expect it when I turn up, whereas you have betrayed me by ruining my fledgling business empire.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘I have a 20,000 strong crowd out there who have all paid top dollar for tickets to see an evening of death-defying wrestling,’ said the Ringmaster.
‘So?’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘You have just broken all my best wrestlers!’ complained the Ringmaster. ‘The bearded lady has had to drive them to the hospital in a minibus. Half of them are too injured to ever wrestle again. And the other half are too scared of pigs to ever eat ham again.’
‘It’s not my fault they’re so delicate,’ pouted Nanny Piggins.
‘This is why I tricked Boris into coming back and not you,’ accused the Ringmaster. ‘I knew you could not be trusted to refrain from injuring everybody.’
‘It’s not my fault I’m so brilliant at wrestling,’ sulked Nanny Piggins.
‘Someone has to go on or there will be a riot,’ protested the Ringmaster.
‘Well you’d better take your hat off and roll up your sleeves,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘I can’t wrestle!’ said the Ringmaster. ‘I’m in management. It would be unseemly if I let a member of staff crush my diaphragm between his thighs. How would I be able to look my trapeze artists in the eye with dignity and tell them I had just sold their net to a Japanese fisherman?’
‘Yoohoo,’ interrupted Boris, waving his hand and bouncing up and down in his seat like a school child. ‘I don’t mind going on again. I managed to get in a few pirouettes and a grand jeté while Sarah was wrestling, but I never got to do Swan Lake properly.’
‘That crowd don’t want to see ballet,’ dismissed the Ringmaster. ‘They’re here to see violence.’
‘But there’s lots of violence in Swan Lake,’ protested Boris. ‘There’s gun play, wickedness and drownings.’
‘You might as well let Boris go on,’ said Samantha. ‘You don’t have any choice.’
‘Unless,’ said the Ringmaster, turning to smile at Nanny Piggins, ‘my favourite flying pig wanted to resurrect her circus career. I have your cannon all ready.’
‘I thought you said I was an old, retired has-been,’ accused Nanny Piggins.
‘I meant it in the nicest possible way,’ smiled the Ringmaster.
‘I refuse to go on anyway,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’ve already damaged my dress by wrestling with all those sweaty men. I am not climbing into a cannon as well. My dry-cleaner would never forgive me. This is cashmere.’
‘Then I suppose I will have to let the bear dance,’ conceded the Ringmaster.
‘Oh goody,’ said Boris. ‘This is going to be fun.’
They all watched as Boris skipped excitedly back towards the stage.
‘I suppose I better introduce him,’ said the Ringmaster glumly, trudging after Boris.
‘Do you think Boris is going to be all right?’ asked Michael worriedly.
‘The crowd won’t tear him limb from limb, will they?’ asked Samantha.
‘Of course not,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You should have faith in Boris. Listen to the crowd.’
The children listened.
‘I can’t hear anything except Tchaikovsky music,’ said Derrick.
‘Exactly,’ said Nanny Piggins.
When they went into the Big Top, the children were amazed to see the whole crowd enjoying Boris’ beautiful ballet. You see, after watching an elegantly dressed pig perform shocking acts of brutality, the crowd found it surprisingly refreshing to see a great big bear daintily enacting a beautiful love story. (Especially when Nanny Piggins and the Ringmaster began wrestling in the background as they argued over Boris’ fee. They soon came to terms after Nanny Piggins grabbed hold of the Ringmaster’s moustache and swung him about in circles until he was sick.)
And so later that night, when Nanny Piggins drove Boris and the children home in Mr Green’s Rolls Royce, everyone was feeling very pleased with themselves. Nanny Piggins was happy because she had put the Ringmaster in his place. Boris was happy because he’d had a lovely standing ovation from the crowd. And the children were happy because they had seen some truly spectacular wrestling moves, which they could not wait to try out on their school friends on Monday.
Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children had spent a lovely morning playing with Samson and Margaret Wallace. Nanny Piggins was always good at thinking up activities to ensure an exciting play date, but on this particular day she outdid herself.
‘We’re going into town to make a mudslide,’ announced Nanny Piggins.
Naturally this alarmed the children.
‘But won’t it destroy people’s homes?’ protested Derrick.
‘And endanger lives?’ worried Samantha.
‘Of course not,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘At least I don’t think so, certainly not very much.’
But it turns out the children need not have worried, because Nanny Piggins had a very creative idea about how to make her own mudslide.
She took Boris and the children to the town’s newly opened Water Fun Park. Then they all carried sacks full of as much dirt as they could lift (which was quite a bit, particularly in Boris’ case) up to the top of the tallest water slide, threw the dirt into the swirling water and jumped in after it. The result was marvellous. It combined all the fun of a water slide, with all the joy of getting unspeakably dirty.
As luck would have it the slack-jawed teenager in charge of monitoring the ride was so lazy he did not notice that the water slide had been transformed into a mud chute until Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children had been down it five times. Then they went down it another two times while he and the rest of the fun park’s staff tried to catch Nanny Piggins. (It was foolish to even try.) But luckily for them, at this point Nanny Piggins got hungry so they all left voluntarily.
The manager of the Water Fun Park did come out to scream at them about vandalising valuable equipment. But Nanny Piggins soon put him in his place, telling him that a mudslide is ten times more fun than a water slide, and if they marketed it as a ‘Mud Fun Park’ they would have even more customers (which, incidentally, turned out to be true. The manager was essentially a lazy man and he thought it would be easier to just change the sign at the entrance
than to clean out the water slide).
So Nanny Piggins was just cleaning up Samson and Margaret by blasting them with a hose as they stood up against Mr Green’s garage door, when their nanny (and Nanny Piggins’ arch nemesis), Nanny Anne, appeared five minutes early, catching Nanny Piggins unaware.
‘What happened to the children?’ cried Nanny Anne. She hated dirt in all its forms, but she particularly hated dirt in such large quantities.
‘They um … tripped,’ suggested Nanny Piggins, ‘repeatedly. In especially muddy places.’
Nanny Anne glared at Nanny Piggins. She quivered for a moment as though she was thinking up incredibly mean things to say, but then the most amazing thing happened. Instead of giving Nanny Piggins a long and boring lecture about how to be a proper nanny, Nanny Anne took a deep breath and said, ‘And how are you today, Nanny Piggins?’
Everyone froze.
‘What’s going on?!’ demanded Nanny Piggins, suddenly alarmed. ‘Am I on a hidden camera TV show? Have you hired an assassin to come and get me? Have you been told by a doctor that I only have two weeks to live? Why on earth would you suddenly be nice to me?’
‘She only asked how you were,’ observed Derrick.
‘But she’s never done that before,’ protested Nanny Piggins. ‘Not unless she followed it up with a comment like, “Haven’t you been sleeping, you’ve got such huge bags under your eyes?” or “You’re looking a bit green. Are you unwell, or is it just the colour of your dress that does that to you?”’
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ said Nanny Anne, mimicking the noise of normal human laughter. ‘Oh, Nanny Piggins, you are such an adorable character.’
‘You’re right! She does want something!’ exclaimed Michael.
‘Either that or she has been kidnapped by aliens and this is a Nanny Anne clone,’ said Samantha, peering at Nanny Anne to see if there were any protruding robot parts.
Nanny Piggins stood protectively in front of the children.
‘Stop trying to be nice, you’re not very good at it, and you’re frightening the children,’ demanded Nanny Piggins. ‘Just tell us what you want.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Nanny Anne. ‘The Steel Chef Show is coming to town.’
‘Oooh, I love that show,’ said Boris excitedly. ‘The Steel Chef is so rude.’
‘They are looking for cooking contestants,’ continued Nanny Anne. ‘If you and I team up, with your flare for desserts, and my ability to actually follow a recipe – we’d be unstoppable.’
‘I don’t want to team up with you!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’d sooner cook with a baboon.’ She turned to the children and explained, ‘Baboons are very good at making sauces. They’ve got tremendous patience with the stirring.’
‘Well, too bad. You don’t have any choice,’ said Nanny Anne, ‘because I’ve already put our names down and you can’t change teams once you’ve entered.’
‘Why on earth did you do that?’ protested Nanny Piggins.
‘I didn’t want you teaming up with someone else against me,’ explained Nanny Anne. ‘Now all that’s decided, I’d better take Samson and Margaret home to wash them properly. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the tryouts.’
They watched as Nanny Anne lead her two soggy charges away.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Derrick
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘Chase after Nanny Anne and bite her for her impertinence?’ asked Michael.
‘No,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘although that is a good idea. But I have decided I will go along with Nanny Anne’s scheme.’
‘Really?!’ exclaimed Samantha.
They were all surprised.
‘It is true that I cannot stand Nanny Anne,’ admitted Nanny Piggins, ‘and it takes all my strength of will not to pick up a handful of mud and rub it in her hair every time I see her. Still, it would not be fair to the television viewers of the world to deny them the opportunity to see me cook. Therefore, I shall compete.’
The next day Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children arrived at the local football stadium. So many people were trying out it was the only place in town that would hold them all. It was quite a sight to behold. Five hundred trestle tables with camping stoves and portable ovens all set up for one thousand would-be Steel Chefs.
They found Nanny Anne at the first trestle table in the front row. (She had secured it by arriving at 3 am, four hours before anyone else.) She was just arranging all her equipment on her half of the table, using a set square and pro tractor so everything was perfectly at right angles, when Nanny Piggins emptied out her own box of equipment.
‘Is that all you brought?’ asked Nanny Anne, looking at Nanny Piggins’ well worn collection of bowls, spoons and saucepans.
‘I don’t need anything else,’ said Nanny Piggins dismissively.
‘What about scales?’ asked Nanny Anne.
‘I don’t believe in measuring things when I cook,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It takes the surprise out of the final result.’
‘What about your food processor?’ asked Nanny Anne.
‘I never use one,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Too much washing up.’
‘Where’s your colander?’ asked Nanny Anne.
‘Oh, we lost that weeks ago when we were catching tadpoles in a stormwater drain,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘But don’t worry. I did bring our remaining badminton racquet. I can strain pasta with that.’
‘I can see I am going to have to do everything myself,’ said Nanny Anne, which she was secretly glad about. She was not a woman who enjoyed delegating (or anything really, except disapproving of people).
‘Where are Sampson and Margaret today?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
Nanny Anne momentarily looked confused, as if she did not know who Nanny Piggins was talking about. But she never got to answer because just then a microphone crackled and a harassed-looking producer addressed the assembled crowd.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ said the producer. ‘The first sudden death elimination round will begin in a few minutes. But before we start, let’s have some inspiring words from the Steel Chef himself … Mr Kimuzukashii!’
Mr Kimuzukashii strode out onto the stage. He was a short but very angry-looking Japanese man with Elvis-style hair, dressed in a colourful silk dressing-gown, cravat and cowboy boots.
The crowd broke into rapturous applause. Some more hysterical Steel Chef fans screamed like pop groupies, then fainted (which is not a smart thing to do when there are lots of sharp cooking implements around).
Mr Kimuzukashii stood in front of the microphone, glared angrily at the crowd, then commenced screaming at them in a torrent of Japanese.
‘What’s he saying?’ asked Michael.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Nanny Piggins, ‘but it doesn’t sound very friendly, does it? I speak some Japanese, but he’s using words which I think are too rude to be included in the standard Berlitz phrase-book.’
Fortunately a translator appeared and spoke into a second microphone.
‘I have no doubt you are all terrible cooks,’ interpreted the translator calmly. Everyone in the audience cheered. The Steel Chef was famous for his rudeness.
‘I am just grateful that I do not have to soil my mouth with any of the food you prepare here today. Fortunately my team of minions will take care of that. I doubt any of you are really worthy of competing against me. It disgusts me to look at you, let alone eat your food,’ concluded Mr Kimuzukashii, before stalking off the stage.
‘Isn’t he dreamy?’ sighed Nanny Anne.
‘He needs a short sharp bite to the shin if you ask me,’ scowled Nanny Piggins.
‘All right then,’ said the producer, returning to the microphone, ‘we commence cooking in sixty seconds. The rules are simple. One – you must make an entree, main course and dessert. Two – you must not interfere with or even touch another competitor’s food or utensils. And three – you must use the Steel Chef’s special ingredient, which is …’ a stagehan
d wheeled out a trolley and whipped off a stainless steel cover to reveal a huge plate of pale, slimey stuff. ‘Tofu!’
‘Yes!’ cried Nanny Anne, pumping her fist in the air. She was glad she had stayed up last night memo-rising her tofu cookbook now.
Nanny Piggins glowered. ‘Is this some kind of trick? I don’t believe tofu really is a food. It looks disgusting, if feels disgusting and it tastes disgusting. Why is tofu a food and dirt isn’t? At least dirt is a nice chocolatey brown colour.’
‘You have thirty minutes, beginning now!’ said the producer, starting a giant stopwatch.
‘I’ll take care of the entree and main. Can I trust you to handle the dessert?’ asked Nanny Anne.
‘Fine,’ muttered Nanny Piggins.
Nanny Anne frantically set to work. She had been maniacally beating, chopping, steaming and seasoning for fifteen minutes before she looked round to see what Nanny Piggins was up to. And she was horrified to discover the answer was – nothing.
Nanny Piggins was sitting on the ground, her head clutched in her trotters, rocking back and forth.
‘What’s she doing?!’ screeched Nanny Anne.
‘Thinking,’ explained Derrick.
‘But she’s supposed to be cooking,’ shrieked Nanny Anne, her voice getting higher with every syllable.
‘I think she’s trying to figure out how to make something as disgusting as tofu into something as delicious as a dessert,’ explained Samantha.
‘Nanny Piggins doesn’t know any tofu recipes,’ added Michael.
‘Terrific, so I’m going to have to cook the dessert as well!’ said Nanny Anne. ‘When we get home, someone is going to spend a lot of time sitting on the naughty step.’
