The Clumsies
make a mess of the Big Show
By Sorrel Anderson
Illustrated by Nicola Slater
For Sausage
also make a mess in:
The Clumsies Make a Mess
The Clumsies Make a Mess of the Seaside
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Trolley
Uncle Gillian
The Big Show Part 1
The Big Show Part 2
Copyright
About the Publisher
Trolley
t was a Tuesday morning and the Clumsies were enjoying their breakfast when the door crashed open and Howard staggered in, muttering.
‘Extraordinary,’ he muttered.
‘What is?’ asked Purvis.
‘Must have gone mad,’ he muttered.
‘Who must?’ asked Purvis.
‘It’s over,’ he muttered, ‘and I should know, I had to work right through it. We don’t need one now. Especially not one that looks like that.’
‘Ggntgggdgng
gggtggggddggt?’
said Mickey Thompson, with his mouth full of banana.
‘Eh?’ said Howard.
‘He said what don’t we need one of that looks like what?’ explained Purvis.
‘Ygsh,’ confirmed Mickey Thompson.
‘Tut,’ said Howard. ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full, Mickey Thompson.’
‘Shggyg,’ said Mickey Thompson, adding a spoonful of egg.
‘So what is it we don’t we need one of that looks like something?’ asked Purvis.
‘A Christmas tree,’ said Howard. ‘It’s the middle of January! The time for Christmas trees has been and gone, butMr Bullerton’s just put one up in the foyer.’’
‘Whosha
ggmshggggmshgg?’
crunched Mickey Thompson.
‘What did I just say?’ said Howard, brushing toast crumbs off his face.
‘G-gumf,’ swallowed Mickey Thompson.
‘What’s a Christmas tree?’
‘Well. . . you know,’ said Howard.
‘No, we don’t,’ said the mice.
‘Well, it’s. . . it’s. . . ’ Howard fluttered his hands up and down. The mice stared at him, uncomprehendingly.
‘It’s a tree,’ said Howard. ‘That you have at Christmas time.’
The mice stared at him, baffledly.
‘And you decorate it with lights and stars and fairies and stuff,’ said Howard.
Purvis and Mickey Thompson started bouncing and squeaking.
‘And then you take it down again,’ said Howard, ‘which is part of the point. Stop that – it goes right through my head.’
‘Can you take us to see it?’ said Mickey Thompson. ‘Can you? Can you?’
‘I expect so,’ sighed Howard. ‘As long as you’re quiet.’
‘When?’ said Purvis. ‘Wh— Oh!’
‘What?’ said Howard.
‘Post!’ said Purvis, and the Clumsies dived under the desk. There was a clacketty, rattley noise out in the corridor and the postman arrived, pushing a trolley piled high with post.
‘Delivery for Howard Armitage!’ announced the postman, coming in with a large box. ‘It’s work. From Mr Bullerton.’
‘Marvellous,’ said Howard.
‘He said to say you’re to do it straight away.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Howard.
‘It gets better,’ said the postman, going out and coming in again with another large box. And another. And another. And another.
‘Done something to upset his highness?’ asked the postman, cheerfully.
‘Very probably,’ said Howard.
‘Behaving strangely, he is,’ said the postman, ‘what with the tree and everything. It’s the complaints, you know.’
‘Err, what is?’ said Howard.
‘People have been complaining about him making them work all through Christmas,’ said the postman, ‘and he hasn’t taken it well. Come to think of it, Howard, he hasn’t been right since that conference you went on together.’
‘Hmm,’ said Howard, guiltily.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said the postman. ‘Got a thirst on, all those boxes.’
‘Bother,’ whispered Mickey Thompson, to Purvis. ‘If he’s stuck doing all that work he won’t have time to take us to see the tree.’
‘We’ll just have to go by ourselves then, won’t we?’ whispered Purvis. ‘Come on.’
‘What, now?’ squeaked Mickey Thompson. ‘We can’t go now.’
‘Why can’t we?’ said Purvis, starting to tiptoe out.
‘Err, err, Ortrud’s asleep,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘Well, that’s OK. We can take her to see it another time,’ said Purvis. ‘Come on! Let’s go!’
‘I don’t want to,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘Yes, you do,’ said Purvis. ‘You said you did, before.’
‘And now I don’t.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Oh, no reason,’ said Mickey Thompson, trying to sound casual.
Purvis advanced on Mickey Thompson and there was a small scuffle.
‘Gerroff!’ said Mickey Thompson, ‘All right.’
‘Tell me,’ said Purvis.
‘It,’ whispered Mickey Thompson, and pointed towards the corridor.
‘What it?’ asked Purvis.
‘That. . . post trolley. It’s. . . there.’
‘Oh, don’t be so soft,’ said Purvis. ‘Come along.’ And he led the way into the corridor, where the trolley was waiting. It was wooden and big, with wheels and shelves, and it was saying something.
‘TEN TWENTY ONE,’ it said. ‘TEN TWENTY TWO.’
‘Hello,’ said Purvis.
CLACK! rattled the trolley.
‘Eep,’ said Mickey Thompson, ducking behind Purvis.
‘Ten twenty seven.’
‘What is?’ asked Purvis.
‘The amount I’m behind schedule,’ said the trolley.
‘Ah,’ said Purvis. ‘I see.’
‘TEN THIRTY THREE. What are they doing in there?’
‘Having a cup of tea,’ said Purvis.
CLATTER! went the trolley.
‘Because of the boxes,’ Purvis explained.
‘Forty one!’ said the trolley, tetchily. ‘Four five six seven nine.’
‘I think you might be speeding up a little,’ said Purvis.
CLACK! went the trolley, juddering.‘ I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE, FIFTY TWO: LOOK WHO’s COMING.’
It was Mr Bullerton, Howard’s boss, steaming up the corridor towards them.
‘Eeeeep!’ went the mice, darting under the trolley just in time as Mr Bullerton arrived.
CLAtter! went the trolley, as Mr Bullerton kicked it.
‘WHAT’S THIS THING DOING OUT HERE?’ he bellowed.
C L A T T E R !
went the cups, as Mr Bullerton entered Howard’s room,where Howard and the postman were drinking tea.
‘AND WHAT’S GOING ON IN HERE? Or NOT, to be precise. Well?’
‘Oh, ah,’ said Howard. ‘Mr Bullerton! We were just. . . err. . . ’
‘Having a cup of tea?’ suggested Mr Bullerton.
‘Exactly,’ said Howard.
‘How nice,’ said Mr Bullerton, kicking one of the boxes. ‘And did you get those boxes I sent you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Howard.
‘Oh good,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘And have you finished the work yet?’
‘Oh. No,’ said Howard.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘And have you started the work yet?’
‘Well, no,’ said
Howard.
‘I see,’ said Mr Bullerton, going close. ‘Howard Armitage,’ he said, breathing heavily.
‘Hello,’ said Howard.
‘I do not pay you to sit there saying “oh”.’
‘No,’ agreed Howard.
‘And I do not pay you to sit there drinking tea.’
‘Mm,’ agreed Howard.
‘I wonder,’ said Mr Bullerton, sounding interested, ‘what it is you think I do pay you to do?’
‘Work,’ said Howard. ‘Ha ha. Of course.’
‘NO!’ bellowed Mr Bullerton. ‘What I pay you to do is to DO WHAT I TELL YOU TO DO.’
‘Oh! I mean, yes,’ said Howard.
‘Yes, oh yes,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘So just you wait. And in the meantime, I want you to brighten yourself up a bit. Where ’s your Christmas spirit? Eh?’
‘Err. . . ’ said Howard. ‘I think I used it all up over Christmas.’
‘Well GET IT BACK AGAIN,’ shouted Mr Bullerton.
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Howard.
‘Ppffh,’ snorted Mr Bullerton, and left.
‘Best be off then,’ said the postman, cheerfully.
‘One for the road?’ offered Howard, filling the kettle.
‘Ooh, go on then,’ said the postman.
CLATTER! went the trolley, out in the corridor. ‘I’m not standing around here all day while he guzzles tea. Ten. Nine.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Purvis.
‘What’s it doing?’ hissed Mickey Thompson.
‘FIVE-FOUR-THREE-TWO-ONE,’ said the trolley. ‘RIGHT, I’M OFF.’ It gave a lurch and started to trundle up the corridor.
‘Come on,’ said Purvis, hopping on to the bottom shelf.
‘Wait for me!’ said Mickey Thompson,
leaping,
and missing.
‘Here,’ said Purvis, reaching.
‘Yikes,’ said Mickey Thompson, running.
‘Hup,’ said Purvis, grabbing.
‘HELP! said Mickey Thompson, d a n g l i n g.
CLATTER!
went the trolley, jerking to a halt. ‘You,’ it said.
‘Meep,’ peeped Mickey Thompson.
‘If you’re getting on, kindly get on. If you’re not getting on, kindly get off. One or the other: not both.’
Mickey Thompson got on.
‘All aboard, fifty-two?’ said the trolley.
‘All aboard,’ said Purvis, and the trolley clacketty-rattled off up the corridor.
‘Phew,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘He’s a one, isn’t he?’ whispered Purvis.
‘Hmph,’ said Mickey Thompson. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Of course,’ said Purvis.
‘Only we seem to be going quite fast,’ said Mickey Thompson.
CRACK! went the trolley, clattering around a corner.
‘It’s fine,’ said Purvis.
CLACK! went the trolley, clattering around another corner.
‘PURVIS!’ shouted Mickey Thompson.
‘HOLD ON!’
shouted
Purvis.
‘THREE TWELVETY TEN!’
shouted the trolley, as they barrelled down a corridor.
‘NOTHINGY NINE SIX!’
‘What’s the matter with it?’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘I think it’s over-excited,’ said Purvis. ‘I’ll see if I can have a word.’
He crept to the edge of the shelf and peered out.
‘Err, excuse me,’ called Purvis.
‘SEVENTY MILLIONTY NOTHINGY NOUGHT ONE!’
‘Hello?’ called Purvis.
‘FIFFERTYFIFFERTYTWOOOOOOOOOOOO?’ hooted the trolley.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ said Purvis. ‘Err, we were just wondering. . . ’
‘WHAT?’ shouted the trolley.
‘When’s the next stop, please?’ asked Purvis.
‘FIVE TWO FIVE TWO FIVE TWO FIVE TWO FIVE!’ shouted the trolley.
Purvis went back in.
‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘He’s gone bonkers.’
‘What are we going to do?’ wailed Mickey Thompson.
‘I’m thinking,’ said Purvis.
‘Think faster,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘WHA-OOO!’ yelled the trolley, hurtling.
‘I’M ON FIRE!’
‘WHAT?!’ shrieked Mickey Thompson.
‘Oh, shoosh,’ said Purvis. ‘It’s just a figure of speech.’
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘DON’T YOU BE SICK IN ME,’shouted the trolley, crashing through some swing doors.
‘STAIRS OR LIFT, FIFTY TWO?’
‘LIFT!’ yelled Purvis.
‘HERE WE COME,’ shouted the trolley. ‘OPEN UP, YOU!’
‘PING!’ went the lift, just in time. They shot inside and rattled to a halt.
‘Well, really,’ said the lift.
The mice plopped out of the trolley and lay on the lift floor, puffing.
‘I’m fast, I am,’ said the trolley.
‘Where’s your postman?’ said the lift.
‘Never mind the postman,’ said the trolley.
‘Well you didn’t ought to go racketing around loose like that,’ said the lift. ‘You’ll cause an accident.’
‘Ah, shut up,’ said the trolley.
‘Ooh, I say,’ said the lift. ‘Don’t you take that tone of voice with me.’
CLATTER! went the trolley.
WHOOSH! went the lift. ‘Think you’re fast?’ it said. ‘I’ll give you fast.’
‘EEEEEP!’ went the mice.
CLACK!
went the trolley.
WHOOSH! went the lift.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘Oo-err,’ said the lift. ‘Not in here, lovey, please. See what you’ve done to him?’ it said to the trolley. ‘Gone all green, he has.’
‘Me?’ said the trolley. ‘You, more like; all that WHOOSHing.’
‘Whatever were you thinking of, you mice?’ said the lift. ‘You don’t want to go riding about in that clacketty old thing.’
‘Oh-ho!’ said the trolley. ‘Look who’s talking!’
‘He’s bonkers, you know,’ whispered the lift.
CLATTER!
went the trolley.
‘Err, the thing is,’ said Purvis, quickly, ‘we wanted to see the not-Christmas tree.’
‘Are you sure?’ said the lift.
‘Yes, please,’ said Purvis. ‘So could you take us there?’
‘YEAH! COME ON!’ shouted the trolley. ‘TEN. NINE.’
‘Oh leave off, do,’ said the lift. ‘You’re putting me in a tither.’
‘EIGHT. SEVEN,’ shouted the trolley.
‘Oo-err,’ juddered the lift.
‘What is it?’ said Purvis.
‘He’s upset me workings,’ said the lift, juddering harder. ‘Hold on!’
‘OHH
HHHH!’
shouted
everyone
as they
shot
downwards
very fast.
‘AAAAGGHH!’
shouted
everyone
as
they shot
upwards
very fast.
‘E E E E E E EEE !’
shouted
everyone
as
they
p
l
u
m
m
e
t
e
d.
There was a bump, and a ping, and the mice were
catapulted out of the lift and on to the tree.
through the air and high on the tree.
‘Oo, I say,’ called the lift. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’
‘I’m off,’ said the trolley, clattering away down a corridor. ‘You’re dangerous, you are.’
‘GET LOST, BONKERS,’ shouted the lift, after
it.
‘Yeep!’ squeaked Mickey Thompson. ‘It’s a bit sharp.’
‘Ye-yeep!’ squeaked Purvis, in agreement. ‘It’s these pine needles.’
‘I’m all tangled up,’ said Mickey
Thompson,yanking a piece of tinsel.
‘Don’t squirm,’ said Purvis. ‘The more you wriggle, the more you’ll get spiked.’
‘YOUCH,’ shouted Mickey Thompson. ‘I WANT TO GET OFF.’
‘Shoosh,’ said Purvis. ‘Someone’ll hear.’
‘Good,’ said Mickey Thompson. ‘Then they can come and unhook me.’
‘Yes, and then what?’ said Purvis. ‘Just hush. I’m trying to think.’
‘Think faster,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘What are you doing now?’ said Purvis. ‘Stop it.’
‘I’m not doing anything,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘Well, what’s that swishing noise?’ said Purvis, and they peered upwards.
‘It’s a small plastic girl,’ said Mickey Thompson, ‘in a huge dress and wings.’
They watched as the plastic girl bustled down from branch to branch.
‘Hello,’ said Purvis, once she’d arrived.
‘What are you doing on my tree?’ replied the girl.
‘We’re stuck,’ said Purvis. ‘Can you help?’
‘Have you got permission to be on here?’ said the girl.
‘Err, no,’ said Purvis, ‘but we weren’t expecting. . . ’
‘You’re not allowed on here without permission,’ said the girl. ‘It’s against the rules.’
‘Says who?’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘Says me,’ said the girl, tapping a cardboard badge on the front of her dress. It had the words ‘in charge’ written on it in green crayon.
‘You made that badge yourself,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘No, I didn’t,’ said the girl, pushing.
‘Don’t push,’ said Mickey Thompson, pushing back. The tree started shaking.
‘So what should we do?’ Purvis asked the girl, quickly.
The Clumsies Make a Mess of the Big Show Page 1
