by Tim Harris
‘What’s going on?’ he spluttered. ‘Why are you using your phones? Where is your teacher? I demand an explanation!’
Mr Bambuckle suddenly opened the storeroom door and waltzed proudly to the front of the room. ‘The students have been producing pure creative gold, dear Mr Principal.’
‘Why weren’t you supervising your students?’ growled Mr Sternblast.
‘It’s a most remarkable teaching strategy I picked up in southern Asia.’
‘What utter rubbish,’ said Mr Sternblast. ‘Report to my office after the bell. Your students haven’t learned a thing today!’
‘That’s not true,’ said Evie Nightingale, who had never dared speak to Mr Sternblast before, but was having the best day of her life. ‘We have learned lots. Why don’t you listen to some of our app ideas?’
But Mr Sternblast had already huffed off.
‘He must have missed out on another job,’ said Vex. ‘What a bad mood!’
‘Remember, due respect,’ said Mr Bambuckle, adjusting his woollen scarf.
‘June respect,’ said Harold.
Mr Bambuckle motioned for the students to bring him their app ideas, and they did so with haste.
This is what they had come up with.
Having read each of the app ideas as carefully as one would read a spaceship manual, Mr Bambuckle shuffled the workbooks into a neat pile and gazed at his students. ‘Simply outstanding.’
The students, however, were still coming to terms with the fact that they hadn’t picked up on their teacher’s absence from the lesson.
‘Why did you leave us?’ asked Scarlett Geeves, tying her long hair back with her favourite red ribbon. ‘I can see why Mr Sternblast was angry. Teachers should never leave their class.’
‘You needed a chance to work on your own. Sometimes the best learning happens when you teach yourself.’
‘Were you trying to teach us independence?’ said Evie Nightingale.
‘That is most certainly what I had hoped.’
‘But why were you in the storeroom?’ said Vex, who was upset he’d missed a trick, but also very impressed. ‘You could have stayed with us and watched us be independent.’
‘The truth is,’ said Mr Bambuckle, ‘I was preparing something for you to celebrate our first day together.’
Every student in room 12B suddenly sat more upright as a delicious smell wafted from the back of the classroom.
‘Close your eyes and count down from one,’ said Mr Bambuckle.
‘One … zero.’
The students opened their eyes after the impossibly short countdown to an impossibly magical sight. Sitting on each of their desks was a brightly coloured glass teacup, filled to the brim with steaming red liquid.
‘I brewed you all some Himalayan tea,’ said the teacher with a smile.
‘How did you hand the cups out so quickly?’ said Evie. ‘Does your Indian spark-maker beetle have something to do with it?’
‘Goodness, no,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘The beetle is far too dangerous for something like that.’
‘The tea smells divine,’ said Victoria.
‘You’re divine,’ said Damon Dunst, staring at Victoria. He was a sucker for blonde hair and blue eyes.
‘Enjoy the tea,’ said Mr Bambuckle.
The students picked up their cups and sipped the red brew. It tasted like nothing they had ever had before, but reminded them of something familiar. A winter fire, perhaps. Or a sunny day in autumn.
Mr Bambuckle tapped the pile of books while the students enjoyed the Himalayan tea. ‘Well, you know what I think of your brilliant ideas. Tell me, what do you think of them?’
‘Mine was the best,’ said Vex, running his hand through his black hair. ‘ParentalRental – an app that lets you hire parents for social occasions. It was the most creative, hands down. It’s a great solution to stop your parents embarrassing you in front of your friends.’
Vex Vron had been taught from an early age that success was all that mattered in life. His father had instilled in him an attitude of ‘win or else’. Bragging was Vex’s way of trying to live up to his father’s expectations.
‘I agree, it is a most innovative idea,’ said Mr Bambuckle.
‘Actually,’ piped up Harold McHagil, who only spoke when he had something important to say, ‘that app already exists. Vex copied it.’
‘How would you know?’ sneered Vex.
‘Because,’ said Harold, ‘I’ve used it before.’
Not being one to let an opportunity slip, Mr Bambuckle signalled for the class to gather around Harold. The young boy, he sensed, was brewing something of his own – a story.
‘It’s a strange tale,’ said Harold. ‘So you’d better hang on to your teacups.’
‘Does this have anything to do with the fiftieth anniversary dinner?’ said Miffy.
‘That was a crazy night,’ said Vex.
‘That’s part of it,’ said Harold. ‘But I’ll begin right back at the start.’
There comes a time in every boy’s life when he has to seriously question the behaviour of his parents. It’s not that I don’t love my parents. I do. The problem is, they’re majorly embarrassing. They’re embarrassing to the point where I had to take drastic action.
Last month, Blue Valley Football Club held a trivia night to raise funds for a fence around the oval. Being mad about football, my parents dragged me along.
‘Perhaps one day you’ll play football for Australia,’ said Father in his thick Scottish accent. He adjusted his kilt as he got out of the car, but had forgotten to pull up his socks, which meant I copped an eyeful of his red-haired legs.
‘Or even better still,’ said Mother, her accent as thick as Father’s, ‘perhaps you’ll play football for Scotland.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ I said. ‘I’m Aussie. And besides, I hate playing football. I just want to play cricket.’
‘Be respectful, Harold,’ said Mother, rolling her ‘r’s. ‘You may have been born in Australia, but never forget the rich heritage of your forefathers in Scotland.’
‘I know, I know. I get it, Mother.’
Mother stopped me as we reached the door of the hall. ‘Let’s get you ready to impress any young lady footballers who may be in attendance.’
‘Please, Mother, no!’ I knew what that meant.
She put her hand up to her mouth.
Ptooey!
Mother spat into her right hand. Globs of gooey spit covered her palm. She ran her hand through my hair. The spit acted as a natural form of slimy hair gel and created a part down the centre of my scalp – the spit split.
‘And don’t forget your good-luck flower.’ Mother tucked a large Scottish thistle into my shirt pocket.
‘I look ridiculous, Mother.’
‘You are my handsome highlander.’
We entered the hall – early as usual – and took our seats. Father had booked tickets the minute they went on sale and organised a small table of three. We were sitting right near the front of the hall.
‘This is the reward for being punctual,’ said Father. ‘Harold, if there is any advice I can give you, it’s to always be early.’
Mother spat into her hand again and adjusted my hair, fiddling with it strand by strand. I could feel my cheeks getting hot with embarrassment.
Father sat, watching and grinning as other members of the community filed into the hall.
A microphone squealed to life. ‘Welcome to Blue Valley Football Club’s fundraising trivia night,’ said Mr Stout, coach of the team Father forces me to play in.
Father stood and gave an enthusiastic round of applause. ‘Pure dead brilliant!’
Mother stood up and joined him, clapping loudly. ‘Aye, pure dead brilliant!’
‘It hasn’t even started yet,’ I said. ‘Please, sit down.’
Mr Stout picked up a bundle of question cards and read the first one. ‘What is the capital of New Zealand?’
‘Auckland,’ whispere
d Father.
‘That’s not it,’ I said. ‘Miss Schlump made me learn this at school. It’s Wellington.’
‘Good lad, Harold,’ said Father, squeezing my cheek in his hand. He stood up and called out to Mr Stout. ‘It’s Wellington!’
‘Correct. One point to the McHagil table.’
‘Pure dead brilliant!’ sang my parents in unison.
Mother leaned over and kissed my cheek. I felt her lipstick transfer onto my skin and harden like dried clay.
Mr Stout read through a few more questions, before making a special announcement. ‘Members of Blue Valley Football Club, as you know, we are here for a good cause. The proposed fence around our field will add much character to the ground. Now, speaking of character, I need a volunteer to attempt to gain extra points for their table.’
‘Over here, man!’ called Father.
‘Mr McHagil, come on up,’ said Mr Stout.
‘Pure dead brilliant!’ said Mother.
‘Your challenge,’ said Mr Stout, as Father joined him on stage, ‘is to give us your best dance. I’ll award you a score out of five.’
Father wrestled the microphone from Mr Stout. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great honour to show you a dance handed down to me by my forefathers.’
‘The kilt dance,’ Mother whispered in awe.
‘The kilt dance,’ I whispered in fear.
Father’s eyes flashed and widened, as though set wild by some distant memory. He leapt off the stage and landed with a thud on the floor of the hall.
Everyone watched in silence as Father raised his hands slowly in the air and then let out an almighty bellow. ‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW, LET THIS KILT BEGIN TO FLOW!’
With that, he ripped his shirt off – exposing a chest covered in as much red hair as his legs – and threw it at Mother. She caught it and proudly held it close to her heart. ‘Pure dead brilliant!’
Father bounded around the hall, his legs tapping like some mad wind-up toy. His kilt flapped about as he leapt from tables, ensuring everyone had a good view of his hairy legs. I hated it when he forgot to pull his socks up.
Father continued romping around, pounding his chest as he danced, signalling to the crowd to join him. Nobody did. And I don’t blame them.
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
Father’s legs worked harder. He stamped and stomped about, and probably danced a little too close to the table of old women from the nursing home. He slapped his chest with all his might.
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
Slap! Slap! Slap-slap-slap!
‘KILT OF FIRE, KILT OF SNOW!’
The dance reached its peak when Father – sweaty and puffing loudly – jumped back onto the stage for his final move – the kilt spin. He started twirling on the spot, getting faster and faster. He spun around and around like a human spinning top.
His kilt began to rise above his knees.
I jumped to my feet. ‘Noooooooooo!’
Father spun faster.
The kilt rose higher.
I screamed louder. ‘NOOOOOOOOOO!’
Father stopped spinning just in time and the kilt dropped back to his knees. He raised his hands in the air and brought them slamming onto his chest as hard as he could.
SLAP!
Everything was quiet.
Mr Stout tapped the microphone. ‘Errr … that was very … interesting … thank you, Mr McHagil. I award you two extra points, which puts your table in the lead.’
Mother stood up and cheered loudly. ‘Pure dead brilliant!’
I was so hot from embarrassment that the Scottish thistle in my shirt pocket wilted like my spirits.
It wasn’t pure dead brilliant.
The trivia night was one thing, but Victoria Goldenhorn’s birthday party was another.
We arrived early as always and knocked on the Goldenhorns’ front door.
Ptooey!
Mother spat into her hand and gave me a spit split.
Father patted me proudly on the shoulder. ‘I’m glad you have friends, Harold. When I was your age, all I had was a couple of highland deer and my third cousin, Lachie.’
This didn’t surprise me. Father was always recalling snippets of his bizarre highland upbringing.
Mr Goldenhorn answered the door. ‘Hello, McHagil family. You’re a little early, but please come in.’
Mr Goldenhorn showed us to the living room. Damon Dunst was sitting on one of the couches, picking his nose with one hand and trying to flatten his curly hair with the other. I wasn’t surprised to see him picking his nose. Nor was I surprised that he was early. Everyone knew he was madly in love with Victoria.
‘Make yourselves at home,’ said Mr Goldenhorn. ‘I just have to finish doing my hair. I’ll be with you in a flash.’
Mother stepped forward. ‘Allow me.’
Ptooey!
Mr Goldenhorn’s hair was spit split in an instant. He didn’t know what had hit him.
Mother did.
‘You look pure dead brilliant!’
‘Ummm … thank you,’ stammered Mr Goldenhorn, scrunching up his face and disappearing down the hallway.
I could only cover my face with my hands and hope the rest of the party went better.
It didn’t.
Mother had thought it polite to bring a plate of food along. It was a nice gesture, if not for the fact she had made mini haggis balls. They looked like little meatballs – attractive on the outside, though hiding repulsive flavours on the inside.
Once the other guests started arriving, it didn’t take Mother long to remove the foil wrapping from her plate. It was a sacrificial offering. My reputation was about to be led to the slaughter.
A group of Victoria’s younger relatives, nicknamed ‘the Toddler Brigade’, quickly spotted the plate of food. If you could call it food.
‘Yummy-yum-yums!’
Yucky-yuck-yucks, I thought to myself. Having grown up on Mother’s mini haggis balls, I feared for the sensitive stomachs of the Toddler Brigade.
It turned out my fears were warranted.
Within half an hour the Toddler Brigade were holding their tummies and rolling around on the floor. A horrible gurgling sound began to sweep through the Goldenhorns’ house.
Victoria, who was being closely shadowed by Damon, thought he was the cause of the rumbling. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you might like to use the bathroom, Damon.’
‘It’s not me,’ said Damon, pointing to the Toddler Brigade. ‘Look!’
Shrieks and howls filled the air as desperate mothers and fathers rushed to their stomach-clutching children. The toddlers could hold it in no longer. Great gushes of spew spilled from their mouths.
Adults started gagging.
The Toddler Brigade kept vomiting.
‘What have they eaten?!’ cried Mrs Goldenhorn.
Mother checked to see that nobody was watching and slipped the plate of remaining haggis balls back into her handbag. ‘No appreciation for good-quality delicacies,’ she muttered under her breath.
Father signalled for everyone to quieten down. ‘Allow me to teach you all a calming technique handed down to me by my forefathers.’
I gulped. I knew what he was about to unleash.
The highland toe-tickle.
It was at this point that I decided enough was enough. I could no longer be publicly associated with my parents.
I walked straight out of the Goldenhorns’ front door and didn’t stop walking until I’d reached my own.
I lay on my bed and put my earphones in. It was the best I could do to block out Father’s knocks on my locked bedroom door. I was in no mood to talk about why I had left the party early.
I had to find a solution to my parental problems. So, I turned to the only place known to solve such issues – the inter
net.
I typed ‘embarrassing parents’ into my phone and clicked on the first link.
Do your parents constantly embarrass you? Does your mother leave lipstick marks on your cheek? Does your father’s public behaviour leave you squirming? Are you sick of feeling humiliated in their presence? If you answered ‘yes’ to any of these questions, then ParentalRental is the app for you!
It was as though the description for ParentalRental had read my mind. I downloaded the app and swiped through the instructions. All I had to do was browse the list of parents and hire a pair for my next public outing. It was simple. And, considering the next public outing was Blue Valley School’s fiftieth anniversary dinner, the timing couldn’t have been better.
It didn’t take long to find the parents of my dreams.
Introducing Mr Sunset!
Occupation: Self-made millionaire.
Interests: Jetskiing, poker, travel, fitness, theatre.
Quote: Ever taken a ride in a Ferrari? I’ll make you the envy of your friends.
Introducing Mrs Sunset!
Occupation: Property investor, model.
Interests: Fitness, women’s fashion, travel, interior design.
Quote: With looks to kill, I’ll make your outing a thrill.
The reviews of Mr and Mrs Sunset confirmed my love-at-first-browse feeling.
Eagleboy: Best night ever! Got to ride in a sports car. Even picked up a girlfriend!
Sabrina555: OMGosh! Do yourself a favour and rent these parents. They are unreal!!!!!
Guitar_dude5: Mr and Mrs Sunset are the best! I’ll be renting them again for my next outing.
HollyGurl99: THE BEST!! I WISH I COULD LIVE WITH THEM 4EVA!!
It was obvious what I had to do. I sent Mr and Mrs Sunset a request to accompany me to Blue Valley School’s fiftieth anniversary dinner.
I almost cried with joy when they wrote back and said they could.
Convincing Mother and Father the fiftieth anniversary dinner was cancelled was an important task, especially considering hundreds of the free tickets had already been snapped up. I had to make sure my parents stayed as far away as possible. I told them that lack of interest meant the dinner was not going ahead.
