by Andy Stanton
Shabba me whiskers! Andy Stanton’s Mr Gum is winner of the Roald Dahl Funny Prize, the Red House Children’s Book Award AND the Blue Peter Book Award for The Most Fun Story With Pictures. AND he’s been shortlisted for LOADS of other prizes too! It’s barking bonkers!
PRAISE FOR Mr Gum:
‘Do not even think about buying another book – This is gut- spillingly funty.’ Alex, aged 13
‘It’s hilarious, it’s brilliant . . . Stanton’s the Guv’nor, The Boss.’ Danny Baker, BBC London Radio
‘Funniest book I have ever and will ever read . . . When I read this to my mum she burst out laughing and nearly wet herself . . . When I had finished the book I wanted to read it all over again it was so good.’ Bryony, aged 8
‘Funny? You bet.’ Guardian
‘Andy Stanton accumulates silliness and jokes in an irresistible, laughter-inducing romp.’ Sunday Times
‘Raucous, revoltingly rambunctious and nose-snortingly funny.’ Daily Mail
‘David Tazzyman’s illustrations match the irreverent sparks of word wizardry with slapdash delight.’ Junior Education
‘This is weird, wacky and one in a million.’ Primary Times
‘It provoked long and painful belly laughs from my daughter, who is eight.’ Daily Telegraph
‘As always, Stanton has a ball with dialogue, detail and devilish plot twists.’ Scotsman
‘We laughed so much it hurt.’ Sophie, aged 9
‘You will laugh so much you’ll ache in places
you didn’t know you had.’ First News
‘A riotous read.’ Sunday Express
‘It’s utterly bonkers and then a bit more – you’ll love every madcap moment.’ TBK Magazine
‘Chaotically crazy.’ Jewish Chronicle
‘Designed to tickle young funny bones.’ Glasgow Herald
‘A complete joy to read whatever your age.’
This is Kids’ Stuff
‘The truth is a lemon meringue!’ Friday O’Leary
‘They are brilliant.’ Zoe Ball, Radio 2
‘Smooky palooki! This book is well brilliant.’ Jeremy Strong
Judith, Dave, Max and Miranda for
Got to SOUL have!
Andy love
Also by Andy Stanton:
You’re a Bad Man, Mr Gum!
Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire
Mr Gum and the Goblins
Mr Gum and the Power Crystals
Mr Gum and the Dancing Bear
What’s for Dinner, Mr Gum?
Mr Gum and the Cherry Tree
Mr Gum and the Secret Hideout
First published 2009 and in full extended version 2011 by Egmont UK Limited, 239 Kensington High Street London W8 6SA
Text copyright © 2009 and 2011 Andy Stanton
Illustration copyright © 2009 and 2011 David Tazzyman
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 4052 5822 7
eBook ISBN 978 1 7803 1145 6
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Printed and bound in Italy
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Contents
Introduction
1 Terror in the Fog
2 The Next Morning
3 Back at the Butcher’s Shop
4 A Bit More Terror in the Fog
5 The Townsfolk Point Their Townsfingers
6 The Greatest Detective of Them All
7 A Clue or Two
8 The Stake-out
9 It Was All Just a Bad Dream
10 It Wasn’t All Just a Bad Dream
11 The Singing Detective
12 The Hound of Lamonic Bibber
13 And Everyone Says ‘Hooray!’
14 Another Case Closed
Outroduction
Bonus Stuff!
More Bonus Stuff!
Even More Bonus Stuff!
Yes, You Guessed it! It’s Some More Bonus Stuff!
And – Yes! A Bit More Bonus Stuff!
And a Bit MORE!
That’s it. Stop complaining. You’ve had plenty.
Introduction
It had been a fine dinner, a fine dinner indeed. Roast beef with potatoes and horseradish sauce, followed by the biggest, most delicious Plum Ruffian you’ve ever laid eyes on. But now Friday O’Leary sat back, burped once and addressed his guests.
‘Enough of all this sitting around shovelling food down our throats like vulgar beasts and laying eyes on Plum Ruffians,’ said he. ‘Let us retire to the study, where I will startle your imaginations with one of the most incredible stories ever told.’
So nine-year-old Polly and little Alan Taylor, the gingerbread headmaster who was no taller than a common pencil, followed Friday into his study. And there they sat in deep leather armchairs, marvelling at their friend’s collection of interesting items from around the world: rare talking flowers, a missing piece of the Bayeux tapestry which showed all the soldiers disco dancing, a tiny pony who lived in a milk bottle, a book written by a flea – and many more things besides.
‘What’re these things doin’ here, Frides?’ said Polly, pointing to a great pair of rusted old bells which hung above the fireplace.
‘They are the legendary Bells of Charlie Nest,’ said Friday. ‘They once belonged to a fearsome American baker called Charlie Nest. And here’s a curious thing: they still ring out whenever someone buys a bread roll anywhere on earth.’
‘And what about that?’ said Alan Taylor, pointing to a large bronze head that stood in the corner of the room looking proud and fierce. ‘Where’s that from?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Friday. ‘It just walked in here one afternoon and I can’t get rid of it. Sometimes if you look in its mouth it’s filled with sweets. But other times it’s just insects or cotton wool. Which is why I call it “Gigantic Mr Unpredictableface”.’
Outside, the snow was falling, soft and stealthy like strange frozen music. The wind beat against the doors and windows of the secret cottage – let me in, let me in. But inside, all was well. The fire flickered in the grate, Gigantic Mr Unpredictableface stood silent and still and the cat purred contentedly on the hearth.
‘I didn’t know you had a cat,’ said Alan Taylor, going over to stroke it.
‘I haven’t,’ said Friday, and instantly the cat vanished.
‘Now,’ he continued, settling back in his chair and crossing his nose. ‘It is time to tell you my story. For as you may know, I am not only a wonderful old fellow who cooks delicious roast beef and Plum Ruffians. I am also a mighty detective with the brains of an owl. In my time, I have solved many amazing mysteries, including The Mystery of the Oriental Crab, The Mystery of the Oriental Egg, The Mystery of the Oriental Necklace, and The Mystery of Why So Many Mysteries Are Just the Word “Oriental” Followed by Some Random Object.
‘But is it easy being a detective, you ask?’ he continued. ‘No, it is not! Oh, I have faced many dangers, including terrible poisons! Guns! Traps! Swords! And a man who kept creeping up on me and tapping me on one shoulder but when I turned around he was actually standing behind my other shoulder for a trick! It was terrifying!
‘However, difficult and dangerous as these mysteries were, none of them can compare to my most incredible case of all – The Hound of Lamonic Bibber. I have never spoken about that case and I never will! I have vowed never to breath
e a word about it to anyone. Never! I’m sorry, but my mind is made up. I absolutely refuse to talk about it.’
‘Oh, go on,’ said Alan Taylor.
‘OK, then,’ said Friday. ‘The mystery begins many, many years ago, before either of you were born –’
‘No, it don’t,’ said Polly. ‘It was only a couple of years ago, remember? In facts, I helped you solve it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Friday. ‘OK. The mystery begins not quite so many years ago after all. It was a night just like this one – snowy as a whipper, it was! Oh, the snow was falling like –’
‘It wasn’t snowin’, Frides,’ said Polly. ‘It was foggy.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Friday. ‘That’s right.’
‘You really are an idiot,’ said a tulip from a vase on the mantelpiece. ‘Tell the story properly.’
‘Sorry, rare talking flower,’ said Friday. And, lowering his voice by getting out of his chair and lying face-down on the carpet, Friday started once more to tell his tale.
‘The fog was creeping in,’ said he. ‘Creeping along over the wild and wiley moors. And as it crept it swayed and it swirled.
‘Swirl,’ whispered Friday in the flickering firelight. ‘Swirl. Swirl. Swirl . . .’
Chapter 1
Terror in the Fog
Swirl, swirl, swirl.
The fog snaked its way through the midnight streets of Lamonic Bibber, thick and cold, and silent as an assassin.
Swirl, swirl, swirl.
The fog crept up to Boaster’s Hill and pounced all over it like a sinister dentist.
Swirl.
The fog did a bit more swirling.
No swirl.
The fog forgot to swirl and just hung around doing nothing.
Swirl, swirl, swirl.
Then it remembered, and went about its business once more. The fog gripped the town in its cold clammy fingers and even the moon was too scared to come out and fight it.
On the high street a single light was shining through the fog. It was coming from the butcher’s shop, Billy William the Third’s Right Royal Meats. And if you listened carefully, you could just make out the voices coming from within.
‘Right, I got a brilliant move,’ growled the first voice. ‘I’m gonna move me Bishop over there an’ smash your Queen up right in her stupid face!’
‘Oh, yeah?’ rasped the second voice. ‘Well, I’m gonna fart all over your Bishop with this one what looks like a little horse!’
And if you had risked a glance through the greasy window you would have seen the owners of those voices, bathed in the flickering light of a candle made from mutton fat. For hunched over the counter were Billy William the butcher, and his filthy pal, Mr Gum. Yes, Mr Gum, with his scraggy red beard and his bloodshot eyes that stared out at you like an octopus curled up in a bad cave. The hideous pair were deep in thought, playing a game of chess as if their stinking lives depended upon it.
But wait! Outside the butcher’s shop, something was stirring in the fog. Something large. Something that padded along on all fours. Something that was about to accidentally walk really hard into a lamppost –
The muffled sound of an animal in pain rang out, but Mr Gum and Billy were so deep in concentration that they didn’t even look up at the noise.
Outside in the darkness, the thing dusted itself off. It padded through the fog some more. Then it threw back its big shaggy head, and suddenly the night was filled with a blood-curdling
All over Lamonic Bibber the townsfolk trembled to hear that roar. And a little boy called Bradley did such a bad mess in his pyjamas that they had to be given to the charity shop the very next day.
‘Help! Look out!’ cried little Bradley. ‘There’s a beast on the loose in Lamonic Bibber!’
And with that he ran downstairs, hopped into his father’s car and drove to South America, where he became a mighty priest. And in all his llong days ruling over the llamas of that lland, Bradley never once spoke of Lamonic Bibber and what he had glimpsed in the fog that night.
Chapter 2
The Next Morning
‘NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’
The unhappy cry echoed through the early morning air, bringing people running from all over town. And there, still attached to the exclamation mark at the end of the ‘NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’ which was coming from her mouth, they found –
‘Old Granny!’ exclaimed Jonathan Ripples, the fattest man in town. ‘What is it?’
But Old Granny hardly noticed Jonathan Ripples, even though he was about the size of a small circus tent. She was gazing with horror at her garden. Her ancient rose bushes from before the War had been trampled into the mud. And her secret supply of sherry had been emptied into the ornamental bird bath.
‘Who did this?’ Old Granny asked the starlings who were playing in the bath – but they were far too drunk to tell her. One of them had a little party hat on.
And the destruction didn’t stop there. All over town, gardens had been ruined. Small trees had been uprooted, dustbins had been overturned and a garden gnome called Fishin’ Tony had died of a heart attack. It was horrible.
‘My lawn is torn and now I’m forlorn!’ wailed Beany McLeany, who loved things that rhymed.
‘My shiny new bike!’ sobbed a little girl called Peter. ‘I left it outdoors and now look – it’s been smashed into six pieces! No, hold on – eight pieces! No, hold on – fourteen!’
‘My expensive hedge!’ wept David Casserole, the town mayor. ‘Nothing’s happened to it at all! But imagine if it had, that would have been awful!’
‘No, hold on – twenty-three pieces!’ sobbed the little girl called Peter.
Yes, the whole town of Lamonic Bibber was in a terrible state. It seemed that everyone had a sad tale to tell, from the tiny baby whose pram had been covered in spit, to the dozens of tramps who’d been pushed into the duck pond while they slept peacefully in the gutter.
But after all the crying had been cried and the last teardrop had been teardropped – that’s when the questions began:
‘Who could have wreaked such terrible havoc and destruction?’
‘Who would even dream of doing such a thing to our little town?’
‘Is “teardropped” even a real word?’
At last one man stepped forward with the answers. It was Martin Launderette, who ran the launderette.
‘Firstly, I saw who did this thing to our town,’ he said. ‘Secondly, “teardropped” isn’t a real word at all. And thirdly, it was no human who did this deed. It was a hound. And not just any hound – but a gigantic great tangler of a bark-monster. I saw him last night with my very own eyes that I’ve known and trusted for years.’
‘Martin, just how big was this dog that you supposedly saw?’ asked Jonathan Ripples.
‘About as big,’ whispered Martin dramatically, ‘about as big as that dog over there.’ And he pointed across the street to where a massive whopper of a dog played happily with an old chip packet, his long golden fur waving merrily in the breeze.
‘Now hang on, Mr Laund’rettes,’ said a little girl called Polly, who is one of the heroes of this story even though she’s only nine. ‘Jake’s the friendliest, happiest woofdog what ever done bounced through the streets of this town! You better not be accusin’ him of all this!’
‘I’m not accusing anyone,’ muttered Martin Launderette. ‘I’m just saying Jake’s ruined people’s gardens before, that’s all. And anyway, who do you think left this everywhere?’
He pointed to the clumps of golden fur that lay scattered on the ground. The pieces of little Peter’s bicycle were covered with the stuff.
‘That fur could be there for a million innocent reasons,’ replied Polly indignantly. ‘For instances, maybe it fell off a fur tree. An’ you oughtn’ts to go whippin’ up hatreds towards big friendly dogs without no proofs!’
‘Well, there was something out there last night,’ said Martin Launderette, his eyes darting madly from face to face in the crowd. ‘What if it com
es back?’
‘It’s true,’ quaked Old Granny, who had been lapping sherry from her bird bath all the while.
‘It’s true,’ shivered the tramps in the duck pond. ‘What if it comes back?’
‘Well, now,’ said Jonathan Ripples, stepping forward boldly, his chins vibrating in the breeze. ‘If it comes back it shall have me to contend with. Because yes! I shall guard the town tonight. And if there IS a hound out there, I’ll sit on him until he’s nothing but a dog-flavoured pancake!’
Chapter 3
Back at the Butcher’s Shop
‘Look at ’em all,’ laughed Mr Gum, as he watched the crowd from Billy William the Third’s Right Royal Meats. ‘Jumpin’ to conclusions like that! What a bunch of ignorant grapes!’
‘Ha ha ha,’ laughed Billy William, mopping up some pig’s blood from the floor with his tongue. ‘Ha ha ha.’
‘Ha ha ha,’ laughed Mr Gum.
‘Ho ho ho,’ laughed Billy. ‘It’s funty!’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Mr Gum. ‘It’s very “funty” indeed.’
‘Another “game of chess” tonight then?’ suggested Billy.
‘That’s right, Billy me boy,’ nodded Mr Gum, sucking a lump of rotten pâté from his scruffy red beard. ‘Another “game of chess” it is. Ha ha ha ha ha!’
Chapter 4
A Bit More Terror in the Fog
Swirl. Swirl. Swirl.
That night the fog returned. It didn’t even bother to phone ahead and check it was OK to come over. It just strolled into town as it pleased, flapping all over the place like an unwelcome ostrich on a train.
Once again, most of the shops on the high street stood dark and silent. Once again, a single light was shining in the butcher’s shop. And once again, I’m about to say ‘once again’. Because once again, anyone glancing through the greasy window could have seen ’em – those two filthmongers, Mr Gum and Billy William, hunched over the counter at their chessboard.
