by Jim Smith
I was really beginning to get into this being a coach thing.
Darren looked down at the ball in his hands. ‘You want me to act like a maniac?’ he asked.
‘Yes please,’ I smiled.
And he booted the ball right at my shnozzle.
‘Argh, my prize-winning hooter!’ I screamed, as the football boinked off my nose and into the air.
The ball arched across the sky like a sped-up mini-moon.
‘Heads up, Queenie!’ cried a freckly little kiddywinkle, and I Pain-au-Choc’ed round to see Queenie, Mogden School’s head dinner lady.
Not that me and my friends call our dinner ladies ‘dinner ladies’, we call them ‘dinner dames’ because it’s keeler.
Queenie is three hundred years old, the height of a bollard and needs a walking stick to get around. But that doesn’t stop everyone being comperleeterly afraid of her.
She’s married to Mr Walbyoff, the school caretaker who’s been working on a doll’s-house-sized model of Mogden for the last eight trillion years that he keeps on display in the school foyer.
I think he only does it to get away from Queenie.
The ball was still speeding through the air, by the way.
‘What’s that?’ growled Queenie, turning her head round as a ball-shaped shadow crept across her face.
I scrunched my eyes shut for a billisecond, opening them to see a circle of kiddywinkles standing round a knocked-over bollard wearing a grey wig. Then I realised it was Queenie.
Queenie’s wrinkly eyelids fluttered open like a million-year-old butterfly stretching its wings after a particukeely long snooze, and the kiddywinkles screamed.
Queenie grabbed her stick and pulled herself back up to bollard-height. ‘Which one of you little brats bonked Queenie on the bonce?’ she squawked.
I rotated myself on the spot like an out-of-date tray of pain au chocs. ‘Psst, Bunky!’ I whispered, my back to Queenie now. ‘Is she looking at me?’
‘One hundred!’ gasped Bunky, as I felt a walking stick tap me on the shoulder.
I twizzled myself round at 0.2 millimetres per hour until I was face to face with Queenie’s face.
‘That little lassie tells me it was this little Loser what knocked old Queenie down,’ she said, pointing over her shoulder at the freckly kiddywinkle from earlier.
‘I-it was a mistake Queenie,’ I stuttered, as my pocket started to cry.
‘What’s that noise?’ asked Queenie, turning the dials up on her hearing aids.
My body turned to stone and a zig-zag of fear crackled through it, breaking me into a billion bits of glued-together gravel.
‘N-nothing,’ I said, trying to suck my pocket in so she wouldn’t spot the Crying Freakoid.
I’d seen Queenie confiscate people’s prized possessions before, and I didn’t want it happening to me.
Rumour had it she locked them inside a ginormous drawer hidden away somewhere in a cold, dark corner of the staff room. And once something went inside that drawer, it never came out again.
‘Nothing eh?’ said Queenie, waggling her nostrils. ‘Doesn’t sound like nothing to me.’
I looked at Queenie’s hearing aids and thought how lucky she was her nostrils didn’t have smelling aids in them too, because I’d just blown off.
‘I hope for your sake it isn’t one of those Cry-y Freaky thingys,’ she warbled. ‘You know they’ve been banned in school, don’t you, laddie?’
A clip-clopping noise got louder and louder then stopped. Dolly, the nicest, fattest dinner dame in Mogden School, had appeared behind Queenie.
‘Everything alright over here?’ she smiled, and Queenie blinked.
‘Yep,’ she snapped, not even looking at Dolly. I peered at the two dinner dames, standing there like a couple of bollards that’d been concreted into the pavement too close together.
‘I was just having a little word with Loser here about the importance of not bonking head dinner ladies on the, er . . . head,’ said Queenie.
Dolly winked at me. ‘I’m sure Barry’s got the message,’ she said. ‘Barry, have you got the message?’
‘Ping!’ I said, doing the noise of a phone getting a message, and Queenie scrunched up her already scrunched-up face.
‘I’m watching you, Loser!’ she shouted, hobbling off in the direction of a kiddywinkle picking daisies. ‘And don’t you forget it!’
The bell clanged and we all headed back into school. I watched the clock tick its way to half past three, patting my pocket every few minutes to keep Barry Junior quiet.
And then it was home time.
‘Off you go, you blooming Maniacs!’ I said at the top of my road. ‘And remember to get a good night’s sleep - we’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow.’
‘Whatevoids, Loser,’ burped Darren.
‘That’s another ten press-ups for you, Darrenofski!’ I shouted in my jokey voice.
It’s important as a football coach to have a bit of fun with your team at the end of a hard day.
‘See ya later Daddio,’ said Bunky, strolling off without giving me a triple-reverse-upside-down-salute, which is what he usually does.
‘Not if I see you first, Captain!’ I called back, hoping all this Captain business wasn’t going to his head.
I walked up to my house, put the key in the door, turned it, pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway.
Sozzles about how boring that last sentence was, by the way.
‘Oo-ooh love!’ cooed my mum as I forward-rolled into the living room, the way my favourite TV star, Future Ratboy, would.
‘Afternoon Mumsicles,’ I called back, jumping onto the sofa and clicking the telly on.
‘Bawwy!’ gurgled my baby brother Desmond, stumbling into the room. ‘You wanna pway wiv me?’
I ruffled Des’s hair like he was my kid brother, which he is. ‘Not now, Dezzy,’ I smiled. ‘Your big bruv’s had a busy day. He’s a football coach now, did you know that?’
Des stared at me, drool dripping out of his mouth like a Crying Freakoid at feeding time.
Just then the front door opened. ‘Oo-ooh!’ called my dad and I looked at Des, doing my ‘What’s Dad doing home this early?’ face.
‘What are you doing home this early, Dad?’ I said, turning my face into a sentence, and he slumped into the chair next to me.
‘Ugh, I’ve been on one of these blooming team-building courses with work,’ he groaned. ‘Only good thing about ’em is they finish early.’
‘Mm,’ I said, comperleeterly bored with what he was talking about already.
My mum walked into the room with a tray of Feeko’s chocolate digestives. ‘Ooh how was it, Kenneth?’ she asked.
I closed my eyes, wondering why they were still nattering about something so yawnsome. ‘Do you mind?’ I said. ‘I’m trying to concentrate - we’ve got a big game coming up on Saturday.’
‘A big game?’ said my dad. ‘What’s all this about, Barry?’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Tarquin from the Green Giants challenged us to a showdown in Avocado Hill. Only problem was, Bunky and the team didn’t think I was up to it. Then I activated Operation Pain au Chocolat and - hey presto - looks like I’m the Mogden Maniacs’ coach!’
‘O-kaay,’ said my dad, looking like he didn’t know what in the keelness I was talking about.
He grabbed the remote control out of my lap and flicked the telly onto the football channel.
‘Yeah, I’ve signed us up against the Green Giants this Saturday,’ I carried on. ‘So I’ve really got my work cut out!’
‘Uh-huh,’ mumbled my dad, staring at the screen.
Smeldovia, who wear yellow outfits, were playing a team in blue. ‘And here comes Donaldio!’ boomed the commentator through the television’s speakers.
I zoomed my eyes in, spotting Ronaldio Donaldio kicking a ball towards the goal. ‘He nutmegs Guacamole, takes it past the defenders,’ roared the commentator. ‘Stops . . . shoots . . .’
cried my dad,
and the TV cut to a shot of the Smeldovian team’s coach jumping up and down on the sidelines, cheering and shouting at his players.
‘Hmm, that gives me an idea,’ I muttered to myself, reaching across to the coffee table and grabbing the Loser family laptop.
I opened the lid of the laptop, clicked on the internet and typed ‘www.smoogle.com’ into the bar at the top.
Smoogle, in case you didn’t know, is the keelest search engine in the whole wide world wide web amen. It was invented by Wolf Tizzler, who’s this child genius that’s sort of like me but with frizzier hair and glasses.
Once I was on the Smoogle page I tapped the words ‘Smeldovian coach’ into its search bar, pressed enter, and a whole page of photos flashed up on the screen.
‘Smeldovian coaches are amongst the most dangerous and dilapidated in the world,’ read a caption underneath a picture of a scuffed-up brown and orange one.
I ignored that photo and clicked on one of a man who looked pretty much exackerly like the person I’d just seen on the telly.
The laptop screen went blank for a billisecond, then a bright yellow page popped up:
‘Now we’re talking!’ I said, immedi-clicking on Chip Snyder’s Top Tips.
‘Mornkeels, team!’ I yawned in the playground the next morning.
Barry Junior had kept me up half the night crying his head off, but I was still looking forward to putting some of Chip Snyder’s Top Tips into action.
I held up an empty shoebox I’d brought from home and gave it a waggle, waiting for someone to ask me what it was for.
‘Yo, yo, yo, Coach Loser in da house!’ grinned Bunky, bouncing the official Mogden Maniacs football off his knee and booting it to Darren.
‘Good to see you, Captain,’ I said, wondering when we’d be getting back to calling each other by our normal, everyday names.
Jocelyn Twiggs from my class tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Hey Bazza, are you the lot who’s playing the Green Giants in Avocado Hill this Saturday?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, what’s it got to do with you, Twiggs?’ burped Darren.
I put my hand up to calm Darren down. ‘That’s right, Jossy,’ I said. ‘How’d you know about that?’
‘They’ve put posters up all round town,’ said Jocelyn. ‘Big, shiny, colourful ones too. Must’ve cost a fortune.’
‘Gulp,’ said Sharonella.
Nancy strolled over with a tape measure in her hand. ‘How’s it going, Coach?’ she chuckled.
‘Nothing a bit of hard work can’t sort out,’ I said, as she wrapped her tape measure round the trunk of a nearby tree.
‘Erm, what in the name of playing it unkeel are you doing?’ I said, waggling my shoe box in the air.
I was beginning to get ever so slighterly annoyed that nobody had noticed it yet.
‘Oh this?’ said Nancy, jotting something down in a notebook. ‘I’ve joined the Miniature Mogden Voluntary Measurement Committee.’
I stared at Nancy like she was speaking in Smeldovian. ‘Exkizzy mizzy?’ I said, showing off I could say ‘excuse me’ in Smeldovian.
‘I’m measuring stuff for Mr Walbyoff ’s doll’s house project,’ explained Nancy. ‘I write down the size in this book then divide it by a hundred. That way Mr Walbyoff knows how small to make the models.’
‘It’s your life,’ I said, as Gordon Smugly and his sort-of-servant ambled up.
‘What’s that shoe box for, Coach Loser?’ asked Stuart.
‘Thank you Stuart,’ I said, relieved somebody had FINALLY noticed it. ‘Okay team, gather round - I’ve got something to say.’
The Maniacs all gathered round and I looked each one of them in the eye, the way Chip Snyder tells you to in his Top Tip number twelve.
‘Here’s the deal, people,’ I said, snatching Mini Shaz out of Sharonella’s hand. ‘From now on I’ll be looking after your Crying Freakoids.’
‘Wha?!’ cried Shazza, not finishing her ‘what’. ‘B-but you can’t take my Mini Shaz away from me like that!’
I plopped Mini Shaz into the shoe box and held my hand out for everyone else’s. ‘Come on, Captain,’ I said, clicking my fingers, and Bunky slow-motion-handed me Bunky Two.
‘What’s this all about, Bus?’ he asked.
‘“Bus”?’ I said. ‘Why in the unkeeness are you calling me “Bus”?’
Bunky chuckled. ‘I thought it up last night,’ he said, giving himself a mini-reverse-salute. ‘What’s like a “Coach” but not as good? A BUS - get it!’
‘I like it, Bunk!’ sniggled Gordon, and I bit my lip, trying to remember Chip Snyder’s Top Tip number seventy-nine, which is this: ‘Don’t get all jealous when Gordon’s trying to steal your best friend’.
Or maybe that’s just one of mine.
‘Two words,’ I said, pincering Dazzy Rascal out of Darren’s pocket and placing it next to the other Crying Freakoids. ‘Chip Snyder.’
‘Chip Snyder?’ said Gordon. ‘Isn’t that the Smeldovian football coach?’
I nodded. ‘Yep, turns out he’s got a list of Top Tips on his website,’ I smiled, as Stuart handed me Stuey No Legs. ‘And number one is “No distractions” - which is why I’m confiscating your Crying Freakoids.’
The bell for lessons started clanging and Gordon’s mouth opened, getting ready to say something annoying.
‘Save it for later, Smugly,’ I snapped, grabbing Lil Gordy and plonking him in the official Mogden Maniacs shoe box.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried keeping a shoe box-full of Crying Freakoids quiet for a whole morning’s lessons, but it’s not as easy as it sounds.
‘Psst, Bazzy!’ whispered Sharonella, leaning over from her desk.
Miss Spivak was at the front of the class, warbling on about the history of Mogden Sewage Works.
‘How’s Mini Shaz doing?’ hissed Maxi Shaz.
‘FINE,’ I whispered, peeping between my feet where the shoe box was sitting inside my half-unzipped rucksack. ‘Just keep it shtum, would you Shazza? The last thing we need is Miss Spivak confiscating this lot.’
‘Enjoying fatherhood, Barry?’ giggled Nancy, who was sitting on the other side of me.
‘Shouldn’t you be measuring something?’ I yawned. I was really beginning to feel sleepy now.
Nancy whipped her measuring tape out. ‘Would it actually be that bad, getting your Crying Freakoid confiscated?’ she whisper-asked, jotting down the width of her desk. ‘Surely it’d be a break from all that whining?’
Lil Gordy started whimpering and I lifted him out of my bag. ‘Don’t you know anything?’ I whispered. ‘If you leave one of these little fellas alone for too long they’ll DIE!’
Nancy shrugged. ‘I can think of worse things that could happen,’ she muttered.
‘You’re a monster, Verkenwerken,’ mumbled Darren, who was slumped over his desk, half asleep.
I held Lil Gordy up to my face and gave him a kiss to keep him quiet.
‘Bleurgh, he tastes of Smugly’s pocket!’ I spluttered, a teeny-weeny bit too loudly.
Miss Spivak squinted her eyes, peering across the room at me. ‘Everything alright, Loser?’ she asked.
‘Yes Miss Spivak,’ I said, faking a few more splutters. ‘M-must be how well you’re teaching us about sewers - it’s, erm, almost like I can smell the actual real-life poos and wees!’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Spivak. ‘Yes, well I’m glad I’m getting it across so . . . vividly.’
‘Oi, what’re you trying to say about my pockets, Barold?’ whispered Gordon from behind me.
‘I think he’s saying they smell like sewers,’ said Stuart, but not in a horrible way, just like it was a fact.
‘Hey, Barry?’ he carried on.
‘What is it, Shmendrix?’ I said, as quietly as possible.
‘It’s the football game,’ whispered Stuart, doing a blow off against his plastic seat. It echoed round the classroom and everybody apart from Miss Spivak sniggled. ‘It’s playing havoc with my nerves.’
I r
olled my eyes. ‘Can we PERLEASE talk about this at break?’ I said, looking up at the clock on the wall - it was almost eleven.
Bunky tapped me on the shoulder. ‘How’s Bunky Two doing, Bus?’ he said.
‘Stop calling me that!’
I hissed.
‘Loser!’ shouted Miss Spivak. ‘What are you jabbering on about now?’
I plunked Lil Gordy back into my bag. ‘Oh I was just saying to Nigel here how interesting this lesson was. Isn’t that right, Zuckerberg?’
Nigel Zuckerberg is Bunky’s real-life name, by the way. And he HATES being called it.
Bunky squinted at me. ‘That’s right, BUS,’ he said through his clenched-together teeth.
‘Something’s going on here,’ muttered Miss Spivak to herself, putting her pen down and scraping out of her chair. She clip-clopped down the aisle towards me. ‘What’s that wailing noise, Loser?’ she said, getting closer.
I closed my knees together, trying to muffle the crying sound wafting out of my rucksack.
‘Waaah, waaah,’ I cried, not exackerly sure what my plan was, but hoping one would pop into my head soon.
Miss Spivak stopped clip-clopping. ‘Are you crying, Barry?’ she asked.
Sharonella gave me a sneaky wink, like she was coming up with one of her use-er-less ideas.
