Читать книгу Barry Loser Hates Half Term - Jim Smith - Страница 6

It was the first Sunday of half term and I was sitting in my sitting room watching Future Ratboy with my best friends, Bunky and Nancy Verkenwerken.

‘This is gonna be the keelest half term EVER!’ I said.

‘Keel’ is how Future Ratboy, my favourite TV superhero, says ‘cool’, in case you didn’t know.

‘YEAH!’ said Bunky, who’s sort of like Future Ratboy’s sidekick, Not Bird, except he’s not a bird. ‘I’m SO glad we don’t have to go to babyish old Pirate Camp any more!’

‘Me too!’ I said. ‘Pirate Camp is for BABIES!’

Pirate Camp is the holiday camp that me, Bunky and Nancy used to go to every half term when we were younger. It’s sort of like a nursery for kiddywinkles, except it’s on Mogden Island, which is an island in the middle of Mogden Lake.

It’s owned by an unbelievakeely old man called Burt Barnacle, who dresses up as a pirate and goes on about treasure the whole time.

He says there’s a whole chest of it, buried somewhere on the island. Not that we ever found any when we were there.

‘I mean, who wants to sit around a campfire singing songs about trees for a whole week?’ said Bunky, waggling his hands in the air, which is how he does his impression of a tree.

‘YE-AH! Singing songs about trees is for KIDDYWINKLES!’ I said, remembering sitting round the campfire at Pirate Camp with Bunky and Nancy, singing about trees.

Sitting round a campfire singing about trees wasn’t the only thing we did at Pirate Camp, by the way. There was also pirate face-painting, pirate raft-making, lying under Burt’s giant skull-and-crossbones parachute while he whooshed it up and down, and listening to him tell super-spookoid ghost stories before we went to sleep in our tents at night.

I was just realising that I actukeely quite liked some of the stuff we got up to at Pirate Camp when my mum walked into the room carrying a plateful of Feeko’s chocolate digestive biscuits and three cans of Fronkle.

‘Here you go, kiddywinkles!’ she said, ruffling my hair.

‘MU-UM! We’re not KIDDYWINKLES any more!’ I said, sliding a biscuit off the plate and slotting it into my mouth.

‘Apologies for my mother,’ I said to Bunky and Nancy, and they both sniggled.

‘MAUREEN?’ cried my dad from upstairs. ‘MAUREEN, DESMOND’S POOED HIS NAPPY AGAIN!’

My dad was talking about my baby brother, Desmond Loser the Second, in case you didn’t know.

‘WELL, CHANGE IT THEN!’ screamed my mum up the stairs, and she turned back to us and started ringing. Which was weird, because she isn’t a phone. She’s my mum.