Читать книгу The Pied Piper of Hamelin - Russell Brand - Страница 17

By far and away the worst of the booger-scoffing, stone-throwing Hamelin tot-rotters was Fat Bob. He was a rotund sphere of chocolate-coated self-regard. Probably because he had won the most Gorgeous Child pageants, not to mention a series of less important but still prestigious contests – loudest burp, for three years running, wettest fart, district finalist, and the Hamelin beige rosette for slickest poop.

This last gave him such pride that he wore it emblazoned on his chest most mornings and once, on half term, when emotions ran high for Fat Bob, he was so eager to get the thing on he’d pierced his own rubbery nipple with the pin.

He usually wore a sailor suit, like Donald Duck’s one but with underpants on, he had one gold tooth, very scabby knees and his cheekaboos were so rosy and plump that if I thought I could get away with it I would prick ’em with a fork. Fat Bob, like a lot of bully-boys, ran with a gang. That way he didn’t have to face up to his own feelings or the quiet sobbing in the corner of his mind, he could live in the colourful din of the day creating a racket with his crew, scorching the elegant beauty of the moment with chants and marches.