Barry Loser Hates Half Term. Jim Smith

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      ‘Maybe it’s because he’s got FOUR

       fingers,’ I mumbled to myself, as my

       dad undid his seatbelt. ‘Maybe if he had

       seventeen fingers, everything would

       take SEVENTEEN minutes instead!’

      I think I was just trying to put off

       getting out of the car.

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      My dad walked round to Desmond’s

       door and lifted him out, careful not

       to make his back go snap again. ‘Come

       on, Barry, out you pop too,’ he chirped,

       trying not to sound like a horrible dad

       who was sending his number one son

       off to a prison camp on an island in

       the middle of a lake with none of his

       friends for the whole of half term.

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      I slid myself out of the car and collapsed

      in a heap of Barryness on the tarmac.

      ‘Pleeease don’t make me go to Pirate

      Camp!’ I cried, as a little girl from

      about three million years below me at

      school walked past with her mum on

      the way to the ferry, giggling at my

      loserosity.

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      ‘Sorry, Barry,’ said my dad, holding

       Desmond’s bum up to his nostrils,

       checking if he’d done another poo.

       ‘Maybe when your Great Aunt Mildred’s

       nose shrinks back to normal and your

       mum comes home we can have

       another think.’

      The tarmac rumbled and Bunky and

       Nancy skidded their bikes to a stop

       and jumped off, panting from cycling

       all the way to Mogden Pier in less time

       than it takes to say this sentence.

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      ‘What in the name of unkeelness is

      going on here?’ said Bunky, and I

      explained to him and Nancy how my

      dad was sending me to Pirate Camp

       because we’d been jumping up and

      down on my mum and dad’s bed the

      day before.

      ‘. . . so really it’s kind of you two’s

      fault as well,’ I said, getting up from

      the tarmac and heaving my rucksack

      out of the boot. My orange tent was

      strapped to the bottom, with the word

      ‘LOSER’ written on it in big black capitals.

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      ‘But Pirate Camp is for kiddywinkles!’

       said Bunky, and my dad was just

       about to open his mouth and say his

       thing about how that meant I’d fit in

       there just perfectly, when I spotted

       the tip of Darren Darrenofski’s nose.

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      ‘Off to Baby Camp, eh, Loser?’ said

      Darren from my class at school, his

      mean little piggy face appearing from

      behind a Darren-Darrenofski’s-head-

      shaped car. He was wearing earphones

      and carrying a can of root beer

      flavour Fronkle.

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      ‘BUUURRRPPP!!!’ he burped, and an

       invisible little cloud of stink floated

       out of his mouth, towards my baby

       brother’s nostrils.

      ‘WAHHH!!!’ screamed Desmond, waggling

      his little hands in the air like a bonsai tree.

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      My dad passed Desmond over to

      Nancy and whipped a scratched-up

      pink plastic rectangle out of his pocket.

      ‘Here’s your mum’s old phone, Barry -

      in case you need to get in touch.

      I don’t want you using up all the battery

      watching your Future Ratman episodes

      though,’ he said.

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      ‘Ooh, nice pink phone, Mrs Loser!’

       snortled Darren, rummaging around

       in HIS pocket and pulling out a

       crumpled-up rectangle of card,

       pretending he was a businessman like

       Donald Cox or something. ‘Here’s my

       number - let’s do lunch sometime.’

      I looked down at the smelly bit of

       paper. ‘Darren Darrenofski - number

       one fan of Fronkle in the world,’ it

       said. Underneath the writing was a

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