Buch lesen: «The Barry Loser Series»

First published in Great Britain 2015 by Jelly Pie an imprint of Egmont UK Ltd The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text and illustration copyright © Jim Smith 2015 The moral rights of the author-illustrator have been asserted.

ISBN 978 1 4052 6803 5

eISBN 978 1 7803 1377 1

barryloser.com www.jellypiecentral.co.uk www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group

55384/1

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My mum and dad are so busy looking after my brand new baby brother, Desmond Loser the Second, I sometimes wonder if they know I even exist.

Like the other day, when my Granny Harumpadunk and her boyfriend Mr Hodgepodge came round to visit. My mum’s favourite show, Detective Manksniff, was on TV, and I’d snuggled up to her on the comfy sofa, using her belly as a pillow.

Granny Harumpadunk and Mr Hodgepodge were squidged on the uncomfy sofa, squinting through their matching glasses at the TV.

‘Ooh, now there’s a good-looking man,’ warbled my granny as Detective Manksniff stirred his cocktail with a straw, and Mr Hodgepodge rolled his eyes.

‘SHHH!’ shushed my mum. ‘I’m trying to enjoy my show,’ she said, and I sniggled at her loserness, even though I was secretly quite enjoying it too.

‘WAAAHHH!!!’ screamed my dad from the downstairs bathroom, where he was changing Desmond Loser the Second’s nappy for the nineteenth time that morning. ‘DESMOND’S WEED IN MY FACE AGAIN!’

I heard my mum’s belly do a gurgle and imagined myself curled up inside it, the same size as my annoying little brother.

‘What was I like when I was a baby, Mum?’ I said.

‘I’m coming, Desmond!’ cried my mum, comperleeterly ignoring my question, and she leaped off the sofa, wobbling down the hallway to help.

‘Des-mond,’ murmured Mr Hodgepodge, as if he’d only just heard it for the first time. ‘What a terrific name for a little boy!’ he smiled, and I wondered why everyone in my whole entire life had to have such loserish names, me included.

‘Desmond Loser the First would’ve been proud!’ beamed Granny Harumpadunk, heaving herself off the uncomfy sofa and doddering over to the mantelpiece, and she lifted up a photo of my Great Uncle Desmond, who was the biggest Loser that ever lived.

She put the picture back on the mantelpiece and picked up a little pig made out of china.

‘Do you think your mum wants this, Barry?’ she said, and I shrugged, not listening at all, because Detective Manksniff had finished and MY favourite TV show, Future Ratboy, was on next.

‘MAUREEN, DO YOU WANT THIS PIG OR CAN I SELL IT AT THE JUMBLE SALE?’ screeched Granny Harumpadunk down the hallway to my mum, and I blew off into my sofa cushion out of shock.

That’s all Granny Harumpadunk’s been doing recently, collecting stuff for her boring old jumble sale, which is in Mogden Hall on Saturday from 10am till 3pm with a live magic show by The Great Hodgepodge and his glamorous assistant, Madame Harumpadunk, at 1pm sharp.

‘Sell it. She’s got millions of them,’ whispered my dad, tiptoeing into the lounge with Desmond Loser the Second asleep on his shoulder.

‘Barry, turn that TV down,’ he mouthed, and I was just about to press the mute button on the remote control, seeing as it was only the adverts, when I saw a carton of Tears of Granny Laughter pop up on the screen.

‘Salute the keelness!’ I shouted, leaping off the sofa and doing a quadruple- reverse-salute, which is what I do when my favourite advert comes on TV.

Tears of Granny Laughter is this keel new drink they’ve started selling at Feeko’s Supermarkets.

It comes in three granny flavours, Beryl, Irene and Gertrude, and the advert is all about how they make it.

It starts with Beryl, Irene and Gertrude queuing up to go into a cinema.

Then you see them laughing at a man in an old black-and-white film who’s hanging off a building with his legs waggling everywhere.

The three grannies are all wearing massive 3D glasses that have been specially made to catch the tears of laughter zigzagging out of their eyes, and at the end of the film all the tear-juice is poured into cartons of Tears of Granny Laughter.

‘Can I have some money for a Tears of Granny Laughter, Dad? Can I, Daddypoos? Can I? Can I Can I?’ I said, running over and tugging my dad on his elbow, and Desmond Loser the Second opened his eyes and started screaming.

My mum wobbled back into the room, swinging a see-through plastic bag full of Desmond’s poo. ‘SHUSH, BARRY!’ she whisper-shouted, stroking Desmond Loser the Second’s cheek. ‘You’re upsetting Baby Des!’

Granny Harumpadunk slipped the china pig into her handbag and shuffled over to look at the baby.

‘Ooh, you’re the loveliest thing since sliced bread, aren’t you!’ she cooed, and I wondered what was so amazing about sliced bread.

‘Mu-um,’ I squeaked in my babiest voice ever, seeing as that’s what she seems to like so much these days, ‘Dad said I could have some money for a Tears of Granny Laughter.’

‘Tears of Granny Laughter,’ murmured my mum, as if she’d heard the name somewhere before. ‘Isn’t that that terrible new drink Feeko’s have been making out of little old ladies?’

‘It’s not real, that’s just the advert!’ I groaned, because everyone knows Feeko’s doesn’t use ACTUAL granny tears to make Tears of Granny Laughter. But my mum wasn’t listening.

‘I’m not having you drinking that stuff, Barry,’ she said, taking Desmond off my dad and peering into his eyes the way I peer into my cuddly Future Ratboy’s.

I clenched my fists and felt a Tear of Barry Annoyance start to work its way out of my eyehole.

‘But Mu-um, everyone at school drinks it!’ I wailed, which wasn’t comperleeterly true. Only Anton Mildew in my class had tried Tears of Granny Laughter so far.

Anton Mildew is the editor of our school newspaper, The Daily Poo. Ever since he said that Tears of Granny Laughter was even tastier than Fronkle, all I’ve wanted to do is drink a carton.

‘PLEE-EEASE!’ I whined, but not in an annoying, whiney way.

‘QUIET, BARRY!’ said my mum, without even looking at me.

I stuck my tongue out at Desmond and was just about to storm up to my bedroom, when Mr Hodgepodge heaved himself off the sofa and plodded over to where I was standing.

He was wearing his sparkly bow tie, which he thinks makes him look like a magician.

‘What’s that in your ear, Barry?’ he grinned, reaching out his shaky hand, and a 50p coin appeared between his fingers.

‘You go enjoy your bottle of Grandma Pop!’ he winked, dropping the 50p in my palm, and I slid it into my pocket before my mum and dad could see. Not that they were looking. Because they were too busy staring at Desmond Loser the Second.

It was the next day and I was skateboarding down the road to catch up with my best friends, Bunky and Nancy.

‘Mornkeels, Barry!’ said Bunky, as I skidded to a stop, trying to work out why he reminded me of Detective Manksniff all of a sudden. I looked him up and down and scratched my bum.

‘Hmmm, it’s not your voice,’ I said, thinking back to when Bunky had just said good morning to me. ‘Detective Manksniff’s voice is all deep and drawly. Yours sounds like a little old granny-dog’s yap,’ I smiled.

Bunky scrunched his face up, not really knowing what in the keelness I was going on about.

‘It’s not your hat either,’ I mumbled. ‘Detective Manksniff wears a keel detective hat, and you don’t wear a hat at all,’ I said, flicking Bunky’s hair at the front, where it sticks up like a hand.

Nancy sighed, half bored, half wondering if I’d gone stark raving bonkers.