We Want to be On the Telly Read online

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Happy birthday, Puffin!

  Did you know that in 1940 the very first Puffin story book (about a man with broomstick arms called Worzel Gummidge) was published? That’s 70 years ago! Since then the little Puffin logo has become one of the most recognized book brands in the world and Puffin has established its place in the hearts of millions.

  And in 2010 we are celebrating 70 spectacular years of Puffin and its books! Pocket Money Puffins is a brand-new collection from your favourite authors at a pocket-money price – in a perfect pocket size. We hope you enjoy these exciting stories and we hope you’ll join us in celebrating the very best books for children. We may be 70 years old (sounds ancient, doesn’t it?) but Puffin has never been so lively and fun.

  There really IS a Puffin book for everyone

  – discover yours today.

  Jeremy Strong once worked in a bakery, putting the jam into three thousand doughnuts every night. Now he puts the jam in stories instead, which he finds much more exciting. At the age of three, he fell out of a first-floor bedroom window and landed on his head. His mother says that this damaged him for the rest of his life and refuses to take any responsibility. He loves writing stories because he says it is ‘the only time you alone have complete control and can make anything happen’. His ambition is to make you laugh (or at least snuffle). Jeremy Strong lives near Bath with his wife, Gillie, four cats and a flying cow.

  Are you feeling silly enough to read more?

  BATPANTS!

  THE BATTLE FOR CHRISTMAS

  (A Cosmic Pyjamas Adventure)

  BEWARE! KILLER TOMATOES

  CHRISTMAS CHAOS FOR

  THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG

  KRANKENSTEIN’S CRAZY HOUSE OF HORROR

  (A Cosmic Pyjamas Adventure)

  LOST! THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG

  MY BROTHER’S HOT CROSS BOTTOM

  JEREMY STRONG’S LAUGH-YOUR-SOCKS-OFF JOKE BOOK

  JEREMY STRONG’S LAUGH-YOUR-SOCKS-OFF-EVEN-MORE JOKE BOOK

  Illustrated by

  Rowan Clifford

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published 2010

  Text copyright © Jeremy Strong, 2010

  Illustration copyright © Rowan Clifford, 2010

  Colour Puffin artwork on cover copyright © Jill McDonald, 1974

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

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

  ISBN: 978-0-14-194409-8

  This little story is dedicated to Puffin Books.

  Thank you for all the wonderful tales and amazing picture books you have given to us all over many years. You have been an inspiration for our dreams as children and our lives as adults, broadening our awareness and being a happy part of what many of us have become.

  J. S.

  Contents

  1. The Baby Now Arriving at London Airport

  2. Anyone for a Bath?

  3. Anyone for Rice Pudding?

  4. What’s Large, Pink and Flies Backwards?

  5. Mr Jollop Knits a Jumper

  6. Spot the Cake

  7. Flying High

  1

  The Baby Now Arriving at London Airport

  It started at breakfast.

  ‘We’re going to be on the telly,’ said Mum. Dad stood behind her, grinning as if he’d just won a million pounds AND free chocolate for the rest of his life.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘On TV? What for?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Mum. ‘We haven’t decided yet. The thing is, your pa and I have always wanted to be on the telly and now we’re going to do it.’ (Mum always calls my dad ‘Pa’ and Dad always calls my mum ‘Ma’. Don’t ask me why. I haven’t a clue.)

  ‘We’ll be famous,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll walk down the street and people will look at us and point and say, “Look! It’s Pa and Ma off the telly!” We’ll be famous,’ he repeated.

  ‘But people look at you anyway,’ I pointed out.

  It’s true. People always stare at my parents because, to be honest, they are VERY STRANGE. They like to sport giant sunglasses and put on silly hats. Dad wears trousers that are too short and socks that don’t match. Mum’s got one of those trick arrows that looks as if it’s gone right through her head.

  People stop them in the street and say: ‘Why are you dressed like that?’ And do you know what my parents say?

  ‘It’s fun!’

  NO, IT ISN’T! STOP DOING IT!

  YOU JUST LOOK STUPID!

  AND YOU MAKE ME

  FEEL STUPID TOO!

  Why can’t my mum and dad just be ORDINARY? You can imagine what it’s like when I go to school. The other children are always pestering me.

  ‘Heathrow, your parents are total bonker-plonkers.’ That’s the sort of thing they say. It’s not nice, is it?

  And imagine what it’s like when Mum and Dad come to school for parent-teacher interviews! Dad sits there with a pretend axe stuck in his head while Mum wears plastic Dracula fangs and has fake blood dribbling from the corners of her mouth.

  Even my teacher, Mr Jollop, asks questions, and he reckons he’s seen everything. (We know this because he’s always shaking his head at our schoolwork and saying: ‘Now I’ve seen everything.’) Anyhow, even Mr Jollop has started asking questions.

  ‘Heathrow, your parents … um …?’ His voice trailed away, his eyebrows knitted themselves into half a sock, and he looked confused.

  ‘Yes?’ I said helpfully.

  ‘Your parents, are they … um …?’

  ‘Mad?’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh, oh, not exactly, no, not mad, just a bit … um …?’

  ‘Off this planet and possibly somewhere in an entirely different universe altogether?’ I offered.

  ‘Oh, oh, no, no, I wouldn’t go that far. It’s … it’s … it’s just they’re a bit … um?’

  ‘Weird?’ I prompted.

  ‘Oh, oh,’ Mr Jollop began, his eyes as round as his oh-oh-oh-ing mouth. ‘Weird? Hmmmm. Well, yes, in a way, weird might be the um … the word. Yes, in a word, weird IS the word. Hmm.’ And his eyebrows knitted the
rest of the sock.

  So as you can see most people think my parents are strange.

  By the way, in case you’re wondering why I’m called Heathrow, you can blame my parents again. When they got married, they used to spend every Sunday having afternoon tea at the café in the Arrivals area at London Heathrow Airport. They used to try to spot famous people arriving.

  My mum was getting fatter and fatter. She thought it was all the cakes she was eating at the café. Then one Sunday she came over all faint and before they knew it she was giving birth – to me! I was born in the Arrivals area of a major London airport. That’s why they called me Heathrow. My life has been going downhill ever since.

  Now they want to be on the telly. That means that soon the WHOLE WORLD will know how strange my parents are. I sat there at breakfast and my heart turned into one of those small, cold, unidentifiable splobs you find lurking at the back of a fridge. It’s been there for three years, going mouldy, and nobody can remember what it was.

  Mum and Dad stood beside the breakfast table, smiling and grinning with excitement. ‘On the telly!’ Dad cried. ‘Isn’t that wonderful!’

  And my heart cried out inside me: ‘No, Dad. It’s not wonderful. I don’t want everyone to know how daft you can be. I just want you to be normal and ordinary. I’d like to be able to look at you without wanting to curl up and get back into the fridge.’

  But it’s not going to happen, is it?

  2

  Anyone for a Bath?

  My parents’ first idea was that they would spend the rest of their lives living in the bath. Now then, we have quite a large bathroom and quite a big bath, but even so it’s not the sort of thing you might choose to spend the rest of your life in.

  Personally speaking, I like baths. I prefer a bath to a shower. When you have a bath, you can play submarines. You can curl your fingers into a fist and turn your hand into a water pistol and squirt people. You can slide down beneath the surface of the water and see how long you can hold your breath.

  And, best of all, if by any chance you happen to – excuse my language – let one off, and I’m sure you know what I mean, it makes the most amazing underwater explosion of bubbles. Which then burst on the surface and poison you with horrible gas.

  You can’t do any of those things when you have a shower. Baths are definitely better. But would you want to live in a bath tub? I don’t think so.

  ‘Will there be water in the bath?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course!’ Dad grinned.

  ‘Will you both be in the bath at the same time?’ I enquired.

  ‘Yes!’ Mum beamed.

  ‘And you are going to eat and sleep and work in the bath?’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Dad. ‘And you are going to bring us breakfast and lunch and supper.’

  ‘I see. But if you’re in the bath, won’t you be – you know? Or will you make sure it’s a bubble bath – with an awful lot of bubbles?’ I added hastily, turning as red as a tomato with no knickers.

  ‘Silly boy,’ laughed Mum. ‘We’ll be keeping our clothes on, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I echoed. ‘You’ll be keeping your clothes on. In the bath. How stupid of me to imagine you might have taken them off.’

  Dad burst into hysterical giggles. ‘Not on telly, Heathrow. Don’t be daft!’ And there you have it. My dad was going to live in a bath full of water, with all his clothes on, and with Mum there too, and he was telling ME not to be daft. I was still shaking my head at this when Mum said they were going to run the bath straight away.

  ‘So you must ring up the telly people and tell them what we’re doing,’ she added.

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mum and Dad disappeared upstairs. A few moments later I heard water running. I gave a big sigh and went to the telephone.

  The telly people were not very helpful. They wanted to know how long my parents had been living in the bath. I looked at the clock.

  ‘About five minutes,’ I answered.

  ‘Tell them to get back to us in a year,’ said the woman from the telly, and she put the phone down. When I told Mum and Dad what had happened, they weren’t the least bit put out.

  ‘We can easily manage a year, can’t we, Ma?’ said Dad, resting his feet (with socks and shoes) on Mum’s shoulders. ‘Ring the newspaper people instead and tell them what we’re doing. They’re bound to send a photographer and when the telly people see the photo they’ll come and film us. In the meantime, could you bring me today’s paper and a cup of coffee?’

  ‘And I’ll have a cup of tea and a biscuit,’ added Mum, giving a little wriggle. ‘I’ve been sitting on the soap,’ she chuckled. ‘I thought it felt a bit uncomfortable.’

  I heaved another sigh and went down to the kitchen. While the kettle boiled, I rang the local newspaper. They were not very helpful either. In fact they just laughed and asked me if my surname was Fish. Or maybe Trout? Or Haddock? Mr and Mrs Sardine? The Kipper family, perhaps? Jack Sprat? Squid?

  ‘The squid isn’t a fish,’ I pointed out coldly, and put the phone down. I finished making the drinks and went up to the bathroom with the bad news.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Dad, ‘I have another idea. You get a bed sheet, Heathrow, and a black felt-tip pen. Write on it with extra-big letters:

  COME AND SEE US LIVING IN OUR BATH!

  Hang it from the front bedroom window and soon people will be queuing up to watch. The telly people are certain to come and see what all the fuss is about.’

  My jaw just about fell off. In fact I’m pretty sure it bounced on the floor a couple of times before going back into place. Did my parents really want the whole street queuing up outside to see them being prize nincompoops? I didn’t bother to ask them because I knew the answer was ‘YES!’

  I went trudging off to the linen cupboard and pulled out a big white sheet. I took it downstairs and spread it across the floor in the front room. I stomped up to my bedroom and found a big fat felt-tip pen. I trudged back downstairs, slumped down in front of the sheet and took the top off the pen.

  I was about to start writing when there was a double scream from upstairs.

  ‘AAAAARGH!’

  ‘EEUUURRGH!’

  I rushed back up. Dad was writhing about, clutching his left thigh.

  ‘I’ve got cramp from being in the same position for too long. It’s agony!’ he cried.

  ‘And Pa’s jerking about made me stick my big toe up the cold tap and now it’s stuck!’ added Mum.

  ‘Help us!’ they chorused.

  I looked at them struggling. I folded my arms. ‘I’ll help you on one condition,’ I said.

  ‘Anything, we’ll do anything!’ they pleaded.

  ‘You’ve got to give up this idea of living in the bath.’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ Dad agreed at once. ‘Just get me out so I can walk around and ease this awful cramp.’

  I helped Dad climb from the tub and he squelched off, up and down the hall, shaking his left leg and leaving puddles everywhere. I managed to push some soap up the sides of Mum’s big toe until she could slip it from the tap. Then she got out and made big squelchy puddles everywhere too.

  I didn’t care. My parents had given up on their crazy idea. Hooray. Maybe things would go back to normal now.

  Fat chance.

  3

  Anyone for Rice Pudding?

  ‘The trouble with the bath was that it wasn’t big enough, Heathrow,’ Dad explained the next day.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mum, nodding. ‘And it wasn’t interesting enough for the telly people either. So your pa has come up with the most marvellous plan. We’re going to live in the garden pond instead.’

  I wanted to close my ears. I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to find myself a million miles away. But of course I didn’t.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ Dad added.

  ‘It isn’t?’ I asked, my voice weak, dreading what he might say next.

  ‘No,’ said Dad. ‘The pond won’t ha
ve any water in it.’

  That didn’t sound too bad. I perked up a bit. ‘No water? At least you’ll stay dry, then.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Mum smiled. ‘We’re going to fill it with rice pudding.’

  GULP!

  ‘Rice pudding?’ I squeaked.

  ‘It will be the biggest rice pudding in the world,’ said Dad.

  ‘And we’ll be sitting right in the middle of it,’ added Mum.

  ‘With your clothes on, I suppose?’ I asked.

  Dad shook his head. ‘Ma’s going to wear her bikini and I shall be in my swimming trunks.’

  ‘And a snorkel. Don’t forget your snorkel and face mask. I thought that was a really good idea. Nobody will expect to find someone living in a pond full of rice pudding and wearing a snorkel.’

  ‘Exactly,’ laughed Dad. ‘Your ma’s as bright as a button, Heathrow!’

  And secretly I was thinking: No, she isn’t! My mum’s as daft as – as daft as someone who sits in rice pudding wearing their swimsuit.

  Now, our pond was not a thing of beauty. About the only thing that made it a pond was that it had water in it. There were no fish or frogs. There were no water snails. There were no beautiful water lilies. There wasn’t even a shopping trolley. In fact the only thing in the pond, apart from water, was a large, dead gnome.

  It was one of those statue things you find in garden centres. It was supposed to be a fountain, with water squishing out of the top of the gnome’s hat. However, Dad’s never been much good at that Do-It-Yourself stuff. He had never got the fountain to work and eventually it just fell over, face down in the middle of the pond, and Dad left it there.

  By mid-morning my parents had drained the pond of water and pulled the gnome on to the grass.

  ‘I think it needs the Kiss of Life,’ joked Dad.

  ‘Time to get the rice pudding,’ Mum said. ‘Come on, Heathrow. You can help.’