reply.
Trisha put it to Barry that he was “comfort eating”. Trisha was good with phrases like that. She had after all been through a lot of difficult times herself. Barry cried a bit at the end, and as the credits rolled Trisha smiled sadly and gave him a hug, though it was hard for her to really get her arms around Barry as he was the size of a small bungalow.
Dennis wondered whether his dad was comfort eating too, having one more sausage or slice of fried bread at breakfast to–in Trisha’s words–“fill the emptiness inside”. But he didn’t dare share that thought with his dad. Dad wasn’t keen on Dennis watching the show anyway. He said, “It’s just for girls, that.”
Dennis dreamed of one day having his own Trisha episode, with the title, “My brother’s farts smell well bad” or “My dad has a chocolate Hob-Nob problem”. (Dad ate a whole packet of the admittedly more-ish biscuits every day when he got home from work.)
So when Dennis, his dad and John played football, Dad would always go in goal, because he was so fat. He liked it because it meant he didn’t have to run around that much. The goal was an upturned bucket and an empty beer keg, a remnant from a long-forgotten barbecue they’d once had when Mum was still around.
They didn’t have barbecues any more. These days they had battered sausages from the local chippy, or bowls of cereal, even when it wasn’t breakfast.
What Dennis loved most about playing football with his family was that he was the best. Even though his brother was two years older, Dennis could run rings around him in the garden, tackling, dribbling, and scoring with great skill. And it wasn’t like it was easy to get the ball past his dad. Not because Dad was good in goal–it was just that he was so big…
On Sunday mornings Dennis used to play football for his local club. He dreamed of being a professional footballer, but after his mum and dad split up he stopped going. He had always relied on his mum to give him a lift–Dad couldn’t take him as he was forever driving up and down the country in his lorry trying to make ends meet.
So Dennis’s dream floated quietly away.
Dennis did play football for his school though, and was his team’s number one… shooter?
Sorry, reader, I must look this up.
Ah, striker.
Yes, Dennis was his team’s number one striker, scoring over a million goals in a year.
Excuse me again, reader, I don’t know much about football, maybe a million is too much. A thousand? A hundred? Two?
Whatever, he scored the most goals.
As a result, Dennis was incredibly popular with his team-mates–except the captain, Gareth, who picked Dennis up on every little mistake on the pitch. Dennis suspected that Gareth was jealous of him because he was a better footballer. Gareth was one of those boys who are unusually large for their age. In fact you wouldn’t be surprised to find he was really five years older than everyone else in his year, but had just been held back on account of being a bit thick.
Once, Dennis was off school with a really bad cold on a match day. He had just finished watching that day’s Trisha, a gripping episode about a woman who discovered she was having an affair with her own husband. Then he was looking forward to some Heinz tomato soup and his second favourite show Loose Women, where a panel of angry looking ladies debated important issues of the day–like diets and leggings.
But just as the signature tune was starting there was a knock at the door. Dennis got up grumpily. It was Darvesh, Dennis’s best friend at school.
“Dennis, we desperately need you to play today,” pleaded Darvesh.
“I’m sorry, Darvesh, I’m just not feeling well. I can’t stop sneezing or coughing. Aaachoooo! See?” replied Dennis.
“But it’s the quarter finals today. We’ve always got knocked out at the quarter-finals before. Please?”
Dennis sneezed again.
It was such a strong sneeze he thought he was going to turn inside out.
“Pleeeaaassseee,” said Darvesh hopefully as he discreetly wiped some of Dennis’s stray snot from his tie.
“OK, I’ll try,” coughed Dennis.
“Yeeeessss!” exclaimed Darvesh, as if victory was already theirs.
Dennis gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of soup, grabbed his kit and ran out of the house.
Darvesh’s mum was sitting in her little red Ford Fiesta outside, with the engine running. She worked on the tills at Sainsbury’s, but lived to see her son play football. She was the proudest mum in the world, which always made her son squirm a little.
“Thank goodness you have come, Dennis!” she said as Dennis clambered onto the back seat. “The team needs you today, it’s a very important match. Without doubt the most important match of the season!”
“Just drive please, Mum!” said Darvesh.
“All right! All right! We’re going! Don’t talk to your mother like that Darvesh!” she shouted, pretending to be angrier than she really was. She put her foot on the accelerator and the car lurched uncertainly off towards the school playing fields.
“Oh, you’ve decided to come have you?” growled Gareth as they pulled up. Not only was he bigger than everyone else, he had a deeper voice, and was disturbingly hairy for a boy his age.
When he showered he looked like a big monkey.
“Sorry, Gareth I just wasn’t feeling well. I have a pretty bad…”
Before Dennis could say “cold,” he sneezed again even more violently than before.
“Oh sorry, Gareth,” said Dennis, wiping a small gloop of snot from Gareth’s ear with a tissue.
“Let’s just do this,” said Gareth.
Feeling weak with illness, Dennis ran onto the school pitch with his team, coughing and spluttering all the way.
“Good luck boys! Especially my son Darvesh, and of course his friend Dennis! Let’s win this for the school!” shouted Darvesh’s mum from the side of the pitch.
“My mum is like so embarrassing,” rumbled Darvesh.
“I think it’s cool she comes,” said Dennis. “My dad’s never seen me playing in a match.”
“Let’s see a nice goal from you today please, Darvesh my son!”
“Mmm,
