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However, the main reason why Joe hated going to St Cuthbert’s wasn’t the silly subjects. It was the fact that everyone at the school looked down on him. They thought that someone whose papa made their money from bog rolls was just too, too frightfully common.
“I want to go to a different school, Dad,” said Joe.
“No problem. I can afford to send you to the poshest schools in the world. I heard about this place in Switzerland. You ski in the morning and then—”
“No,” said Joe. “How about I go to the local comp?”
“What?” said Mr Spud.
“I might make a friend there,” said Joe. He’d seen the kids milling around the school gates when he was being chauffeured to St Cuthbert’s. They all looked like they were having such a great time – chatting, playing games, swapping cards. To Joe, it all looked so fabulously normal.
“Yes, but the local comp...” said Mr Spud, incredulously. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” replied Joe, defiantly.
“I could build you a school in the back garden if you like?” offered Mr Spud.
“No. I want to go to a normal school. With normal kids. I want to make a friend, Dad. I don’t have a single friend at St Cuthbert’s.”
“But you can’t go to a normal school. You are a billionaire, boy. All the kids will either bully you or want to be friends with you just because you are rich. It’ll be a nightmare for you.”
“Well, then I won’t tell anyone who I am. I’ll just be Joe. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll make a friend, or even two…”
Mr Spud thought for a moment, and then relented. “If that’s what you really want, Joe, then OK, you can go to a normal school.”
Joe was so excited he bum-jumped* along the sofa nearer to his dad to give him a cuddle.
“Don’t crease the suit, boy,” said Mr Spud.
*[Bumjumping (verb) bum-jump-ing. To move places while sitting using only your bottom to power you, thus meaning you do not have to get up. Much favoured by the overweight.]
“Sorry Dad,” said Joe, bumjumping back a little. He cleared his throat. “Um… I love you, Dad.”
“Yes, son, ditto, ditto,” said Mr Spud, as he rose to his feet. “Well, have a good birthday, mate.”
“Aren’t we going to do something together tonight?” said Joe, trying to hide his disappointment. When he was younger, Joe’s dad would always take him to the local burger restaurant as a birthday treat. They couldn’t afford the burgers, so they would just order the chips, and eat them with some ham and pickle sandwiches that Mr Spud would smuggle in under his hat.
“I can’t son, sorry. I’ve got a date with this beautiful girl tonight,” said Mr Spud, indicating Page 3 of the Sun.
Joe looked at the page. There was a photograph of a woman whose clothes seemed to have fallen off. Her hair was dyed white blonde and she had so much make-up on it was difficult to tell if she was pretty or not. Underneath the image it read, ‘Sapphire, 19, from Bradford. Likes shopping, hates thinking. ’
“Don’t you think Sapphire’s a little young for you, Dad?” asked Joe.
“It’s only a twenty-seven-year age gap,” replied Mr Spud in an instant.
Joe wasn’t convinced. “Well, where are you taking this Sapphire?”
“A nightclub.”
“A nightclub?” asked Joe.
“Yes,” said Mr Spud, in an offended tone. “I am not too old to go to a nightclub!” As he spoke he opened a box and pulled out what looked like a hamster that had been flattened by a mallet and put it on his head.
“What on earth is that, Dad?”
“What’s what, Joe?” replied Mr Spud with mock innocence, as he adjusted the contraption to cover his bald dome.
“That thing on your head.”
“Ooh, this. It’s a toupee, boy! Only ten grand each. I bought a blonde one, a brown one, a ginger one, and an afro for special occasions. It makes me look twenty years younger, don’t you think?”
Joe didn’t like to lie. The toupee didn’t make his dad look younger – instead, it made him look like a man who was trying to balance a dead rodent on his head. Therefore, Joe chose a noncommittal, “Mmm.”
“Right. Well, have a good night,” Joe added, picking up the remote. It looked like it would be just him and the 100-inch TV again.
“There’s some caviar in the fridge for your tea, son,” said Mr Spud as he headed for the door.
“What’s caviar?”
“It’s fish eggs, son.”
“Eurgh…” Joe didn’t even like normal eggs much. Eggs laid by a fish sounded really revolting.
“Yeah, I had some on toast for me breakfast. It’s absolutely disgusting, but it is very expensive so we should start eating it.”
“Can’t we just have bangers and mash or fish and chips or shepherd’s pie or something, Dad?”
“Mmm, I used to love shepherd’s pie, son…” Mr Spud drooled a little, as if imagining the taste of shepherd’s pie.
“Well then…?”
Mr Spud shook his head impatiently. “No no no, we are rich, son! We have to eat all this posh stuff now like proper rich people do. See you later!” The door slammed behind him and moments later Joe heard the deafening roar of his father’s lime-green Lamborghini speeding off into the night.
Joe was disappointed to be on his own again, but he still couldn’t suppress a small smile as he turned on the TV. He was going to go to an ordinary school again and be an ordinary boy. And maybe, just maybe, make a friend.
The question was, how long could Joe keep the fact that he was a billionaire a secret…?
Finally, the big day came. Joe took off his diamond-encrusted watch and put his gold pen in the drawer. He looked at the designer black snakeskin bag his dad had bought him for his first day at his new school and put it back in his cupboard. Even the bag that bag had come in was too posh, but he found an old plastic one in the kitchen and put his school books in that. Joe was determined not to stand out.
From the back seat of his chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce he had passed the local
