on!” shouted Suspicious Mick over the noise of the electronic engines and the chanting children.
“Pants pants pants!” they shouted. “Head head head!”
Nat noticed that Darius was leading the chanting.
ONE.
And they were off.
“Put your foot down, Dad!” yelled Nat. “You’re going to be Pants Head if you don’t catch him soon.”
Suspicious Mick was concentrating hard. He had EVERYTHING clenched: teeth, fingers, buttocks. Truth is, he was a clenched kind of person to begin with. He had played this game loads over the years. He often chucked children off the machine to get a free go.
He knew all the bits to speed on and where to brake. He even knew the cheaty short cuts. Nat watched in despair as Suspicious Mick slid sideways round a nasty bend and went through a wall of tyres on to another bit of track, saving a good ten seconds. Meanwhile, Dad carefully changed down into second gear to avoid running into a pigeon. He was DOOMED.
Suspicious Mick hit the throttle on a long straight. The car roared and surged forward. The stupid animated fans on the machine cheered as the real audience booed. But wait … Something weird was happening. Mick was heading for a hairpin bend at a ridiculous speed. He was going TOO FAST. Surely he couldn’t take that bend this fast, thought Nat.
No, he couldn’t. He was jabbing his foot on the brake pedal but nothing was happening. With a yell he tried to turn the wheel, but it was too late. His car ploughed into a bank of spectators in the biggest crash anyone had ever seen. The screen erupted in cartoon flame.
The French kids cheered. Mick frantically reversed. Dad was starting to gain on him. Mick roared off, Dad now only two cars behind. The same crazy thing happened again; Mick got faster and faster, crashing into barrier after barrier, metal shrieking and sparks flying.
But he was still just in front as the finish line came in sight. But it was close – Dad was right behind him. “Come on, Dad,” shouted Nat, “put your blinking foot down!”
The chequered flag went up, signalling the end of the race was nigh. It went down on …
Mick’s car! He had won.
Mick jumped up. “Beat you, beat you, ha ha ha,” he shouted nastily. The kids booed like he was a panto villain. “Pants on your head, get them on!” crowed Mick heartlessly.
Nat felt sick. Dad was going to break all previous embarrassment records. But no. What was this? A computerised referee appeared on the screen, wagging a finger at Mick’s car.
Stern text appeared.
“Due to dangerous driving, this car has been given a ten-second time penalty. The winner of the race is now – car number two.”
Dad had won!
The French kids went wild. Dad did a victory lap of the arcade as Nat cringed and Mick slunk off saying he had to get back to work and the machine was broken and it wasn’t fair and he never wanted to see any of them ever again and no he WASN’T going to wear his pants on his head for anyone, thank you, so there.
“Bad loser, bad loser,” sang the chorus of kids behind him. He shook his fist at them and went off to shout at the smallest people he could find.
Nat breathed a sigh of relief. She knew Dad would DEFINITELY have worn his pants on his head if he’d
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