and not three, or five.
45
‘Maybe it’s because he’s got FOUR
fingers,’ I mumbled to myself, as my
dad undid his seatbelt. ‘Maybe if he had
seventeen fingers, everything would
take SEVENTEEN minutes instead!’
I think I was just trying to put off
getting out of the car.
46
My dad walked round to Desmond’s
door and lifted him out, careful not
to make his back go snap again. ‘Come
on, Barry, out you pop too,’ he chirped,
trying not to sound like a horrible dad
who was sending his number one son
off to a prison camp on an island in
the middle of a lake with none of his
friends for the whole of half term.
47
I slid myself out of the car and collapsed
in a heap of Barryness on the tarmac.
‘Pleeease don’t make me go to Pirate
Camp!’ I cried, as a little girl from
about three million years below me at
school walked past with her mum on
the way to the ferry, giggling at my
loserosity.
48
‘Sorry, Barry,’ said my dad, holding
Desmond’s bum up to his nostrils,
checking if he’d done another poo.
‘Maybe when your Great Aunt Mildred’s
nose shrinks back to normal and your
mum comes home we can have
another think.’
The tarmac rumbled and Bunky and
Nancy skidded their bikes to a stop
and jumped off, panting from cycling
all the way to Mogden Pier in less time
than it takes to say this sentence.
49
‘What in the name of unkeelness is
going on here?’ said Bunky, and I
explained to him and Nancy how my
dad was sending me to Pirate Camp
because we’d been jumping up and
down on my mum and dad’s bed the
day before.
‘. . . so really it’s kind of you two’s
fault as well,’ I said, getting up from
the tarmac and heaving my rucksack
out of the boot. My orange tent was
strapped to the bottom, with the word
‘LOSER’ written on it in big black capitals.
50
‘But Pirate Camp is for kiddywinkles!’
said Bunky, and my dad was just
about to open his mouth and say his
thing about how that meant I’d fit in
there just perfectly, when I spotted
the tip of Darren Darrenofski’s nose.
51
‘Off to Baby Camp, eh, Loser?’ said
Darren from my class at school, his
mean little piggy face appearing from
behind a Darren-Darrenofski’s-head-
shaped car. He was wearing earphones
and carrying a can of root beer
flavour Fronkle.
52
‘BUUURRRPPP!!!’ he burped, and an
invisible little cloud of stink floated
out of his mouth, towards my baby
brother’s nostrils.
‘WAHHH!!!’ screamed Desmond, waggling
his little hands in the air like a bonsai tree.
53
My dad passed Desmond over to
Nancy and whipped a scratched-up
pink plastic rectangle out of his pocket.
‘Here’s your mum’s old phone, Barry -
in case you need to get in touch.
I don’t want you using up all the battery
watching your Future Ratman episodes
though,’ he said.
54
‘Ooh, nice pink phone, Mrs Loser!’
snortled Darren, rummaging around
in HIS pocket and pulling out a
crumpled-up rectangle of card,
pretending he was a businessman like
Donald Cox or something. ‘Here’s my
number - let’s do lunch sometime.’
I looked down at the smelly bit of
paper. ‘Darren Darrenofski - number
one fan of Fronkle in the world,’ it
said. Underneath the writing was a
