called Philip the Horror.
But I know what you’re wondering. You’re wondering how the Dinnertime Wars got started in the first place, aren’t you?
‘How did it all start?’ you say.
‘Where did it begin?’ you ask.
‘What do you mean, a monkey?’ you enquire.
‘Shut up,’ I reply. ‘Stop bothering me with all these questions and I will tell you.’
It all started on a Friday. And not only did it start on a Friday but it started with a Friday – that wonderful old gentleman Friday O’Leary, hero of many an adventure and three times winner of the Lamonic Bibber Women’s Underwater Badminton Championship.
And here’s a quick word from Friday himself:
‘BREADBIN’
Thanks, Friday.
But hey now, hey now, don’t dream it’s over. This story doesn’t just start with Friday O’Leary. Because along with him were his good friends Polly and Alan Taylor.
Now, Polly was a little girl with the sort of sandy-coloured hair that makes you happy to be alive and the sort of heart-coloured heart which is so brave it would fight a lion if that lion happened to deserve it. For instance, if he had been trying to rob pencils. Polly was only nine but she was a hero through and through.
And as for Alan Taylor, he was a gingerbread man with electric muscles and he was 16.24cm tall because he’d grown a centimetre since the last book he was in.
‘Maybe I’ll grow into a real man one day,’ he was fond of saying. But that was impossible.
Or was it?
Yes.
But never mind. For the most part, Alan Taylor was a jolly little twinkle and girls liked him because he was cute and they could dress him up like a doll and make him do tea parties.
‘Oh, you are a darlin’ little marshy,’ laughed Polly now, bending down to kiss Alan Taylor on his juicy raisin eye. ‘An’ this is gonna be the best holiday ever!’
‘That’s right,’ laughed Friday O’Leary, throwing his hat up in the air. It landed on a cloud and the cloud laughed so hard it turned into a lovely apple. ‘We’re off to the seaside and we won’t be back for weeks!’
‘Hoorays!’ said Polly.
‘Huzzooof!’ said Alan Taylor.
‘THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ yelled Friday, as he sometimes liked to do. ‘It’s seaside time for us!’
And off they toddled down the friendly road and the sun shone down and the trees were brown and there wasn’t a frown in the whole wide world, just Friday, a biscuit and a happy little girl.
Deep inside Billy William the Third’s Right Royal Meats someone stood in the dismal shadows, watching the heroes go. It was that appalling butcher, Billy William the Third.
‘Ha ha ha,’ grinned Billy now. ‘With them lot of do-gooders gone down the seaside to do their sunbathin’ an’ their sandcastles, the way is clear for evil. For once me an’ me old pal Mr Gum’ll be free to do our plans in peace. An’ then we’ll RULE this stupid town!’
And that’s how it went in Lamonic Bibber. Billy William and Mr Gum were always trying to hatch their scoundrel plans and the heroes were always squashing them back down. So it was no wonder that seeing Polly and her friends leaving town put Billy in a good evil mood.
No more heroes any more!
he sang.
No more heroes any more! They walked right past me butcher’s door! Now me an’ Mr Gum’s gonna rule the roost! What’s a roost, I don’t even know? But who even cares, cos the heroes are gone! An’ now I’m gonna sing me song! Yeah yeah yeah yeah, nothin’ can stop us! Not even an interferin’ diplodocus.
As Billy sang he beat out a rhythm on the counter with a pair of chicken drumsticks. He closed his eyes and pretended he was a rock star guy called Space Age Billy and the Meat Brigade.
No more heroes any more! They walked right past me butcher’s door!
Me name is Space Age Billy, I’m a funky man!
He was Number 1 in the charts and all the girls fancied him. He was the best!
No more heroes any more! Mr Gum an’ Billy’s gonna win for sure!
But hang on. Just where was Mr Gum exactly?
Billy opened his eyes and snapped back to reality. He must have been singing for hours. It was getting dark outside. An owl flew past the window. Then another owl flew past. Then Dracula and his friend Clive walked by on their way to the pub. It was night time – but still no Mr Gum.
‘That’s funty,’ said Billy. (You see, that was how Billy William pronounced the word ‘funny’.) ‘Mr Gum always comes here for his Friday night dinner. He loves feastin’ on the entrails an’ stale burgers what I feed him. In all these years he ain’t never once been late.’
Billy’s pet flies buzzed around his head, picking at the tiny morsels of meat he kept in his ears for their treats.
The clock on the wall ticked.
Billy waited patiently, but inside his heart was slowly sinking like a battle ship. Until finally he had to admit it. Mr Gum wasn’t going to show.
‘Well, that’s it. I can’t wait no longer,’ yawned Billy, his butcher’s cap drooping wearily in the gloom. ‘There’s nothin’ for it but to shut up shop an’ call it a night.’
’I don’t get it,’ said Billy as he tucked himself into his freezing cold bed. ‘A whole town to muck up an’ no Mr Gum to muck it up with! It ain’t no fun doin’ plans on me own.’
Billy looked up at the poster on the wall. It was his secret joy. It was a pin-up of Thora Gruntwinkle, the Butcher Queen of Olde London Town. She was holding a meat cleaver dripping with guts.
‘Imagine if you an’ me was married,
