Just Annoying! (17 page)

‘Right on!' says Danny.

‘Shut up!' I say. ‘Just act normal.'

The ushers are patrolling the aisles like prison guards.

I pretend to be absorbed by the movie.

It's not easy. I've completely lost track of what's going on. And I still can't see the screen properly.

All I can make out is that James Bond and his girlfriend are trapped in this enormous factory. It's filled with smoke and fire. Explosions left, right and centre. They are desperately pressing buttons to get the doors open.

My Jaffa!

I have to eat the Jaffa before I lose it again.

I put the Jaffa in my mouth. This is going to be good. I worked for this. I deserve it.

That's funny. I didn't know they made Jaffas with a mint centre. And so chewy.

That's not right. It's not a Jaffa. It's somebody's old chewing gum.

I clutch at my throat. What if the person who last chewed that gum was really sick and now I've got some horrible disease?

I spit the gum out.

It flies through the air, straight into the hair of the woman in front of me.

She jumps up.

‘There's something in my hair!' she screams ‘Urgh! Chewing gum.'

She turns to me and points.

‘You did this, you nasty little boy!'

I slump down in my seat.

The handbag woman stands up.

‘That's the boy who tried to steal my handbag!'

The other woman is beside her.

‘He tried to look up my dress!'

‘No!' I say to them. ‘You're making a terrible mistake. That was just somebody who
looks
like me!'

Ushers everywhere. More and more people are crowding around my seat. Nobody seems to be interested in the movie any more.

Even the little kid is standing on his seat and pointing.

‘That's him,' he says. ‘See, Mummy! That's the boy who was under my seat.'

His mother stands up.

‘Is this true?' she says.

Before I can answer, the first usher is shining his torch in my face.

‘It's you!' he says. ‘The one who tied my shoelaces together!'

The faces of these people appear twisted and evil in the half-light of the movie house. The usher is a dead-ringer for the villain in the film.

I turn to Danny for support.

‘Tell them I'm innocent, Danny! Tell them!' I plead.

But Danny's seat is empty. So is Dad's.

They've abandoned me. I can't say I blame them. This is one ugly mob.

‘Hey, look, I'm sorry,' I say. ‘I'd love to stay and chat but I have to be going . . .'

‘Stay right there,' says the usher. ‘You're in big trouble!'

He pushes me back down into my seat.

‘Let's speargun him!' says the handbag lady.

People cheer.

‘Feed him to the sharks!' cries the dress lady.

Even more cheering.

‘Wait a minute,' says a voice. ‘Does anybody have a speargun or a shark?'

People go quiet. They shake their heads.

On the screen James Bond has just set a man on fire with a cigarette lighter.

‘Let's set him on fire!' cries someone else. ‘I've got a lighter.'

‘Not in my theatre you don't,' says the usher. ‘I'm the one who has to clean up after this.'

These people are obviously mad. Too much James Bond. I have to get out of here.

‘Look up there!' I yell, pointing at the roof. ‘Ninjas!'

Everybody looks. They're so James Bonded out that they'll believe anything.

It's the chance I need to heave myself out of my seat. But this time I'm not going under—I'm going over. Over the head of the big-hair woman. I use her shoulders as a springboard to leap across two rows into an empty seat. I use the seat as a trampoline to propel me across another three rows.

An old man tries to hook me around the ankle with the handle of his walking stick. But I grab the walking stick and use it to polevault across the last two rows of seats and up onto the narrow platform in front of the screen.

I look around. Nowhere to go. Both of the front exits are blocked by ushers. And the mob is closing in.

What now? What would James Bond do? He would use every means at his disposal to achieve his objective, of course. If I can't go forwards and I can't go sideways, that only leaves one direction. Backwards. Into the screen!

The hands of the mob are clutching at my feet.

No time to lose.

I jump backwards.

There is an incredible ripping and tearing noise and then everything goes quiet.

Next thing I know I'm lying on a wooden floor.

I can hear cheering and whistling. It's coming from the other side of the screen.

And then I see it. My Jaffa.

And not just my Jaffa. There's hundreds and thousands of Jaffas and old lollies! All the lollies that have ever been hurled at the screen or lost in the history of this cinema have ended up here.

And they're mine.

All mine.

I pick my Jaffa up off the floor. I wipe the dust off it and put it into my mouth. No minty taste this time. Just pure Jaffa.

I reach for another. And another. And another.

My only problem now is how I'm going to eat all these lollies without being sick.

It's going to be tough.

But I can handle it.

A field operative must use every means at his disposal to achieve his objective.

I'll think of something.

f you've never tried swinging on the clothesline at night then you should. I recommend it.

I've been out here every night for the past three weeks. From midnight to 4 a.m.

But not for fun. I'm in training. I'm going to set a new world record for the fastest ever clothesline swinging. It's my dream.

Unfortunately, my parents don't share my dream. That's why I have to do my training at night while they're asleep. Whenever they catch me swinging on the clothesline they go berko. I've tried to explain to them that I'm not just mucking around, that I'm trying to achieve something special, but it's no use.

‘Why can't you play a normal sport like football?' says Dad. ‘Something that takes real skill.'

Real skill?

Now don't get me wrong. I've got nothing against football, but anyone can play it. All you need to know is how to run and kick at the same time and you're away.

But breaking the world speed swinging record—now that takes real skill, real dedication and real guts. You need to combine an exhaustive knowledge of aerodynamics with a thorough understanding of the mechanics of rotary clotheslines. You also need to be fit enough to withstand G-forces stronger than most NASA astronauts will ever have to endure. Not to mention being able to run like hell when your parents see you. That's what I call
real
skill.

The bar is cold under my fingers. The wind is cool. There is a slight frost in the air. If I tilt my head back I can see the stars circling above me.

I'm swinging faster and faster. I feel good. I can hear the squeak-squeak-squeak of the clothesline as I spin. I take one hand off the bar and readjust my goggles. Yes, I know that swimming goggles are not the coolest look in the world, but it gets pretty hard to see at the speeds I get up to.

I hear the back door slam.

Uh-oh.

The floodlight comes on and the yard is bathed in bright white light.

Dad is standing there in his dressing gown.

‘What do you think you're doing?' he yells.

I would have thought it was fairly obvious, but with parents you can never quite tell. Sometimes they see things very differently to normal people. Best to keep it simple.

‘Swinging on the clothesline, Dad. I'm training.'

‘Training? I'll give you training!'

Dad grabs hold of the straw broom leaning next to the steps and comes rushing at me with it raised above his head.

I don't think ‘training' is exactly what he has in mind. I think ‘thrashing' would be closer to the mark.

I haven't got time to get away. This is going to take a bit of fancy footwork. I rock myself back and forth to work up as much extra speed as I can. I wait until Dad is right beside the line. Just as he is about to swing the broom at me I assume my best Bruce Lee pose and kick the broom out of his hand.

The broom goes flying.

I release my grip on the line, do a spectacular double somersault dismount and hit the ground running.

I sprint up the steps into the house and into the safety of my bedroom.

I push my dressing table in front of the door.

‘Open up, Andy!' says Dad. ‘I want to talk to you.'

He's rattling the door handle.

‘Can't it wait until the morning?' I say. ‘I'm trying to sleep.'

‘No, it can't,' says Dad. He throws himself against the door like some TV cop trying to break down the door of a TV criminal.

After ten minutes he gives up.

‘I'll see you in the morning,' he says, making it sound like the biggest threat in the world. But that suits me fine. By then he'll have cooled down. He might even have come to realise just how serious I am.

 

I put my head on the pillow and dream of how proud Mum and Dad will be when I set the new world record. They'll come into the kitchen and the newspaper will be on the table with the headline: ‘
BOY BREAKS WORLD CLOTHESLINE SPEED RECORD!
' There'll be a big picture of me, swinging on a clothesline in the middle of a huge stadium packed with cheering fans. And I'll just be sitting there eating my breakfast, real cool, and Mum and Dad will be overwhelmed and they'll get down on their knees and beg my forgiveness for not taking my ambition seriously and for placing so many obstacles in my way . . . But I won't hold a grudge. I'll just wave my hand, dab at my mouth with a serviette, stand up and say, ‘Hey—no hard feelings . . . we all make mistakes—now if you'll excuse me I have to go and get ready for the street parade that the Prime Minister is putting on in my honour . . .'

The scene that greets me at the breakfast table the next morning is a little different.

Dad is sitting there with an expression on his face like one of those Easter Island statues.

The radio—which is usually burbling away—is not turned on.

The sound of my Cornflakes clattering into my bowl sounds like a hundred tonnes of boulders falling on top of the kitchen.