The World's Awesomest Air-Barf (8 page)

Dear Danny

Thank you for your postcard. I had no idea that the Painless Pig-tail Curler was invented in Puddlethorpe.

I
know
you and Matthew will have lots of fun on your grandparents’ farm, but I wouldn’t try any cowpat records if I were
you. There are Professional Cowpatters all over the world who compete in tournaments, either individually or in teams, battling to be the best at cowpat balancing, cowpat rolling, cowpat tossing,
cowpat spinning and cowpat polo. Tournament–standard cowpats are produced from carefully bred Culworth Curly–horn cows, which are fed a special diet to give the pats a regular
consistency. They are baked in clay ovens for one hour and thirteen minutes exactly, at a temperature of 190
⁰
centigrade (Gas Mark 5), and then cut to the regulation 35 cm–diameter
size. All record attempts are strictly controlled by the WPCA (World Professional Cowpatting Association).

However, don’t let that stop you having fun with cowpats!

Best wishes

Eric Bibby

Keeper of the Records

PS Is your grandad the same Norbert ‘Nobby’ Baker who broke the world record for Blindfold One–foot Keepy–uppies in
1968?

Danny and Matthew sat at the big kitchen table, eating lunch. On the plates in front of them, Grandma Florrie’s home-made baked beans dripped and dribbled over the toast.
Grandma was proud of her beans, and gave them to the boys at every meal whether they wanted them or not. ‘They’ll put hairs on your chest,’ she told them. Every night, they stood
in front of the bathroom mirror and checked, but so far nothing had happened.

Grandma sat in a battered old armchair in her bright floral apron and green wellington boots, and got on with her knitting. She was making pink bootees for Mum’s new baby.

Danny frowned. ‘How do you know the baby’s going to be a girl?’ he asked.

‘I can feel it in my waters,’ she replied mysteriously.

Grandad Nobby sat at the table with the boys, reading Mr Bibby’s letter. The grubby old flat cap that he always wore was pushed back on his head. Danny couldn’t remember seeing
Grandad without his cap - he suspected he even slept in it.

‘Aye, Danny, that’s me,’ confirmed Grandad Nobby. ‘You’re not the only one in the family who likes to break records, you know.’

‘It must be jenny-ticks,’ commented Matthew.

Grandad walked over to a cupboard and rummaged around inside.

Danny and Matthew took their chance while Grandma and Grandad weren’t looking, and quickly scraped most of their beans into a bowl they had hidden under the table.

‘Ah, here it is,’ muttered Grandad after a few seconds, and handed Danny a picture frame.

Beneath the glass, he saw a familiar-looking certificate.

‘Ace!’ said Danny.

‘Cool,’ agreed Matthew. ‘But if you were so good at football, Mr B, why did you give it up and become a farmer?’

‘Tell Matt your story, Grandad,’ urged Danny. ‘Tell him about the Rotting Chowhabunga.’

Grandad’s brow furrowed as though he was remembering something painful. ‘I didn’t
want
to give up football, Matt,’ he said. ‘I was
forced
to give it
up.’

‘Why?’

‘Injury,’ he replied, and held his left knee.

‘Was it a bad tackle?’ guessed Matthew. ‘Did another player go over the top of the ball? Did you land badly going for a header?’

Grandad Nobby was silent for a moment. He shook his head slowly.

‘I trod on a seed-pod,’ he said eventually.

Matthew stared at him blankly.

‘I was on a tour of Brazil with Walchester United. I’d heard that the Rotting Chowhabunga plant was about to flower in the jungle. It’s supposed to have the Stinkiest Flower in
the world, and local people say that anyone who gets too close to its horrible stench is instantly turned to stone!’

Matthew’s jaw dropped. ‘Is that true?’

‘Of course not!’ chuckled Grandad. ‘It’s just a myth! People can’t be petrified by a pong!’ He ruffled Matthew’s hair. ‘Anyway, the Rotting
Chowhabunga only blooms in the wild and the petals last for just one day, so I hurried out into the jungle to see it. But when I got to the spot, I was too late: the flower had died. As I turned
away, I slipped on a seed-pod that had fallen on the ground, and twisted my knee so badly I never played football again.’