Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
1. On the Wall
2. Home to My House
3. I Learn Eddie’s Secret
4. Eddie Learns My Secret
5. Why I want to be an Architect
6. The Day of the Rugby Match
7. News of the School Exchange
8. We Get a Visit from the Plumber
9. I Get Some More News
10. Saving up for Barcelona
11. Enter the School Association
12. Miss Dapple’s Art Class
13. News About the Cabaret
14. On the Wall Again
15. Tonsillitis
16. Eddie’s Big Worry
17. We Get to Karen
18. Finishing the Poster
19. A Change of Date and a Change of Plan
20. A Terrible Day out
21. Eddie has a Sickie
22. Getting Through it
23. Choir of Choirs
24. Malcolm Learns the News
25. Elviswear
26. The Cabaret
27. Back at School
28. And …
Copyright
About the Book
What is my dad thinking??
Guess who got the big laugh when Malcolm Moron told everyone that my dad sings in a male voice choir? Me, Sam. And now Dad’s planning to sing AT MY SCHOOL in a fund-raising concert!
It’s even worse for Eddie. His dad is an Elvis Presley impersonator – and once he’s up on stage doing his act, Eddie’s life might just as well be over.
When Eddie’s dad gets together with my dad and his mates, my life will be over too …
A hilaious tale of dads in white jumpsuits. Oh, and don’t forget the blue suede shoes …
For Trish, Katie and Nic.
With a very special thank you
to Lucy Hadley
JACK’S MUM WAS in Grange Hill.
Karen’s dad played football for Notts Forest.
Julie’s uncle’s got a Rolls Royce. So she says.
Bipin’s dad sailed round the world.
Sally’s mum speaks five languages. And one of them’s Russian!
My dad sings in a male voice choir.
Guess who got the big laugh?
I thought I might kill Malcolm Middleton.
I’m Sam, by the way. And that’s Sam-short-for-Samantha.
We were sitting round at lunch-break, on our usual bit of wall, talking about being famous and stuff. Well, Jack couldn’t help himself, could he?
‘My mum was in Grange Hill.’
Like we hadn’t heard it a million times already! Usually we gave him our yes-we-think-you-may-have-mentioned-that look and that’s the end of it. But this time Eddie was with us. And Eddie was new to the wall. He looked to me like he’d just beamed down from Planet Zog!
‘Really!’ he said, all impressed.
So that’s when it started – all the bragging about whose dad did this or whose mum did that. It wasn’t my idea, believe me. And no way would I bang on about my dad’s choir. I’m not a complete dillywag. I mean, I do have some brain cells. It was Malcolm Moron who told everyone. And he didn’t say ‘Sam’s dad’s a really good singer’. He said, ‘Sam’s dad sings in a stupid Welsh choir and he isn’t even Welsh!’
I decided I would kill Malcolm Middleton.
So everyone had a good laugh. Apart from Sally – she’s my best friend – and Eddie. For some reason he just sat there dead quiet. But they were the only two. All the others went laughing mad. Especially Malcolm Moron. I tried to act cool like I didn’t care, because if I hadn’t I might’ve started crying. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not usually picked on. Usually, I get by OK.
Maybe I could arrange a swimming party and hire a shark. ‘Come on, Malcolm! First one to the other side.’
OUR SCHOOL’S NOT that big – nothing in Wottney is. And usually I quite like school. I don’t live for it like some sad spotty swotty, I just quite like it. But I was glad to get away that afternoon. In fact I went out the gates double quick. Sally was with me. We usually walk home together. It’s not far – nowhere in Wottney is.
Sally could tell Moron had got to me.
‘Look, Sam, it’s only Malcolm Middleton. You know what he’s like.’
‘Yeah, I know what he’s like all right. He’s a double-decker duffbucket who had everyone laughing at my dad.’
‘Not everyone. I wasn’t laughing.’
‘I should hope not!’
‘Nor was Eddie.’ Sally had noticed that too.
‘You’re right,’ I said, all determined. ‘It is only Malcolm Moron, isn’t it! And why should I let that drongo wind me up?’
Sally smiled. ‘Is that your name for him – Malcolm Moron?’
‘Just one of them. I’ve quite a few stored up and I feel loads more coming on!’
‘Like …’
‘Well … like Malcolm Mouse-Droppings, or Malcolm Muckspreader or Malcolm Missing-Link, or Malcolm Mind-the-Gap, or Malcolm Mustypants, or Malcolm Mystery-Tour, or Malcolm Muppet-Brain, or Malcolm Mooningbum.’
Sally laughed.
And so did I.
‘So tell me about Eddie,’ I said. It was Sally who’d brought him to the wall. Sally’s good like that.
‘Not much to tell,’ she said. ‘He’s just moved to the new houses behind the rec. They’ve come from Stevenage, wherever that is. His dad’s a plasterer.’
‘Right.’
‘Or is it a plumber?’
I had no idea. And anyway, by then, we’d got to my house. I told you it wasn’t far.
‘You coming in?’ I asked.
‘Best not.’ Sally held up her schoolbag. ‘Fings to do.’
‘Teacher’s pet!’
‘Slacker!’
Our house isn’t that special. We are talking Wottney, remember. But at least it’s built from proper red bricks and has a nice front door with a stained-glass panel.
‘Anyone in?’ I called, pushing it open.
There wasn’t. Mum works part-time at the vet’s and Dad hardly ever leaves his office ’til six. And don’t ask me what he does there because it’s one of those jobs that can’t be explained. And if you ask him to try you feel your brain melting.
So I was used to finding the house empty. And the first thing I always do is go to the kitchen for a drink.
Well – can you believe it? – I started thinking about Malcolm Muckspreader and the wall.
Again!
I should have got a grip. I should have turned on the radio. I should have put it out my head. Because – for half a millisecond – I did something I’d never done before. I wished my dad didn’t sing at all.
It still makes me shiver.
I mean, my dad not singing wouldn’t be my dad.
When I was six or seven, I went to all his concerts. And I wasn’t dragged along screaming and kicking. And I didn’t sit at the back sulking. I actually enjoyed it. I really did. I bet I can still sing the songs.
Just never, never, never ask me to prove it!
And he is a good singer. And he really loves to sing. But I never go to hear him now. Not that I’m Princess Superior or anything. It’s the awful choir thing I can’t stand – with their gross purple blazers and their puke-awful ties. It’s just so unbelievably naff. And all that Welsh stuff when only half of them are. My dad is a bit because Grandad came from the Rhondda. So Muckspreader was wrong about that. But Dad doesn’t sound Welsh at all. Not like Mr Williams – he’s so Welsh he comes from a place you can’t pronounce, and if you try to, you spray half the room with spit!
Mr Williams is the choirmaster.
ON SATURDAY WE usually have breakfast together – me, Mum and Dad. It’s not my idea believe me. And nor is it Mum’s. It’s Dad who thinks it’s dead significant. He even lays out the breakfast things. Round of applause! ‘We don’t have to rush about today,’ he says, ‘so let’s be a proper family and talk around the table.’ Then we all sit in silence and listen to the radio. Which is OK with Mum – she’s in the Land of Zombie ’til her third cup of tea. And it’s OK with me – I don’t care either way. And, actually, it’s OK with Dad too. Because Dad loves Saturday radio – in fact, if you try to talk to him he says, ‘Hang on, I’m just listening to this!’
It’s nice being a proper family.