still beat any one of you at any sport you care to mention.’
Then he went into his private office, which is a corner of the gym with a curtain around it. Renfrew was sitting next to me. ‘He’s a complete nutter,’ he whispered in my ear. Then, as if to illustrate the point, Fricker sprang out. We were all amazed. At the end of one arm, fastened using some elaborate metal attachment, was a ping-pong bat. On the other side he had a hockey stick, looking a bit like a stretched pirate’s hook. I don’t mean the pirate had been stretched … Oh, you know what I mean.
‘He’s a cyborg,’ I said to Renfrew, quietly.
But not quietly enough.
Fricker’s ears swivelled to pick up the sound, then he zoomed over, his legs a blur.
‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ I said, trembling.
‘Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing,’ said Mr Fricker in his scary quiet voice.
Then he blew.
‘ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?’
It echoed round the gym, and the girls at the other end all looked up.
‘N-no, sir.’
‘THEN TELL ME WHAT YOU SAID!’
My mouth opened up, but nothing came out. I was terrified. I thought Mr Fricker was going to ping-pong my head.
‘He called me a sideboard.’ That was Renfrew speaking.
‘What?’ said Fricker, looking like he’d just found a small piece of dried poo in his bag of crisps.
‘It’s my nickname, sir.’
Fricker stared from me to Renfrew and back again. You could tell that he wanted to hook someone round the neck with his hockey-attachment, and then maybe hoist them into the air and send them flying across the gym, but he couldn’t think of a good enough reason.
‘Never talk again in my class,’ he said in the end to both of us. ‘Or you’ll wish you’d never been born,’ he added, but you knew his heart wasn’t in it.
DONUT COUNT:
(Scandinavian loganberry, Swiss cheese, and Scotch haggis. Thank heavens it’s the last day of the Donuts of the World promotion.)
Friday 22 September
NOT EVEN GOING to mention school today. Which isn’t because it was so awful that I don’t want to think about it (it was actually one of those inbetweeny days when nothing either great or rubbish happens). No, it’s because after school I had my second visit to Satan’s nutritionist, the gruesome Doc Morlock.
We were standing in front of her wall. There was a chart on it. On my bedroom wall I have a chart of Second World War fighter aircraft. This was a very different type of chart.
It was a poo chart.
It looked like this:
Doc Morlock had a stick. She pointed at the little round poos on the chart – Type 1.
‘This is what we want to avoid at all costs.’
She pointed to Type 2.
‘This is hardly any better. Sooner or later these will kill you.’
I nodded, imagining myself being chased around by little hard poos wielding Samurai swords. I don’t mean to imply that little hard poos are at all Japanesey, because that would be racist – just that whenever I imagine myself being chased by anyone or anything, they usually have a Samurai sword. It’s one of my quirks.
‘What I want to see,’ Doc Morlock continued, ‘is a Type Three or Type Four. A nice long smooth stool, pointed at both ends, with a texture like warm fudge. That indicates a proper, healthy diet, full of fibre. It’s the stool of champions. Now, Dermot, take the stick and point to your stool type.’
I took the stick. I imagined how nice it would be to shove it right up Doc Morlock’s nose and into her brain. I was blushing so much my face had gone beyond red and into the purple zone. I couldn’t look at her horrible, disgusting chart. Couldn’t bring myself to point at any of her horrible, disgusting stools.
‘Don’t know, I never look.’
‘Well, from now on you must, Dermot. You must. By the way, did you bring the diary with you?’
‘Diary? Er, no. I didn’t know I was supposed to …’ I thought about all the stuff I’d written in the diary. Secret stuff. This
Then he went into his private office, which is a corner of the gym with a curtain around it. Renfrew was sitting next to me. ‘He’s a complete nutter,’ he whispered in my ear. Then, as if to illustrate the point, Fricker sprang out. We were all amazed. At the end of one arm, fastened using some elaborate metal attachment, was a ping-pong bat. On the other side he had a hockey stick, looking a bit like a stretched pirate’s hook. I don’t mean the pirate had been stretched … Oh, you know what I mean.
‘He’s a cyborg,’ I said to Renfrew, quietly.
But not quietly enough.
Fricker’s ears swivelled to pick up the sound, then he zoomed over, his legs a blur.
‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ I said, trembling.
‘Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing,’ said Mr Fricker in his scary quiet voice.
Then he blew.
‘ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?’
It echoed round the gym, and the girls at the other end all looked up.
‘N-no, sir.’
‘THEN TELL ME WHAT YOU SAID!’
My mouth opened up, but nothing came out. I was terrified. I thought Mr Fricker was going to ping-pong my head.
‘He called me a sideboard.’ That was Renfrew speaking.
‘What?’ said Fricker, looking like he’d just found a small piece of dried poo in his bag of crisps.
‘It’s my nickname, sir.’
Fricker stared from me to Renfrew and back again. You could tell that he wanted to hook someone round the neck with his hockey-attachment, and then maybe hoist them into the air and send them flying across the gym, but he couldn’t think of a good enough reason.
‘Never talk again in my class,’ he said in the end to both of us. ‘Or you’ll wish you’d never been born,’ he added, but you knew his heart wasn’t in it.
DONUT COUNT:
(Scandinavian loganberry, Swiss cheese, and Scotch haggis. Thank heavens it’s the last day of the Donuts of the World promotion.)
Friday 22 September
NOT EVEN GOING to mention school today. Which isn’t because it was so awful that I don’t want to think about it (it was actually one of those inbetweeny days when nothing either great or rubbish happens). No, it’s because after school I had my second visit to Satan’s nutritionist, the gruesome Doc Morlock.
We were standing in front of her wall. There was a chart on it. On my bedroom wall I have a chart of Second World War fighter aircraft. This was a very different type of chart.
It was a poo chart.
It looked like this:
Doc Morlock had a stick. She pointed at the little round poos on the chart – Type 1.
‘This is what we want to avoid at all costs.’
She pointed to Type 2.
‘This is hardly any better. Sooner or later these will kill you.’
I nodded, imagining myself being chased around by little hard poos wielding Samurai swords. I don’t mean to imply that little hard poos are at all Japanesey, because that would be racist – just that whenever I imagine myself being chased by anyone or anything, they usually have a Samurai sword. It’s one of my quirks.
‘What I want to see,’ Doc Morlock continued, ‘is a Type Three or Type Four. A nice long smooth stool, pointed at both ends, with a texture like warm fudge. That indicates a proper, healthy diet, full of fibre. It’s the stool of champions. Now, Dermot, take the stick and point to your stool type.’
I took the stick. I imagined how nice it would be to shove it right up Doc Morlock’s nose and into her brain. I was blushing so much my face had gone beyond red and into the purple zone. I couldn’t look at her horrible, disgusting chart. Couldn’t bring myself to point at any of her horrible, disgusting stools.
‘Don’t know, I never look.’
‘Well, from now on you must, Dermot. You must. By the way, did you bring the diary with you?’
‘Diary? Er, no. I didn’t know I was supposed to …’ I thought about all the stuff I’d written in the diary. Secret stuff. This
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